God of the Unexpected

Holy week begins with the noise of a thousand “Hosannas!” ringing through the air. Jesus, riding on a donkey, says nothing. It is the throng of worshippers who are left to put words to this Christ they see before them. Words that change quickly from “Hosanna!” to “Crucify him!” How dare he not be who we expected.

Like that palm-strewn street, Jesus enters into our lives in ways comical and unexpected. And it is up to us to find the words, to translate into speech and action our response to Christ. When expectations are met, the words flow easier. But when we see the Messiah not in the strength of a political conqueror, but riding lopsided on a donkey, silent, looking for all the world like some kind of holy joke, we have two options: ignore what we see and shout “Hosanna!” anyhow, hoping that by our words we will remake Christ into who we want him to be; or, enter into the unexpected, embrace the Christ who is, and find in that moment both faith and joy.

Reinhold Niebuhr says: “Laughter is the beginning of prayer…. The intimate relation between humor and faith is derived from the fact that both deal with the incongruities of our existence.” Moments of comedy (described by Frederick Buechner in The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale) come from the unexpected moments, moments echoed through the life of Christ and the parables he spoke: the holy surprise of losers becoming winners, of outcasts being healed, the happy shock of lost coins found and sons welcomed home, of a shepherd who leaves 99 sheep to get one that has left, a boss who pays workers the same wage at the start of the day or end of the day, a God who waits in hope for all of us to come home again.

This easter, may the God of the unexpected find you in places you are most lost and delight you again with laughter and the improbable, unexpected, unfailing hope of the redeemed.

The Pursuit of Gentleness

“… pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, and gentleness.”
—1 Timothy 6:11

It is far, far easier to withstand anger than gentleness. There is a kind of rage that feeds itself: when someone throws it at you, you build up an equal store to throw back; when the world is unjust, you give in to the easy energy of kicking back in protest. Anger is a self-perpetuating cycle because it demands every day again the very fuel it takes to fight it.

And then there is gentleness. When words like right and wrong cease to matter, when all the pent-up frustration of your fists is absorbed in the steady, solid chest of one who simply waits for you to finish.

That is gentleness, which rests as softly as new-fallen snow, perfectly balanced on the point of a pine needle, ready even in melting to slide off the morning frost and make everything smooth again.

Daily Bread

“Loss is as daily as bread.”
—Robert Clark, In the Deep Midwinter

“We cannot make life safe nor God tame … what we can do is turn our faces to the light.”
—Barbara Brown Taylor, Home by Another Way

Give us this day our daily bread. When I pray for daily bread using the words of the Lord’s Prayer, I never actually expect to go hungry. I am usually thinking not of physical food, but of the kind of spiritual “bread” that sustains my soul and keeps me alive in hope. But there is another meaning, perhaps, that I am less likely to reach for. The bread we break during communion symbolizes the broken body of Christ. So when I pray, “Give me my daily bread,” I am also praying, “Give me the broken body of Christ. Give me my daily dose of loss. Give me closeness with all those who suffer.” I pray this not as some kind of masochistic ritual, but to remind me again of the great compassion of God, his presence with me in all of life, and my call to represent that broken body to a world in need.

And there is such need. I have lived and learned well the truth written above: Life is not safe and God is not tame. But I have also learned this: When any of us turn our faces away from deep darkness to the light, when we do whatever it takes to hold on to promises even in the face of unimaginable grief, when our unaccustomed eyes wince and squint in the bright of that light, we will not be disappointed. We may be surprised. We may be taught. We may be humbled. But we will not be disappointed. And for the daily-ness of that bread, I give thanks and praise to God.