But God makes the seed grow

1 Corinthians 3:3-4, 6-7, 16-17, 21-23 You are still controlled by your sinful nature. You are jealous of one another and quarrel with each other…Aren’t you acting just like people of the world? … I planted the seed in your hearts, and Apollos watered it, but it was God who made it grow. … Don’t you realize that all of you together are the temple of God and that the Spirit of God lives in you? … God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple. … So don’t boast about following a particular human leader. For everything belongs to you—whether Paul or Apollos or Peter, or the world, or life and death, or the present and the future. Everything belongs to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God.

My sister Linda has an interesting perspective of the various expressions of the Christian church. Having experienced a variety of them firsthand, she notes that each one seems to have a specific gift to offer the whole Body of Christ—like the gifts described in 1 Corinthians 12, Romans 12, and Ephesians 4, but at a denominational level instead of individual.

I love that perspective. It fits well with this third chapter of 1 Corinthians. All the fulness of the Holy Spirit was in Jesus, and when he ascended to Heaven and then sent the Spirit to the church on Pentecost, he distributed spiritual gifts—like light shining through a prism, diffracting and making visible all its beautiful colors. We need each other, because no single person, church, or denomination contains all the gifting of the Spirit. God fully lives in all of us together.

And here’s the truly wonderful thing: What God gives to you, he gives to me, too. What he gives to me is meant to bless you. “Everything belongs to you,” Paul told the Corinthians, and that “you” is plural. If we are jealous, critical, or rejecting of other parts of the Body of Christ, we lose a part of what God wants to give us. And when we think we are the ones who have it all, we lose too through not sharing.

I’m reminded again of the story I told in the last post. Eight children, eight fun gifts for Christmas. But many of those gifts weren’t fun to play with alone. Games and toys and puzzles are designed to be shared. And if just one or two of my sisters and I tried to play Monopoly by ourselves, we missed out on our brother Steve’s ingenuity. He always managed to make play time more fun by creating new rules and strategies. (He even got us girls to wash dishes when it was his turn, by reading Jeeves to us while we worked. Humdrum tasks filled with laughter when Steve was part of them.)

All was not joy and laughter in our home, though. We’ve all struggled with “zero-sum” thinking: there’s not enough to go around, so if I gain, you lose; if you gain, I lose. That’s a big topic for another time. But listen to what Paul says: Everything belongs to you! To all of you! All of us collectively as well as individually. There’s no need for envy or fighting or squashing you so I can get ahead or stay in power. God’s upside-down Kingdom is marked by the magic of abundance, generosity, and service, not stinginess or hoarding or manipulation. In Christ small becomes big, enough for everyone. A boy’s lunch, a widow’s penny, a flask of perfume, a man’s donkey, a mustard seed of faith, a rich man’s tomb . . . Because when given back to God, he makes our small offerings grow into something much greater than what they would be if kept to ourselves.

P.S. I wrote other thoughts about 1 Cor 3:6 on August 2, 2018. Check it out: Karis and a life-giving story from “Aunt” Claudia!

But God show us his secrets

1 Corinthians 2:7-12 The wisdom we speak of is the mystery of God—his plan that was previously hidden, even though he made it for our ultimate glory before the world began. But the rulers of this world have not understood it; if they had, they would not have crucified our Glorious Lord. That is what the Scriptures mean when they say, “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” But it was to us that God revealed these things by his Spirit. For his Spirit shows us God’s deep secrets…so we can know the wonderful things God has freely given us.

In the 1950s or 1960s, if you climbed into a Jeep or Carryall and drove for hours over rutted, one-track muddy roads over two ranges of mountains and then down into a verdant valley and wound through a Mayan village with dogs and half-naked children chasing after your vehicle–one of only two in that village–you would reach a small adobe house which by local standards was a mansion.

*A view of the valley last time I was there (2008), the village now a small city*

Inside that house, on a designated evening before Christmas, the children were put to bed early in the single bedroom which cradled them all. Under the narrow door into the living room a sliver of light shone, and mysterious sounds tantalized the children’s imaginations. For their father had rolled into the living room from its resting place in the garage the Christmas barrel, that round bastion of steel opened only once each year, on this night. Who knew what treasures were hidden inside?

Every child’s ear strained to detect some clue to what wonders were being wrapped on the other side of that door. Sure enough, gifts nested beneath the Christmas tree when they awoke, two for each child. They knew one would be something practical: socks, or underwear. But the other could be anything—a toy, a game, a puzzle—selected from the barrel especially for him or her. Those gifts were shaken, prodded, examined from all angles. The tension of anticipation grew with each day until finally, on Christmas morning, with a fire roaring in the fireplace (the only time each year Dad kindled it in the daytime), the secrets were revealed, one by one, in order of age of the four—then five, six, seven, eight children.

I can still feel the tingle of wonder at receiving something brand new, chosen just for me. My name on the package. Gifts selected (or donated to our family) years ahead of time, loaded onto the trailer we pulled behind our vehicle from Illinois or Kansas, through the agony of customs at the Mexican border, all those long sweaty miles south through Mexico and over the mountains into that Mayan village, finally to be sealed into the waterproof Christmas barrel to await their wondrous revelation.

No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him. … For who can know the Lord’s thoughts? (v. 16)

Because of Easter, we can know. His secrets are all about love.

But Christ is wisdom

1 Corinthians 1:20, 23-25, 30 God has made the wisdom of this world look foolish … So when we preach that Christ was crucified, the Jews are offended and the Gentiles say it’s all nonsense. But Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God. This foolish plan of God is wiser than the wisest of human plans, and God’s weakness is stronger than the greatest of human strength … For our benefit God made Christ Jesus to be wisdom itself. Christ made us right with God; he made us pure and holy, and he freed us from sin.

*Church of the Ascension 2021 Station of the Cross 6* *by Amy Foster.* See them all.

I had read it before, for another Zoom discussion on racial reconciliation. But when my small group decided to read and discuss Jemar Tisby’s The Color of Compromise and I read it again in the context of Lent, Jemar’s comments at the end of chapter six on the cross as the lynching tree, I felt punched in the gut. Jemar’s point is that lynching could not have continued had the white church not kept silent. I feel like Nehemiah, crying out to the Lord on behalf of his people and their sins. Thousands of people cruelly tortured for the slightest of offenses, real or imagined, their ravaged bodies hung on trees for anyone to gawk at. And the Lord’s people either participating, viewing the lynching like a spectator sport (think of the ancient Roman’s and the Coliseum), or simply doing—nothing. Oh God. Have mercy on us, your people. Sinners.

I am overwhelmed by the wisdom of the cross. I’ve often thought about it in relation to survivors of sexual abuse, for Jesus too was stripped, mocked, violated, shamed. By choice. Out of love. For us. He knows.*

He knows, too, the horror of lynching. He was lynched by an irrational, prejudiced crowd led by people wanting desperately to preserve their power. Tortured. Ravaged. Stripped. Shamed. And hung on a tree.

The wisdom of God is humility. Sacrifice. Powerlessness.

Forgiveness.

Love.

The enemy thought he had won. BUT . . . !

Understanding more about the cross makes Jesus’ resurrection even more precious. As I seek with Gerard Manley Hopkins (thank you, Elaine!) to “let him Easter” in me, “be the Dayspring to my dimness,” I don’t want to be silent about the enemy’s assaults in my own generation. Even while longing for the day when there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain, the day when every tear will be wiped from our eyes, I want to use my voice to say “No!” to injustice. And to say “Yes!” to the healing, forgiveness, and reconciliation the cross makes possible.

*Diane Langberg writes eloquently about the meaning of the cross in Suffering and the Heart of God and other books and articles. The work of Be the Bridge is based on the cross. Check it out. The “colors of compromise” in Tisby’s vision are green for greed, red for blood shed in every kind of suffering, and white for complicity. Read his book. It will change you. It will Easter you.

But God answered, by Elaine Elliott, Antigua, Guatemala

Job 30:20; 38:1-2, 12-13 I cry to you, O God, but you don’t answer. I stand before you, but you don’t even look. … Then the Lord answered Job from the whirlwind. “Who is this that questions my wisdom? … Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east? Have you made daylight spread to the ends of the earth?” [KJV: “Hast thou commanded the dayspring to know its place?”]

Luke 1:78-79 Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven [KJV “the dayspring from on high”] is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.

My sister sent us home from San Diego in mid-March after my husband Steve and I had helped her recover from a health crisis. Though we had heard of Covid, arriving in the Guatemala airport to a temperature check and instructions to self-quarantine for two weeks seemed surprising. The next day we heard that all air travel to the country would be suspended, and we went into lockdown two days later. We arrived home just in time.

Our daughter suggested a weekly Zoom call, a lifeline to anchor our family. Having this connection allowed us to hear about their lives, to share ours, to watch the three grandchildren grow, and to be present as our son adopted two boys. My Bible study group started a weekly Zoom meeting, and several friends and I talked frequently as well. On-line books, magazines, newspapers, and documentaries expanded our world. Thank you, God, for technology!

Covid confinement became my sabbatical for writing. I sent scripture reflections to family and friends, then wrote a novel about recent events in Guatemala. Sharing my drafts became a way of connecting with friends as readers helped me with my story.

When two close Mayan friends died, and another friend shared her grief over not being with her husband in the hospital as he died, the Covid tragedy became personal. We saw the economic devastation as people on the streets waved white flags to indicate they needed food. Added to the pandemic, two tropical storms devastated communities, making more food relief necessary.

Our patio garden with its lavish flowers, hummingbirds, butterflies, bright fountain, and fresh grass made a welcoming outdoor space without leaving the house. Thanksgiving dinner had all the trimmings and none of the guests. Similarly, we spent Christmas home alone. However, the brilliance of this year’s conjunction of planets shone in the clear evening sky as a hopeful sign like the first Christmas star. Zoom allowed us to connect with extended family, all socially distanced in my sister’s back yard.

When I gained confidence to hike outdoors with friends, we enjoyed soaking in trees, sunlight, and landscapes. Prayer, music, devotional reading and encouragement from family and friends kept us cheerful, and when tempted to become gloomy, habits of gratitude lifted us up. I felt grateful for our good health, survival of Covid for several in the family, and for my 91-year-old mom’s vaccination.

Even in a pandemic, Easter Sunday celebrates resurrection, and I set a cheerful spring table with bright flowers and delicious food. I had read an appropriate line from Gerard Manley Hopkins that referred to Christ in a time of shadows: “Let him Easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us.”

But Jesus stood among them

John 20-21 Mary Magdalene found the disciples and told them, “I have seen the Lord!” … That Sunday evening, the disciples were meeting behind locked doors because the were afraid of the Jewish leaders. Suddenly Jesus was standing there among them! … Eight days later the disciples were together again, and this time Thomas was with them. The doors were locked; but suddenly, as before, Jesus was standing among them. … Then Jesus told Thomas, “You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing me. … Later, Jesus appeared again to the disciples beside the Sea of Galilee. … “Now come and have breakfast!” Jesus said. … Jesus also did many other things. If they were all written down, I suppose the whole world could not contain the books that would be written.

How has Jesus appeared to you? What happened? I would so love to know! Have you, like Mary Magdalene, been overwhelmed by grief? Have you, like the disciples, been trapped by fear? Like Thomas, have you struggled to believe God is alive, that he cares? Have you, like the fishing disciples, become discouraged because your hard work seems to have resulted in nothing? Like Peter, have you betrayed your Lord or someone else you love, and need restoration? What is your story?

I would particularly like to know how you have seen God through these long months of Covid. Could you take a few minutes to write, no more than a page, and send me your “But God” Covid story to encourage other people?

When we write our stories, we preserve and honor them, and thereby we honor God. What if John hadn’t taken the time to write his Gospel? Much of what Jesus said and did we simply wouldn’t know.

Something special happens for us when we write. Our experience clarifies. We see aspects we hadn’t noted before. We understand details and connections; we perceive more of what God is doing in our lives. We grow.

And sharing our stories encourages others to share theirs. Together, we know God better.

So, will you do it? During this Easter season, the days between Easter and Pentecost, I would love to publish your story, for the glory of God and encouragement of his people. I’ll be watching my Inbox! Send me your story at debrakornfield@gmail.com.

Thanks!!

But Jesus said, “You would have no power”

John 19:10-11 “Why don’t you talk to me?” Pilate demanded. “Don’t you realize that I have the power to release you or crucify you?” But Jesus said, “You would have no power over me at all unless it were given to you from above.”

Words. There have been so many words. Jesus’ last words to his disciples take five chapters to record.

John 13: You will believe that I am the Messiah…The one who eats my food has turned against me…I will be with you only a little longer…Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.

John 14: Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me…I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me…Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father…the Holy Spirit will teach you…I am leaving you with a gift—peace. The ruler of the world approaches. He has no power over me…

John 15: I am the grapevine, and my Father is the gardener…Apart from me, you can do nothing…Your joy will overflow…I will send you the Spirit of truth.

John 16: Your grief will suddenly turn to wonderful joy!…Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.

John 17: Father, the hour has come. Glorify your Son…Holy Father, protect by the power of your name all who are mine, so that they will be united just as we are…I protected them…I guarded them…Now I am coming to you…Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them not the world. And I give myself as a holy sacrifice for them so they can be made holy by your truth…May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that you sent me.

Yesterday Rev. Mark Stevenson presented for us dramatically, by memory, in a sanctuary stripped of all adornment, the whole of John 18 and 19. You can watch it here. Cross of Jesus, cross of sorrow, where the blood of Christ was shed, perfect Man on thee did suffer, perfect God on thee has bled! (Wm J. Sparrow-Simpson, 1887). And by Christina Rosetti, set to music by Chris Massa, Am I stone and not a sheep That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep? Not so those women loved…

Tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. we will enter the sunrise service in darkness. At one magical moment, the organ will pour forth glorious praise as the lights explode the darkness to reveal the church no longer stripped, but bursting with flowers.

And for the first time since Lent began, we will once again say “Alleluia, Alleluia.”

But Jesus got up

John 13:1-17, 34 Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything and that he had come from God and would return to God. So he got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin. Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel he had around him… After washing their feet, he put on his robe again and sat down and asked, “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet… So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.”

Philippians 2:5-7 You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had. Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. Instead, he gave u his divine privileges; he took the humble position of a slave.

Maundy Thursday got its name from this new commandment, or mandatum, Jesus gave to his disciples at this last dinner with them. Don’t just love your neighbor; love each other as Jesus did. He knew as he spoke that he would soon offer his life for them.

This reminder comes at a time we may all be feeling some degree of compassion fatigue (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compassion_fatigue) from the ongoing battle with Covid. Right now, South America and Europe are being hit hardest. Some of those who are suffering and dying include people we know and love. Hundreds of pastors have died across Latin America, giving all they can for their people where medical care is unavailable or inadequate.

In some places such as Venezuela, where the health system is broken, God seems to be performing miracles. In hard hit San Cristóbal, for example, though many people in Otto and Idagly’s church have gotten very sick, not a single person has died of Covid. “We pray and we do what we can, mostly caring for the families of the ill ones,” Idagly told me. “There are no medical resources, yet God keeps bringing people back. We’re careful, but it does seem God is honoring our care for one another. Death is not the ultimate enemy. The enemy is fear.”

She laughs. “When every resource is scarce—food, clean water, transportation, etc.—we focus not on what we can’t control but on what we can. We invest in love and trust, in worship and celebration of God’s faithfulness. We’ll all die one way or another. The question is, what will be the quality of our living? We can choose joy, no matter what.”

I’m encouraged to get up from the table. To serve however I can today. One day at a time.

But Jesus replied, “Leave her alone”

John 12:1-11 Mary took a twelve-ounce jar of expensive perfume and anointed Jesus’ feet with it, wiping his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance. But Judas Iscariot, the disciple who would soon betray him, said, “That perfume was worth a year’s wages. It should have been sold and the money given to the poor.” Not that he cared for the poor—he was a thief, and since he was in charge of the disciples’ money, he often stole some for himself. But Jesus replied, “Leave her alone. She did this in preparation for my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”

Karis deeply identified with this story. She didn’t see herself as Mary, but as the jar of perfume, broken over Jesus’ body. She believed a central part of her mission in life was to intercede for Christ’s body, and that her physical brokenness facilitated that intercession. She wrote about this several times in her journals. For example:

I am broken and poured out for others. I nurture hope because Your grace flows through my weakness… I’m not complaining, Lord. You know I’m not. I just want to know where to spill the perfume. … I heard a friend retell the story of the alabaster jar, the image that has been so precious to me of being broken and spilled out over Your body to perfume Your Church: that the waste of my life, my expensive life, might serve the Church once I am gone. And that the memory of me would somehow strengthen the Church to endure whatever persecution or death it is to face.

I was thinking about this when I received news that our dear friend Eloisa, a pillar of strength and kindness for her church, family, and community, died of Covid this morning in Cuiabá, Brazil. One more of so many beloved ones leaving shock and grief behind them.

And then I think about the context of the rest of this chapter. Mary’s anointing of Jesus for his burial and a section commenting on the unbelief of the people despite his raising of Lazarus bookend his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, a story we remembered yesterday. But Palm Sunday is also Passion Sunday, thrusting us into this week of betrayal and suffering and death.

Jesus warns, “My light will shine for you just a little longer … Put your trust in the light while there is still time” (v. 35-36). While we wave palms in joyful hosannas, our praise is tempered by knowing what has already been done and said—“Let’s not just kill Jesus; let’s kill Lazarus too!” (v. 10) and by knowing what is coming next.

The time will come, though—Easter is but a preview—when there will no longer be sadness inseparable from our joy. I don’t know what it takes to prepare ourselves for that. It’s not something we ever get to experience here on earth, this so-called “vale of tears.” But it is coming. The last chapter of our story will be pure joy.

So let it rise like incense
My whole life, a fragrance
Every ounce here broken at Your feet
Every breath, an offering
My heart cries, these lungs sing over You
My worthy King of kings

But Jesus was angry

Grief. It can skewer you, swamp you, sabotage your self-control. It can be hot or cold. It can leave you bubbling over with the desperate need to talk, share, let others know how you feel. Or it can empty you, dry you out, isolate you. It can fade softly into the background yet knock you down with no warning. I once at the grocery store threw myself sobbing into the arms of a woman I barely knew. No, not typical behavior for me.

As I walked early this morning, the wind blowing my hair because in spring angst I left my hat at home, I thought, “Grief is like the wind.” On the car radio I heard we may have gusts up to 60 miles per hour today. We may lose power; branches may crack off our trees.

Have I felt grief that powerful, draining all my energy, stripping me, changing me permanently? Yes.

The news announcer went on to tell me eight tornadoes ravaged Alabama yesterday. Have I felt grief as devastating as a tornado? No. But I know some people have.

On still days, we don’t think about the wind. On hot days, we relish a breeze. It’s something we share with everyone in our neighborhood, whether we know them or talk with them or not. It’s part of our shared experience. Grief has become like that over the past year, not just locally or nationally, but worldwide. We all have something or someone (or many somethings or someones) to mourn. Can we let it unite us, strengthen our empathy, soften our reactivity?

Some of us have loving, understanding people around us. Some of us suffer alone. As hard as things have been in our country, the resources we have are abundant compared to many parts of the world. I’ve talked with several people this week who told me, “Vaccines? We have no idea when they will reach our country. And once they do, it will be months or years before they are available for people like me. Meanwhile, our health care system is totally overwhelmed. Our recourse is prayer. And doing what we can to care for each other.”

I’m glad Jesus knew grief; I’m glad he wept at the grave of his friend Lazarus. In 1551, when Robert Estienne defined a verse structure within the chapters of the Bible, he decided “Jesus wept” deserved its own verse. I’m intrigued that Jesus’ weeping was apparently fueled by anger at his friends’ suffering. Could some of his emotion have been linked to his own impending death or, closer to hand, the Jewish leaders’ reactions to this high-profile event (From that time on, the Jewish leaders began to plot Jesus’ death (v. 53)? What do you think about Jesus’ anger?

As I finished my walk, an image of wind turbines marching across Pennsylvania hills flashed into my mind. Lord, I offer you, once again, my grief. Please harness it for your own purposes, beginning within my own soul. Make it a resource. A gift. Another miracle, Lord. Thank you.

But Jesus got away

John 10:30-42 Jesus said, “The Father and I are one.” …The people picked up stones to kill him. Jesus said, “At my Father’s direction I have done many good works. For which one are you going to stone me?” They replied, “We’re stoning you not for any good work, but for blasphemy! You, a mere man, claim to be God.” Jesus replied, “Don’t believe me unless I carry out my Father’s work. But if I do his work, believe in the evidence of the miraculous works I have done, even if you don’t believe me. … The Father is in me, and I am in the Father.” Once again they tried to arrest him, but he got away and left them… And many who were there believed in Jesus.

Easter season is all about miracles. In just a few days, we’ll celebrate the greatest miracle of all time: Jesus died, but now he’s alive! Some miracles are big and splashy and attract lots of attention. Others are so personal perhaps no one else even knows about them, but they create a warm glow of gratefulness in your heart every time you think about what God did for you.

Monday night a gal from Venezuela raised the question, “How can we experience the Holy Spirit’s presence with us when we’re going through truly awful, no good, terribly scary times?” I found myself talking about how important Lamentations 3:22-24 became for me during my tough times with Karis. My world had narrowed down to surviving each hour. Jeremiah told me every day, The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies begin afresh each morning.

You know what miracle God did for me personally during the most awful of the awful years? I was hardly eating or sleeping. Karis took two steps forward and three steps back, again and again. My stress level was off the charts. Yet I was not sick a single day that year! There was not a single day I was unable to show up and do what I needed to do for my daughter.

I am in awe of John as a writer. Consider chapter 10. The first half, set between the dramatic healing of the blind man in chapter 9 and Jesus’ discussion about miracles (in between having his life threatened), tells us about Jesus being our Shepherd. Sometimes his care takes the form of a big, splashy miracle. Sometimes the miracle blooms in knowing he’s with us, walking through whatever it is with us. Not leaving us stuck, alone. That’s a miracle with staying power.

Karis always believed she would not live one minute longer or shorter than her Shepherd planned for her, but she still had to do her part to stay as well as she could be. Jesus too, in this chapter, knew it wasn’t yet his time to die, so he dodged the bullets—oops, I mean stones. Sometimes he stayed around to chat, but sometimes he got out of there. At all times he was in control. At all times he was in tune with his Father who loved him (v. 17).

Have you experienced a miracle you would like to share? I invite you to write it down and send it to me by email—no longer than one page. Your experience can encourage others who need a concrete reminder that God is still in the miracle-working business. I’ll watch for your story!

Here’s one of my favorite versions of Jesus as my shepherd.