One Thousand Words - Stories On The Way

For the next few weeks, I'm featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, meet George MacDonald Scholar, Christian ecologist, retreat host, and essayist Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson.

I'm in the middle of a podcast series featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, meet educator, literary scholar, and essayists Esther Moon.

For the next few weeks, I'm featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, meet writer, father, programmer, and essayist Micah Hawkinson!

For the next few weeks, I'm featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, meet editor, mentor, teacher, and essayist Elisabeth Adams!

For the next few weeks, I'm featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, jazz composer and performer, educator, and essayist for the The Well Trilogy, Ruth Naomi Floyd.

For the next few weeks, I'm featuring the essayists who wrote for my latest book/album, "Where the River Goes: Meditations on the Return of Jesus Christ in Story and Song." This week, meet illustrator, singer/songwriter, mom, and writer Rachel Mosley.

This week, please welcome my friend Stefanie Peters. Stefanie is an Editor at Library of America in New York City, where she has worked to preserve the writings of Wendell Berry, Jonathan Edwards, Margaret Fuller, Ernest Gaines, Madeleine L’Engle, and Ursula K. Le Guin, among others. She earned an MA in English from University College London (UK) and a BA in English from The Ohio State University. Her writing can be found at stefaniepeters.com and stefaniepeters.substack.com and on instagram @scpeters. For full show notes visit: www.matthewclark.net/podcast Follow Matthew: Instagram: @matthewclarknet Youtube: youtube.com/matthewclarknet Become a Patron: matthewclark.net/partner

The last week or two I’ve been on the road for some work and some visits, which means I’ve been spending more time in my camper van, which is a converted Sprinter called “Vandalf the White.” This week, I’m musing on the child’s impulse to build forts, how our imaginations are populated by the stories and people we grew up with, and the healing offered by creative processes. For full show notes visit: www.matthewclark.net/podcast Follow Matthew: Instagram: @matthewclarknet Youtube: youtube.com/matthewclarknet Become a Patron: matthewclark.net/partner

A Tale of Two Trees: Steven Elmore, "Sustained by Joy" by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/OTW_S5-E10-SElmores-essay.mp3 Steven Elmore is the President of the C.S. Lewis Foundation. He has over 20 years of experience working at nonprofit organizations and educational institutions, including serving as a community college adjunct professor (English composition), software instructor (basic to advanced MS Office), GED instructor (science, history), test preparation tutor, and in a wide range of office management and administration roles. His specific skill sets include event management, teaching/training, team leadership, program management, writing, communications strategy, strategic planning, and computer technology. He is also a writer for Cultivating Magazine.   Like A Lamb by Matthew Clark Fear and pride are just two sides, friend  Of Caesar’s tarnished penny  Quietness and rest belong to God  But who hasn’t studied warfare  On the battlefield of life here  Perfecting self-defense just to survive?    You know how good it feels, love  To scratch the itch of anger  But complaining only chains us up inside Feels like safety and power  In a world so full of danger  It feels like danger to be grateful, small, and quiet    CHORUS But Oh, I see the Mighty Word of God Go silent to the slaughter like a Lamb Oh, I hear the voices of the crowd  Grow louder as the buried kernel’s roots descend     Cause the roots beneath the surface  Search and listen for a music  That is and was and will be evermore  Like an acorn to an oak tree  Who would ever think it could be  That those little lambs might ever rule the world    But the meek will spread their branches  Above the clamour of the nations  The sons of God will rest beneath their shade  And the politics of power   That seemed so strong until that hour  Will fall into the traps their power laid     CHORUS    BRIDGE Nobody’s free from hardship  And the briers in the garden  Can push their way so deeply down inside  Till what started out so tender  Is choked out by the winter  And gentleness don’t have a chance to flower    But don’t let your love grow cold, dear  or buy the lies they’ve sold here  For the fools of God will fiddle on the roof  All their lives they were the punchline  Now their laughing faces outshine  Every image Caesar thought would get him through  ©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP) The post S5:E10 – A Tale of Two Trees: Steven Elmore, “Sustained by Joy” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

A Tale of Two Trees - Benjamin Holsteen, "Sing an Exile's Love Song" by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/OTW_S5-E9-ToTT_Bens-Essay.mp3 Benjamin Holsteen believes that a life spent in pursuit of awe, wonder, and gratitude in the midst of the everyday is the best preparation for an eternity spent in the presence of their ultimate Source. He spends his days thinking, writing, talking, and living out of this conviction, currently as a PhD candidate in Art and Theology at the University of St Andrews. He lives on the edge of the North Sea with his wife and two children. You can find him online from benjamin.omg.lol and subscribe to *Transcendent Mixtapes*—his forthcoming newsletter reflecting in writing on religious life in the 21st century, filtered through a lifetime of obsessive pop music listening—at transcendentmixtapes.substack.com. How can we sing?  by Matthew Clark   Our captors cracked their whips and grinned  Down by the rivers of Babylon They laughed and mocking bid us sing  Down by the rivers of Babylon   So we hung our harps upon a withered tree  Down by the rivers of Babylon And we gave up songs about being free  Down by the rivers of Babylon   Pre-Chorus Oh don’t let our love grow cold   CHORUS But how can we sing the Lord’s song  How can we sing about home?  How can we sing the Lord’s song  By the rivers of babylon?   We wake up strangers in a foreign land  Down by the rivers of Babylon Lord, dry as sand slipping through your hand  Down by the rivers of Babylon   Pre-Chorus  CHORUS   BRIDGE Oh, his love endures forever  (Lord, don’t hide your face forever)   ©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)   The post S5:E9 – A Tale of Two Trees – Benjamin Holsteen, “Sing an Exile’s Love Song” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

A Tale of Two Trees: Heidi White, "Two Trees, One Cross" by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/OTW_S5-E8-ToTT-essays_HeidiWhite.mp3 Heidi White, M.A., is a teacher, editor, podcaster, and author. She teaches Humanities at St. Hild School in Colorado Springs. She is the Managing Editor of FORMA Journal and a contributing author, speaker, and consultant at the CiRCE Institute. She is a weekly contributor on fiction, poetry, and Shakespeare on the Close Reads Podcast Network and the CiRCE Institute Podcast Network. She serves on the Board of Directors of The Anselm Society and sits on the Academic Advisory Board for the Classical Learning Test. She writes fiction, poetry, and essays, and she speaks and writes about literature, education, and the Christian imagination. She lives in Black Forest, Colorado with her husband and children. She also hosts The Daily Poem Podcast  A Tale of Two Trees by Matthew Clark   I dreamed I saw two family trees  They grew from very different seeds  One stood tall with flowered crowns And one was bent and bitter    The bitter tree bore sour fruit  That made the people eating do  Wickedness upon the earth  Until they grew to love it    The flowered tree put out its leaves  Which perfumed faintly that bitter breeze  The bent tree’s branches shook like snakes  And did their best to kill it    But up the sweetness rose again  Like children rise from water cleansed and  Though the thorns tore at their flesh  They would not stop their singing Well ages came and ages went  And it seemed the good tree’s strength was spent  While the bitter tree kept sprouting strong  And choking out its fragrance   Till one day evil’s wicked limbs  Entangled all the hopes of men  And struck that holy heartwood down  And felled the mighty timber    The crooked fingers of that tree  Took hold of earth and made it bleed  And most forgot what goodness was  Or where to go to find it    And holiness decayed to dust  The spinning world gave way to lust  And justice cracked like splintered wood  The world lay in confusion    BRIDGE A tree is known by the fruit it bears  And every day we plant ourselves In one of two families  In one of these two family trees   But no one saw the twist to come  The prophets of the stump of God  Were killed like fools and all ignored  But underneath the soil    A tender Word beneath the roots  Uncurled until a little shoot Unfurled into the poisoned air  To raise the ancient family    To stir the dormant seed of faith  And water withered hearts awake  To die upon that bitter tree  And uproot it forever    And one day soon we’ll see his face David’s branch will clear away  The stubble where the wicked grew  And Jesus will make all things new ©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP) The post S5:E8 – A Tale of Two Trees: Heidi White, “Two Trees, One Cross” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

A Tale of Two Trees: Emily Verdoorn, "Rain" by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/OTW_S5_E7-essay_Emily-Verdoorn_Rain.mp3 Emily Verdoorn is a mixed-media artist from Des Moines, Iowa.  For as long as she can remember, Emily has loved drawing and making things.  What was unselfconscious play as a child grew into a way of paying attention: to more deeply press into the life of the world around her, to grow in affection, to be awake to the world charged with the presence of Christ.  After receiving her BFA at Belhaven University in Jackson, Mississippi, Emily spent some time participating in various intentional communities and ministries such as L’Abri, Brazos Fellows, and Summit Ministries which have also informed her work.  You can find Emily’s work and process online at emilyverdoornstudio.com and on instagram @emilyverdoornstudio. You Belong  by Matthew Clark   Wait, wait, before you give up Breath, breath remember what’s true  When feel like you’re a stranger And you can’t find a friend    CHORUS You belong to someone who loves you  You belong to someone who loves you  You belong, you belong  You were made to belong… to someone who loves you    Somedays the clouds will not part  Most days there’s a fog on your heart  But you’ve been around enough  To know the daylight will come    BRIDGE Someone who’s written your name of his hands  Someone who laid down his life  Someone who waited with tears in his eyes And kept watch down the road for his runaway child    I know with the world like it is  Hope tends to slip through your fists  But the truth is the truth  Though the whole world tell lies The post S5:E7 – A Tale of Two Trees: Emily Verdoorn, “Rain” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Encouragement: Saying the Good Things by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/OTW_S5-E6-Encouragement_fix.mp3 I used to call myself a detrimentalist. I was half-joking. But, the truth is, for almost as long as I can remember I’ve had a nearly constant underlying sense that any idea I had was a bad idea, and any endeavor I thought worth trying would inevitably fail. Doesn’t that sound dramatic? Maybe so, but that feeling of detrimentalism – that, on some level, any move I made would be ruinous, or that somehow my very presence in the world was a problem – has been haunting and persistent.   Thankfully, I was also born with an innate stubbornness. If I cared about something enough, I’d typically press on, even though everything in me felt certain it wouldn’t work out. Needless to say, in my life the pattern has been one of being particularly vulnerable to discouragement. Discouragement feels, in many ways, like the most natural state.     A lot of writers for a long time have made a distinction between the mind and the heart. More lately, I’ve gotten into the work of a particular fellow by the name of Dr. Jim Wilder. He’s a theologian as well as a neurologist, and many of his insights into how God has designed the brain and body to be in union with the mind and spirit have been both fascinating and helpful to me the last six months.   Wilder says that the heart stores up relational experience while the mind specializes in intellectual data. There’s a kind of dissonance that makes peace impossible within us when what we believe to be true intellectually can’t be reconciled with our experiences relationally. But we have peace within our bodies and brains when what is (relational experience) and what ought to be (intellectual beliefs) agree with each other.  Wilder tells a story from his own life. He couldn’t figure out why he avoided church during Holy Week, particularly Good Friday. He was an adult, had completed seminary, was a committed Christian, but there was something about the crucifixion of Jesus that repelled him. As he prayed and asked for insight, he began to remember an early childhood memory. He was around five and had been taken by his missionary parents to a revival. Multiple preachers had been lined up to present, and, in their fervor, each one ratcheted up the next one, until they seemed to be trying to outdo the prior preacher in their passion. Particularly in their descriptions of the gruesomeness and horror of the crucifixion. Finally, one of the preachers, caught up in the momentum, drove his point home with special intensity, exclaiming as he glared at the crowd, “You killed Jesus! Your sin nailed him to that cross!”   Wilder explains that the neurology of a developing child doesn’t acquire the capacity to differentiate between reality and imagination, literalism and hyperbole, plain speech and figurative language until about age twelve. This is why scary movies are particularly scary to children under 12, their brains have not yet gained the capacity to distinguish between what’s real life and what’s just a movie. So, when the preacher said, “You killed Jesus!” Five-year-old Jim Wilder took it literally. That experience then moved in and became a permanent fixture in his heart. Ever since, and even though he knew better intellectually, his heart believed that his badness was stronger than Jesus’ goodness.   It was only later, as he sought healing in this area, that Jim experienced Jesus telling him that he was not, in fact, a threat or detrimental to God. Jesus had gladly gone to the cross for him, and stayed there out of love for that little five year old boy. Sin had not held him there, love had. That preacher, in his passion to drive home a point, had trespassed, unwittingly laying a burden on a little boy that even a full-grown man could never be expected to carry.     Interesting, isn’t it? Interesting how our hearts get broken. How the courage can be drained right out of them, while at the same time, our minds are doing their best to pick up the slack only to get more and more exhausted. Jim Wilder’s mind had been to seminary, but his heart was still, in many ways, that of a shamed five year old. Until, as an adult, he asked the Lord to give a better word to that part of himself that couldn’t bear to face a crucified Jesus. Jesus transformed Good Friday from a burden to a gift. Jesus said, “You didn’t take my life from me, I offered it up for you, because I wanted to, because you are so dear to me. You are not a burden to me, or a threat. No, the truth is I delight in you. I was more than glad to travel into suffering and danger to extract you from the grip of sorrow and death.”     What an encouragement.    When discouragement feels like the most natural state, it may be that we’ve absorbed and internalized some lie about ourselves. Even today, even this very week, I’m fighting against those places in me that have been so deeply burdened by discouragement given or by encouragement that was withheld.    We’d like to think we don’t need each other, especially if we’ve been hurt. And we may assume that other people don’t need us, and that our presence is not that important. Both are untrue. I need your encouragement and you need mine. I need your gifts and you need mine. Of course, there are times for healthy correction, and unpleasant honesty, if we’re going to grow at all. We can’t say or listen exclusively to the things that make us feel good. But I’d bet most of us are more or less aware of our shortcomings, and we’re in need of more encouragement than not. In other words, I don’t think you need to worry that giving encouragement will endanger the recipient. If you’re worried about that, then it’s very likely you’ve withheld a precious resource from them quite long enough, and I’d be willing to guess that it was withheld from you.  Which brings me to this… say the good things. Say them. Say them outloud to someone. Look for goodness and celebrate it. Make a big fuss. If you see something good in someone, get over the awkwardness (I mean embrace it) and tell them what you like about them. Sometimes we experience discouragement like a rock someone drops on our chest; other times we suffer from a void, a negation, from a form of starvation as love and good things are withheld, they simply go unsaid.  If you’re like me and late to the game, to express love and encouragement will be a skill you haven’t learned. You’ll feel like you aren’t good at it, you don’t know how to do it. Let me encourage you, you can do it. You have good things to give. You have the power to bless, to affirm, to help others see and sense their own loveliness and worth. You can look them in the eyes and say a good thing, pronounce a benediction, and call out of them goodness that Jesus gladly died to raise up from the ash-heap of shame.  Look, I’m writing this for my own sake, too. As one with a tendency toward detrimentalism, I know what a relief a few drops of deliberate, albeit awkward encouragement can be. As we walk along this pilgrim way together, we are given into each other’s hands, and our hands are given the power to touch and bless our companions as we smile upon them and speak aloud the good things, the better words, that Christ died to assure us were, in fact, true. The post S5:E6 – Encouragement: Saying the Good Things appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The (understandable) lie of cynicism, and the reality of hope by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/OTW_S5_E5-The-understandable-lie-of-cynicism.mp3 Pre-Save "You Belong" on SpotifyPart 2 of the The Well Trilogy, “A Tale of Two Trees” releases June 2nd! And the first single off that album releases Friday, May 5th. Pre-save it on Spotify today. Just click below and follow the instructions…  Click Here To Pre-save "You Belong" on Spotify “In those latter days, because of the increase of wickedness, the love of many will grow cold.”    Chesterton said that taking in the news was the very worst way to gauge reality, because the whole point of journalism is to report on abnormalities. There are millions of people who enjoyed their bowl of cereal this morning, but the news reports the two people who choked on their cornflakes. The idea is that, if you watch enough news, you’ll start normalizing the abnormal. You’ll begin to believe that most people choke on their cereal in the morning, when, of course, the opposite is true. Most people don’t.     Cynicism works in a similar way.     Jesus says, “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart I have overcome the world.” That’s a realistic statement from the most realistic person to ever live. No one is more aware of how bad things really are than Jesus. He is the most realistic person when it comes to wickedness and trouble in the world, and what’s wild is that in the very next breath he’s the most hopeful and encouraging person. It would be easy to read that verse sarcastically, wouldn’t it? Cynicism would tempt us to use a sarcastic intonation, “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart, I mean whatever, if you’re still naive enough to believe in anything genuinely good.”    How can Jesus be both? How can he be absolutely clear-eyed and realistic about the wickedness of the world, and unironically hopeful and encouraging? By no means is Jesus naive, and yet he manages to escape the trap of cynicism. How? Because he sees the whole of reality in a way we don’t. He’s come from the presence of God to bring a better journalistic word about what is actually normative, and what’s normative is goodness, beauty, holiness, kindness, love, gentleness. From our vantage point these noble things break our hearts because we have become so worn down and wearied by evil; we see them as carrots dangled before our eyes, carrots we can never actually have. At best we talk about them with a heartsick longing, and at worst we scoff condescendingly at them, mocking them because we no longer believe in them anyway. We know better. Life has taught us to know better, hasn’t it?     But that is a trap. It’s the result of having our vision warped and skewed and overtaken by shadow. In this world you will have trouble, says Jesus realistically. But trouble is not the end of the world. There is some secret Jesus knows. He knows what’s actually normal. The Lord in heaven laughs, because he sees how puny the reign of evil really is, how temporary, how a single breath will blow it all away. There’s simply no contest. The eastern idea of equal opposites barely eeking out a balance between good and evil is ridiculous. When the moment comes and the Lord steps onto the field of war, the war will be over.     The crucifixion looked and felt so final, so absolute. Jesus’s death would have been cause for cynicism to claim primacy. But the resurrection of Christ makes a greater claim, saying that, no matter how convincing death and sorrow appear, don’t believe them, this vision of God’s light, life, and love triumphing in such a concrete way within the walls of our sorrowing world is what is most real. The word this beautiful resurrection speaks is the truest thing about reality.    Cynicism and despair are strong temptations in such a broken world. Hope and gratitude are sometimes easy, but very often they are acts of obedience and faith. Hope is often a decision we must make to actually believe what Jesus has said about life, that it is and shall be “very good”. But who hopes for what they already have? We’re told that love hopes all things, believes all things, bears all things, endures all things. Cynicism is a resignation to all the obvious evil in the world, as if it were the main thing, the primary reality. Hope calls us to bravely believe that evil is ultimately untrue. That evil is making an arrogant claim about its own primacy that is false. Jesus bears witness to that lie by being both absolutely realistic about evil, and at the same time keeping his heart open, vulnerable, and hopeful. He can stand with us in clear sight of all the the inevitable trouble of the world, and say, without a hint of irony or sarcasm, take heart, be of good cheer, don’t let your love grow cold, keep going, life is beautiful and good, rejoice always, lift up your hearts, keep thinking about whatever is noble and good, your labor is not in vain, nothing can separate you from the love of God, joy comes in the morning, I’m with you in the valley of the shadow of death, a bruised reed I will not break, I will bind up the brokenhearted, behold I am making all things new, come to me if you’re weary, I will give you rest. Rest from all that has beaten you down to the point that you can’t even believe in goodness anymore.    The rest Jesus offers is for those of us who, in order to understandably protect ourselves from more heartache, have taken up the cynic’s mantra. What is the cynic’s mantra? It’s this: “If you lower your expectations, you’ll never be disappointed.” Can you hear the hopelessness, the resignation, the despair and overwhelming sadness in it? What does it take to get us to that place? How much love must be withheld from us? How much harm must be done to us? I don’t think we’re born into this world expecting to be dropped, but at some point, if our cries go unheard long enough, we give up on expecting that the hunger and thirst to be held, celebrated, and meaningfully incorporated into a loving fabric of belonging is even worth the trouble of hoping for. Hope, if we’ve come to that sad conclusion, is just a reminder of what we’ve come to believe we can never have. Another dangling carrot, a trap door like all the others, ready to fall out from under us.    Perhaps the most frightening thing about cynicism is that, like many of our unhealed wounds, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, and a habit that tends to create a vicious cycle of self-sabotage. Someone told me once that what isn’t redeemed repeats. Wounds that don’t get the love and care they deserve, don’t remain neutral or benign. They continue to cry out for help, because the loss or the deprivation was real, which means the need for protection and love was real – and it still is. But if we’ve lost hope, we’ll spend a lot of energy protecting ourselves against it, typically by minimizing the good things we actually long for, that we actually do need. We may long to be enjoyed for our playfulness, but if we were punished for it by over-serious parents, we may repeat that punishment within ourselves and towards others. We lose our ability to enjoy the things we desire, because we can’t bear the pain of endlessly deferred hope, so we sabotage those good things in order to keep our expectations low, so we won’t be disappointed.    To lay more guilt and shame on the shoulders of friends around us who’ve lost hope is not my point. Lack of love is what has made it so hard to hope. How does Jesus respond to those of us caught in this cynical trap? There’s a moment in Jesus’s conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well that struck me just this week that I think has something to say about this.    Once Jesus has told her something that there’s no way he could have known (about her five husbands and the sixth she’s living with) she realizes he’s some kind of holy man. I think at this point she’s concluding that she’s being set up. A Jewish holy man has come to Samaria to dangle a carrot, then snatch it away. So she decides to go ahead and get it over with. She thinks she knows what’s coming. So she says, in essence, “Okay, holy man, where’s the right place to worship? Our mountain or yours?” She knows the answer. He’s a Jewish holy man, the only thing he can say is “at the temple in Jerusalem.” And she knows that’s impossible for her, a Samaritan woman with her track record. She’s trying to sabotage the situation, because her expectations have been shaped by the cynicism that, thus far in her life, has been necessary to survive all the disappointment she’s experienced. She’s saying, “Don’t waste your time or mine, holy man, yank the carrot, let’s get this over with. Don’t toy with me as if things could actually change, as if I could ever have access to God’s love. I know better than that.”    But Jesus, as usual, brings a whole new possibility to the table. He says God isn’t all that interested in a particular mountain, here or there. Something different is happening, and rather than people having to go to some certain place to meet him, he’s come to meet them wherever they are. Like, at a well at noon in Samaria, for instance. This carrot isn’t being dangled, it really is being offered. This is not a trap door. You can put your weight on this, all of your weight, and it will hold you.    We’ve all gotten used to being dropped. We’ve come to expect it. Can’t you hear the cynicism in her response? Her words are dripping with sarcasm when she says, “Oh, I’m sure that’ll all get sorted out and everything will be hunky-dory, once the Messiah shows up. Like that’s ever going to happen, or even if it does, like it’ll make any difference for someone like me.”     I can imagine that even as his heart was breaking for this woman, maybe with tears in his eyes, Jesus also couldn’t help but smile, knowing as he did all the goodness that was right there within reach for her. Did she see him smiling and feel puzzled? Was there some joke she wasn’t in on? Some punchline she missed? I think there was. That woman had no idea, just like most of us have no idea, how much love, forgiveness, goodness, beauty, and relief is sitting so very close to us. That’s the joke God is playing on evil, whatever bitterness Jesus touches is made sweet. Whatever soured well we’re drawing from, if we’ll sit there with Jesus, he can overcome it, and meet our disappointed thirst with the sweetness of living water. Of course you’ll have trouble in this world, he says, but don’t give in to it – don’t believe the claim it makes on you, keep up your courage, because I have overcome the world. A Closing Prayer Against Cynicism Oh Lord, we have been so hurt in so many ways. We have been dropped again and again, so that it is very hard to believe that we could be held, or that any good thing could be relied upon. Cynicism tempts us to resignation and hopelessness. Having experienced so much sorrow, cynicism feels most reasonable and safe. But, I feel my heart slipping away from me into a cold, paralyzing darkness. Lowered down into a pit of low expectations, where it is safe from the threat of more heartbreaking deferred hope. Safe, Lord, but cut off from the warmth of love and the joy of light. Come, Lord Jesus, and meet us in these low, cold, hurting places, like you met the woman by the well, and smile upon us here. Tell us again, for our sorrow makes us forget, the good news about how small evil and sorrow really are set next to your love for us — set next to your power to bring new life where death has made such arrogant, enormous claims. We are putting ourselves in your hands, Lord, do not drop us. We are asking to be held, do not let go of us. As we experience your reliable love, draw us out of cynicism into the solid reality of your inexhaustible goodness and care.  Through your resurrected Son Jesus Christ, Amen.   The post S5:E5 – The (understandable) lie of cynicism, and the reality of hope appeared first on Matthew Clark.

I have a confession to make by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/OTW_S5_E4-I-have-a-confession-to-make.mp3 I have a confession to make.     If I stop right now and give you ten seconds to notice how that sentence makes you feel, what happens? Let’s try it. Here’s ten seconds to think about this phrase – I have a confession to make.     Insert ten seconds.    Okay, here’s what I bet you felt. You probably felt excited, eager, relieved, calm, as if a breath you’d been holding in too long was finally allowed to exhale so you could relax, right? No? I’m being silly, of course. If you’re like me, confession brings up feelings that fit more in the category of worry and fear instead of comfort or relief. Why might that be?     Yesterday in a meeting with fellow writers for The Cultivating Project, we were talking about some of the themes that we wanted to focus on in upcoming issues. Over the course of a year, we tend to write around a progression of topics. Lancia Smith, who leads Cultivating, is very deliberate about designing the publication both as a ministry to readers and as a ministry to the writers. We’re each being asked to explore topics as a way to challenge and develop our own life of faith through reflection and the discipline of writing the essays that make up each issue. Lancia has said many times that The Cultivating Project is, first, a discipleship fellowship meant to raise up writers. Here’s an excerpt from the website:    The Cultivating Project is a nurtured fellowship of Christian writers and makers committed to cultivating holy character, deep-rooted community, and excellence of craft. Together we offer a type of Pilgrim’s Inn through our publications, workshops, and products ~ each one made to inspire, strengthen, and give courage to our fellow sojourners.   As a part of that, we were meeting yesterday to discuss our current topics, and a lot of folks have been struggling. We all carry so many wounds, so many fears and insecurities. It can be so discouraging on the one hand, yet on the other hand what a comfort it is to discover yourself nowhere near as alone as you had thought.  So, as our little fellowship of Cultivators confessed our common fears, something wonderful began to emerge. Voices of courage and support stirred and declared another reality – belovedness was assured, giftedness and calling were restated, capacity for beauty and the capability to bring about, by God’s grace, good nourishing things was acknowledged and affirmed.  Do you notice what happened? We confessed fears and faults to one another, and what followed was an outpouring of courage and possibility. But here’s the strange thing I want to say about confession in this instance – it’s that both sides of that experience – the fears and the encouragement – were instances of confession.  Earlier, when I gave you ten seconds to notice the feelings that come up when the word confession is mentioned, my assumption is that those feelings were most likely negative. At least, primarily negative and worrisome. I wonder if that might be because confession is primarily associated with sin? For most of us, confession means, maybe even exclusively, to acknowledge something terrible about ourselves. By association, then, confession is a fearful word.   What I want to point out though, is that it is a beautiful word. Let’s be a little curious about it, and look closely.   In Scripture, confession comes from a greek term (homologeó) that has two parts. The first part (homo) means ‘same’ and the second part (logeo) means speech. So confess is a word that simply means to say the same thing together. The word, in itself, is not negative. For instance, if I say, “I want a strawberry milkshake” and you say “Yes, you do want a strawberry milkshake.” You just made a confession. You and I are saying the same thing together.   Just this morning, I noticed that a usage like this was already sitting right under my nose in a famous passage about salvation, Romans 10:9. That passage says, “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” What feelings arise from that usage of the word confess, I wonder? My guess is that the phrase “I have a confession to make” and “If you confess that Jesus is Lord” call up two pretty different emotional responses. But it’s the same word.  To confess that Jesus is Lord is to join your voice to God’s and say the same thing together about Jesus. God has said, “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well-pleased. Listen to him.” And to confess is to simply say, “Yes, I agree with you God. I’ve heard what you’re saying about Jesus and I’ll say it with you.”   In other words, confession is simply to agree with God about reality. It’s to admit the truth about the way things are, in general. If I say, “water is wet,” and you say, “Yep, it’s some of the wettest stuff around,” we’ve just made a good confession and we’re saying the same thing together about reality.     Now, here’s where sin comes in. We are out of harmony with reality, and if we’re going to be healed we’ve got to get in touch with what’s actually going on. God is being honest with us about the way things are, and confession is a move we make towards honesty. If God is saying, “Friend, you’re deathly ill,” and I say, “I’m fine,” then, I’m not participating in reality, and I have no way of accessing healing. But, if I confess and say, “I do feel really terrible, please help me,” now, I’m in touch with reality and all the resources of God are within reach. Confession is no fun, in that sense, but it puts us in touch with reality, so we can be cared-for by our Healing Redeemer.   But, remember, confession works the other way too. If God says, “You are very beautiful, worthwhile, dearly loved, capable of incredible good, gifted for good works, washed clean and joined to the family of God,” then the right response is also to make a confession in the joyful sense. God is calling us to confess, meaning to say along with him the same thing he is saying about us, the same thing he says is the state of reality, to say, “I confess together with you, God, that I am beautiful, worthwhile, dearly loved, capable of incredible good, gifted for good works, washed clean and joined to the family of God.”  That is also confession. Here’s ten seconds to notice how saying “Amen” and agreeing with God about the good things he’s saying about us feels.    Insert ten seconds.    God is telling us the truth about reality, about our situation, about ourselves. Confession encompasses all of that. Confession is, of course, to agree with God about our rebellion and woundedness, but it’s much bigger, because our sin and shame have been, not minimized, but swallowed up by God’s love. Confession, ultimately, calls us to hear God’s blessing over us, spoken through Jesus – the Word himself – and to allow ourselves to fully and deeply receive it.  We honor the love we’re given by simply receiving it. If God says, “You’re so precious and desirable that I would lay down my life for you,” you can take him at his word. If, as the Scriptures say, “the king is captivated by your beauty,” you can confess with God that (bizarre and unlikely as it feels) this is, indeed, the case. Amy Malskeit Amy Malskeit is a lover of words and stories and people. She holds an undergraduate degree in English and Spanish, a secondary English teaching credential, and an MA in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry from Lancaster University in Northwest England. Her years teaching middle and high school gave her a love for middle grade and young adult literature, and the awkward awesome that being a young adult means. She is a mother of two who plants her garden and makes her home in the foothills southwest of Denver with her best friend, Kevin. She loves the water, and feels most at home when she is near the Pacific Ocean. She reads broadly, and is passionate about exploring big questions and small moments through her poetry, essays, and stories. Read more of Amy’s writing:  https://thecultivatingproject.com/author/amy-malskeit/   A Prayer for Nearness by Amy Maleskeit Oh God, I confess that I do not know how to confess. Thank You that this is not a problem for You. So come and open my eyes to see You, and to see with fresh eyes the story You are writing, to see myself and my story in light of Your redemption, hope and goodness. In light of You, who are most Real. Thank you that, because of the cross, my pain has a place to go.  Spirit of Jesus, You are not just with me, but in me. As You speak words of truth to my heart, I choose to align myself with them, and to name these real things into this beautiful, broken world, and to the hurting people around me. I welcome your nearness today. The post S5:E4 – I have a confession to make appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Joyous Grace of Creative Incompetence by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/OTW_S5-E3-The-joyous-grace-of-creative-incompetence.mp3 My brother Sam and I are both artists. He works in ceramics and, though he’s proficient on the potter’s wheel, he has a special capacity for capturing personality and expression in humorous figural sculptures of dragons, trolls, and other wild creatures. Our house is full of these hilarious critters peeping out from nearly every corner. Even the urn that holds our coffee grounds is a grinning, fat troll wearing a yellow tie whose head is the lid.   The last few years Sam and I have both worked from home. The two-car garage is his ceramic studio where he sculpts during the day and teaches classes occasionally. My little recording studio is set up in the extra bedroom. We’re both coffee drinkers, and our routine is to spend the first hour or so of each day at the breakfast table chatting over hot mugs of coffee as we gear up for whatever we’re working on that day.  As you can imagine, one of the recurring topics of conversion is the creative process. We’re always comparing notes on art-making itself – the processes and materials and inspiration, the travails of trying to get some meandering idea worked out concretely in our respective materials, and the further travails of trying to make a living at it. On top of all that, we tend to land in a place of gratitude sensing that, as we subcreate (to use Tolkien’s term), we are entering into a great and abundant mystery of making that is ultimately sustained and overseen by God himself, and not our own powers or achievement.   The invitation to make stuff is fundamentally an invitation constituted by God’s grace. Now, that may just come across as a Christian-y thing to say, so let me push into it a little more. By “grace” I mean a few things. One is that the invitation is a form of hospitality – God is calling us to collaborate – to take up whatever raw materials we gravitate towards, whether clay, music, words, food, wood, fabric, decor, space, ad infinitum, and develop those given things into something new that honors their inherent nature and qualities, but that realizes in new ways their internal potentialities. God could do all of that himself, but he chooses not to. Instead, he has chosen to graciously, hospitably invite us in to share in the fun. God says, “Look at this stuff, I call it clay. Do you like it? Take some home with you, see what you can make out of it. I can’t wait to see what you come up with!” So that’s one thing I mean when I say the invitation to make stuff is constituted by God’s grace.   Another thing is that grace, by its very nature, is unnecessary. Grace is, you could say, “extra”. My friends from Louisiana would say lagniappe. Lagniappe means some extra unexpected goodness that comes after something that was already good. It’s overflow, more than what’s required. The fact that we are invited to work and make and love and sing and dance and cook – all that’s extra. As if creating the galaxies, gooses, and grackles wasn’t enough, how about topping it all off with people. And while you’re at it, Lord, how about topping that off with marrying those people, through Christ, into the life of the Holy Trinity? And, then how about topping that off with a new heavens and a new earth… and who knows what the Lord will top that off with? Our God is a most persistent topper-offer! He seems to get so caught up in the joyous overflow of making that he’s always doing more than is required, always pouring out grace upon grace upon grace.  That being the case, the invitation to live our lives contextualized by that overflow and to creatively collaborate with God through the materials at hand in this world is characterized by grace. In other words, because there’s goodness aplenty, you don’t have to be all that good at it to participate. Grace means we can take creative risks. It means we can get started before we have any idea how to do it well. We can jump in and learn as we go, because our identity and the cosmos, in general, are not dependent on our proficiency. Those have already been taken care of, so we’re free to be no good at it, but do it anyway. We’ll get good at it eventually, unless we never get started.   I remember something a friend said years ago when he was a new dad. He said that as he learned to enjoy his children, he was learning to be enjoyed by God. I can still hear him say, “Children are completely incompetent. They’re not good at anything.” One thing about little children though, they aren’t afraid to get started. They don’t mind getting born, even though they have no idea how to do anything. Be like a little child, get comfortable with your incompetence and go head and get started. The world is not at all depending on you, and it’s absolutely fantastic that you are in the world.  It’s worth emphasizing: if you are in the world, then it’s because the Lord, the Giver of Life, enabled your existence. Existence itself, because it is a gift from God, is valuable in and of itself, without any further qualifications. Now that you are here, the work of being a living person is only secondarily to be proficient or good at stuff. Competency isn’t where you start. It may not even really be the goal. I mean who will ever be as good at anything as God? The main work of being a living person is responsiveness. Your very existence is grace, which means the supply of goodness and love is a question that’s already been abundantly addressed. God has already proclaimed an endless chain of “amens” to your presence here, that’s what you’re made out of. Even if a person only made it a few days, weeks, or years in this world, that chain of amens will go on.  But for those of us here, now what? What happens next? Next, we open our eyes and ears, stick out our tongues, feel with our fingertips, sniff with our sniffers. We go exploring. We go on a life-long scavenger hunt, looking in every neglected field for treasures. And when we find them, we get very still. We do a special kind of work called beholding. Beholding means to sustain a loving relationship of true knowing, true perception. Beholding is what allows us to understand the nature of a given thing within the context of it’s preciousness to its Creator. Beholding is the patient practice of entering into and honoring the life of a thing and learning its true name. In other words, beholding places us in a position of humble wonder as we look for Jesus’s intention within the things that he has made and that he continues to bless and sustain.  Just like the first job of the apprentice is to do nothing but watch the master work, beholding is not about getting anything accomplished, it’s just about paying attention. It’s about reverence. Once reverence has taken root, it blossoms into response. Now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, I start making attempts to respond. I love because I was loved first. That is where art-making best begins – as a response to having beheld goodness.  And different materials, different mediums, call for different responses, according to what we’ve perceived of their nature, through the practice of beholding. Clay calls for a certain response, because it has its own kind of given life. Paint calls for a different response that corresponds to its particular qualities, which are the things it “loves” to do. A good cook has reverently beheld the nature of ingredients and therefore knows how to respond rightly and creatively to their inherent qualities. In other words, how to work with them to realize and develop their potential, rather than work against or in spite of them. A true artist is a humble collaborator, who takes joy in lovingly listening to her materials as she nudges and nurtures them onward to unfold their potential in new ways. She sees how an alphabet can become a sentence, and a sentence might grow into a sonnet. He sees how a block of mute wood might carry silent songs, and he responds by crafting a singing instrument like a guitar or cello. In Lord of the Rings, the Elves taught the trees to talk and they became Ents, but even in this world, ordinary men and women teach trees to sing. To sing perhaps a song they knew but could never hope to sing without our involvement.  Art-making then, like life itself, is a call to mutual reverence and responsiveness. It is a call to love, and in loving to waken and raise up all that God has graciously given us to steward. The perfectionism that paralyzes us from getting started is a trap laid by our Enemy, who loves to block our participation in God’s life. Don’t beat yourself up about it, but recognize it’s based on a lie about the way things are. It’s based on the lie that we have something to prove, something to earn, that competency is what justifies our existence. But the invitation is especially extended to the bumbling and incompetent. Jesus was always telling adults to be more like children, not the other way around. To our heavenly Father, we are all little incompetent children anyway, and we meet the Most High God not by being really good at mountain climbing, but simply by our infantile reaching. Fellow children, in Christ, we have already seen him bend down to us, take us in his arms, and raise us up to his shining face. I love how David Taylor writes this psalm in such a way that God as Creator, Christ as Redeemer, humans as sub-creators, and the Creation itself are all brought together so beautifully. Amazing. A Collect Prayer for Creation  By W. David O. Taylor, from his book “Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life”   Maker of heaven and earth, all your creatures, animate and inanimate, stand before you. In Christ, who stands at the center of creation, we see how mysteriously well-pleasing it is to you. In Christ, the mediator of the whole world, we see how broken it is. In Christ, the firstborn of creation, we discover its final destiny: new creation!   May we take pleasure in your creation as you take good pleasure in it. May we care for the earth as you lovingly care for it. And may we offer up all the creative work of our hands in praise of you, in service of our neighbor, and in anticipation of that day when the cosmos shall be made forever alive.   In the Triune Name.   Amen. The post S5:E3 – The Joyous Grace of Creative Incompetence appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Threat of Gratitude? by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/OTW_S5-E2-The-Threat-of-Gratitude.mp3 There is something frightening about gratitude. Does that seem like a strange statement? How could gratitude be a threat? How could it be frightening?  That’s the question that got lodged in my head today as I was out for a walk. Passing all the startling new green that is leafing out from every direction here in Mississippi as spring is kicking off,  posed a challenge to the tired, gray thoughts that cloud my mind from time to time. Every tip of every branch is celebrating the return of newly grown joy. An irrepressible springing joy, that arrives just when you’d gotten used to things being skeletal and bone-cold. Oftentimes, right at the point when the chill has worked its way down and settled with a seeming permanence in our marrow, some newborn wind breathes into the nostrils of this slumbering world and wakes it again to the truth of an indomitable life, to hope, goodness, and beauty.  This pattern is built into our world. It’s so common that it’s easy to write it off as a mere material happenstance, rather than a tale woven into things that endlessly bears witness to something ultimately true. A deeper magic, as Lewis says, that ever abides, untouchable, incorruptible, beyond the reach of decay.  There is so much to be grateful for. But I do think that gratitude poses a threat to us, if we have gotten too comfortable with despair’s sad ability to soothe us. In my own experience, I’ve found myself getting so used to believing that goodness was out of reach, that, in despair, I wound up settling into sad substitutes for things like friendship, affection, joy, creativity.  God has built into us strong and beautiful desires, desires for a life of deep abiding friendship, attachment, generative creativity, and joy. What happens when, for a thousand reasons, those things are torn from us and held out beyond our reach? Maybe someone wounded us deeply? A trespass that traumatized some good thing in us, so that we can no longer see or feel it as good at all, much less hope that the good God created it for could ever be restored. That’s positive wounding – meaning something terrible did happen to us. Then there is negative wounding – something good didn’t happen or was withheld. Maybe no one hugged us growing up, no one listened when you had a real need, or encouragement was withheld. Often sins of omission do as much damage as sins of commission. In other words, to be starved is just as deadly as being poisoned.  Whatever the case, a lack of love can wear us down until we give up. Love and goodness are someone else’s fairy tale. Someone else’s fantasy. Maybe we’re not aware of the degree to which we’ve joined our hearts to hopelessness and adopted cynicism as the most reasonable position. Because, if we’re honest, if we’re in a position of such woundedness, then according to the evidence offered by our experience, cynicism is the most reasonable thing in the world.  And here’s the kicker. Once we get to that point, and I’m speaking from my own heart, cynicism and despair actually do become soothing. They feel good. If you’ve lost hope in ever accessing real goodness, hope is no balm, it’s salt in the wound. Gratitude has to do with hope which has to do with holding on to a faith that says we’re not cut off from the goodness God dreams of for us. That’s why gratitude feels threatening, because it holds up to our sad eyes a picture of the good thing we no longer believe we can have. Cynicism says, “I know better than to believe that fantasy.” And that’s why cynicism is so soothing, so comforting. And why it’s so frighteningly easy to get very comfortable with. It protects us from gratitude, from hope.  Things like gratitude, hope, faith, desire – these invite us to keep trying. They seem to taunt us with the possibility of good things, good things we’ve long since given up on. The Good News of Jesus’s love could feel like a cruel joke to us, if we’ve gone so far as to make peace with despair. The numbness is the only relief we believe we can have any realistic hope of attaining, and the call of Jesus to rise and follow him just makes us feel more exhausted than ever. We pull the sheets back over our heads. Hopelessness is safer, more comfortable, soothingly familiar. It’s not good–of course we know that–but it kind of works, you know? Once you stop believing in steaks, you’ll settle for spam. It’s the best you can hope for, right?  It’s been a long, slow journey for me, as the Lord has patiently coaxed a wounded dove out of the crevices and crags. It’s still going on, of course. Learning to hope again is not pleasant at first. Faith, in the beginning, is nowhere near as soothing as cynicism, despair, and faithlessness. Trust and gratitude feel like they’ll kill us. The desires God himself planted in our hearts become so entangled with shame and starvation that we just wish they’d go away entirely. But those desires are what make us human, and it seems that to remove them would do more damage and be a greater sin than to leave them unfulfilled or even wrongly filled.  Jesus says that because of the increase of wickedness in the world, the love of many will grow cold. It’s an ongoing prayer of mine, that those places in my heart that have grown so cold would not shove away, in despair, the warmth Jesus is offering. That they would not freeze up. I pray that I would stop settling for the voice of a sad sarcasm that would offer to soothe a heart so easily resigned to loneliness and hurt. I pray that the temptation to a sleepy passive pseudo-rest would not pull the blanket over my eyes and keep me from seeing that face that smiles tenderly upon every one of us, inviting us to rise, pick up our mat and walk, knowing that the devastating power of our sins and sorrows has been fully embraced by Jesus. That we are carried in his arms, and where we’d believed ourselves hopelessly cursed, God himself persists in speaking blessing upon blessing, grace upon grace. A Closing Prayer Lord, whether it’s by something terrible done to us or by some good thing that was withheld from us, or even by our own failures, we’ve been hurt. Our hurts have gotten so loud and persistent that they crowd out your kindness. In fact, it feels scary to even give good things a chance, because they just remind us of what we’ve come to believe we can’t have. But you have made it very clear that you desire to be with us no matter where we are. You, Jesus, have pressed into every hurting place, bringing with you kindness and hope. You do not dismiss our hurt, you embrace it, even as you call us to bravely turn toward new goodness that you desire for us. Beautiful Lord, please keep up your gracious, persistent work in us; please continue to coax out from among the craggy crevices your frightened, wounded doves, mending the wings that we’ve learned to keep safely tucked away and flightless. Amen.  The post S5:E2 – The threat of gratitude? appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Words that Make Quiet by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/OTW_S5-E1-Words-that-make-quiet.mp3   Today, I don’t want to write anything. Is it possible to make words that make quiet? I think of the sounds rain makes as it falls on the house, the ground, the field. I like to listen to that sound and the way it quiets the world by way of its audible presence. A continual hush saying nothing but listen to this hushing as it shushes everything it touches. All the better if you’ve got a barn to shelter in – one with a tin roof. That sort of rainfall, for me at least, is the loudest, most quieting that I know. Listen to the word “wash.” It is that rainfall. It is a word that makes quiet, isn’t it? A hushing word.  “Let me wash you,” Jesus told Peter. May we be quieted by that washing.     What are other sounds – other words that make quiet?    I think of kitchen sounds, cooking sounds. What do you hear? Not the clang or clamor of pots and pans. My Grandmother used to softly whistle while she cooked. It was a gentle, breathy, unconscious whistling. Never any particular tune, as far as I know. Just a wandering, carefree tunefulness, happy to be making its quiet way around the room as the cooking got underway. I find myself whistling like that sometimes in a quiet kitchen. I’m doing it for a while, before I even notice, and then I am glad to notice and then go back to not noticing.     A favorite kitchen sound is eggs frying. Eggs cook quickly and they make the best music if you don’t cook them too hot. Just above a medium on the stove at my house is best. That’s right at the point when they’re hot enough to fry. I don’t know the temperature. When eggs are frying just right in butter, oil, or bacon grease, they make a flopping, warbling, murmuring sound. A low gurgle and slap alongside a crispy fizzing sound as the whites whiten.    Cooking is a place I go in order to quiet. I like the sounds, the smells, colors and textures, even the movement and dance of it. I’m not even getting into all those things right now, but it’s a whole world of goodness. Like many things cooking has become so professionalized as to become scary to normal people. But it’s worth learning to enjoy, if pressure can be alleviated.   “Go to the upper room and prepare a meal for us there,” Jesus told his disciples. May we be quieted and nourished by good meals.    So far we’ve got rainfall, washing, whistling, eggs frying… where else might we find? Other sounds and words near at hand that make quiet?     When I was a child, as the day wound down towards sleep in the evening, my mom would often read to me out loud. Being read-to out loud is a sound that makes quiet. A good story read to us by a loved one, especially if we’re warmly nestled next to them, is like wind bending the grass of a field, or the steadying murmurations of a little stream, or a crackling fire. To read aloud alone is wonderful too, but to be read-to in the evening by a beloved voice is a precious thing.    “Today, these words are fulfilled in your hearing,” Jesus told the crowd. May we be quieted and blanketed by good words read aloud.    Rainfall, washing, whistling, eggs frying, reading out loud… What else?    About a week ago a friend and I went stargazing. The temperature had dropped pretty severely a few days before and the night-creatures were all too cold to chatter. We only heard a single shivering frog and a few far-away owls. We’d gone to a rural spot to escape the light pollution and so there were no highways or cities nearby. It was a clear night, without even any wind to reverberate among the trees. We noticed the quiet even before our eyes had adjusted enough to attend to the stars. Have you ever been in a room when the washing machine or dryer that you’d forgotten was running finishes its cycle? The sudden quiet can startle you because you hadn’t realized there was so much noise. It was like that under those stars. Living in a city or near one, we hadn’t realized what kind of quiet was even possible. It was coming up for air.    On top of that, now that we were away from the light pollution (it’s own kind of noise), the clarity and brilliance of the stars was like a music made of quietness to our eyes. Someone said that music, if it is to be life-giving, must begin in silence. Stargazing makes for quiet.   “Look at the stars, can you count them?” God said to Abraham. May we be quieted beneath the silent music of starlight.    Rainfall, washing, whistling, eggs frying, reading out loud, stargazing… What else?    I think of birdsong. Occasionally, I don’t sleep very well. I go to sleep early, sleep a few hours, then I’m up from 2 or 3 am till 5 or 6am. I’ve been up a few times to hear the very first bird wake up and start singing. But even on the nights when I do sleep well, I don’t set an alarm clock. I typically wake up as the sun arrives, and I love to lie still for a long while and listen to the birds. Some birds, of course, are gravelly squawkers. But, in our yard, we have mostly little singers who pipe sweetly at the edge of dawn to welcome the light that is both new and ancient. Some mornings their music is a special calming, cooing mercy, if there’s been a nightmare or a grief to interrupt sleep. They bring with them the lilt and lift of lightness, of “ah! Bright wings” as Hopkins says.    “And the Holy Spirit descended upon him in the form of a dove,” say the Scriptures of Jesus at his baptism. May we be good perching places for the Holy Spirit’s blessing of quietness and rest.     Lastly, I remember a funny story when a buddy of mine stopped by to visit but we were both so tired that afternoon that the conversation drifted off slowly until he fell asleep on his couch and I fell asleep on mine. He said later, “now I know we are real friends.” That friendship required no entertainment, no performance, it didn’t even require being awake. One of the most wonderful things to me is to simply be quiet with someone and feel no need to fill the space with any distractions. That kind of quiet is itself a form of affection. It is a vulnerable, quiet trust in that other person’s love for us. It is a listening for a different kind of language, the quiet speech of simple, unadorned presence. The simple goodness of being with someone without any need to justify the worthwhileness of that presence.  “I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content,” says the Psalmist. May we be content in the affection of quiet.    Rainfall, washing, whistling, eggs frying, reading out loud, stargazing, birdsong, quietness together… What else?  The post S5:E1 – Words the Make Quiet appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Digger's Tale by Rex Bradshaw | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E19-OTLS_Rex-Bradshaw.mp3 Rex Bradshaw lives with his wife and daughter in Mississippi, where he is a member of St. Stephen’s Anglican Church. He teaches economics and geography at Jackson Academy. He is at work on several literary projects and writes occasional essays on theology and education. Check out more of Rex’s writing online:  The Wound and The Blessing Reading Against Mammon: Ruskin’s “Sesame” Thomas Traherne and the “Infant-Ey” The Kenotic Image: St Sophrony and Austin Farrer on the Imagination   Meet Me at the Well by Matthew Clark Every thirst we’ve cursed is leading to a Spring our maps misplaced  Like every human ache awoken in our broken hearts is grace  Tracing through the places we have dug in desperate thirst To lead us to the Well who comes to meet us at our worst    CHORUS  Oh come, come and meet me at the Well   If you’ve tried your hand at love and failed Come, come and meet me at the Well  Come drink the Living Water and be healed, come be healed         In the face of Christ, there is a light revealing our disease  But the Lord of Peace has come to see the prisoners released  So pour upon this cracked earth Living Water, Lord and shape  From willing clay a Living Bride revived before your Face    BRIDGE The day I saw you seeing me  That was the first time I could see The truth that I was loved completely  I feel a new song coming on I feel my lost heart coming home Oh let the whole world come and drink  And sing the song of the redeemed    CHORUS  Oh come, come and meet me at the Well   If you’ve tried your hand at love and failed Come, come and meet me at the Well  Come drink the Living Water and be healed, come be healed         Come behold, come Beloved, come be held, come be whole, come be healed ©2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E19 – Only the Lover Sings: Rex Bradshaw, “The Digger’s Tale” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

All you have to do is die: the power of abiding in death by Junius Johnson | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E18-OTLS_Junius-Johnson.mp3 Junius Johnson is an independent scholar, musician, and writer with expertise in historical and systematic theology. He writes articles both scholarly and popular, considering theological aspects of beauty, imagination, and culture, and their implications for the Christian life. He holds a PhD in Philosophical Theology from Yale University and is the author of four books, including The Father of Lights: A Theology of Beauty (Baker Academic, 2020). An engaging speaker and teacher, he is a member of The Cultivating Project and offers online courses in theology, literature, and Latin through Junius Johnson Academics (academics.juniusjohnson.com). <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_52 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/JuniusJohnsonAcademics' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_53 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/junius_johnson/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_54 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://linktr.ee/JuniusJohnsonAcademics' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_55 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-youtube'><a href='https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC62-lNiM6X_q8Zc-0qsiAsg' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Youtube' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_56 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-twitter'><a href='https://twitter.com/DrJuniusJohnson' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on X' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Only the Lover Sings by Matthew Clark Buried in a drawer, like a pinewood box  There’s a ring that used to shine like a promise But it doesn’t anymore  &nbsp; Or at the coffee place, I found a little note  It said, “another lonely day” like a message  From a stranded castaway &nbsp; Pre-CHORUS  It can happen like that to any one of us  Life just ain’t what you thought it was  &nbsp; CHORUS  But that won’t stop him, that won’t stop him from making new life,  from making new life  &nbsp; I hear the whispers now, all with a tongue so sharp  They can fill you full of holes if you let them  Leave you paralyzed with doubt   There’s so many ways, that we can go so wrong  Every one of us is broken and bleeding   Too ashamed to show our face  &nbsp; Pre-CHORUS  CHORUS  &nbsp; BRIDGE  Jesus you are here, you’re right here  In the middle of death.  But that never stopped you,  never stopped you before. ©2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E18 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Junius Johnson, &#8220;All you have to do is die: The power of abiding in death&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Sound of Eucatastrophe by Amy Baik Lee | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E17-OTLS_Amy-Lee.mp3 Amy Baik Lee writes from a desk looking out on a cottage garden, usually surrounded by children’s drawings, teacups, and stacks of patient books. She is a writer and managing editor for Cultivating magazine, a contributing writer for The Rabbit Room, and co-director of the Anselm Arts Guild. Much of Amy’s writing stems from wonder at the redemptive love of Christ and the piercing, reorienting grace of His joy. Ever seeking to “press on to [her] true country and to help others to do the same” (C. S. Lewis), she posts essays and stories about living Homeward at amybaiklee.com. She lives in Colorado with her husband and two daughters. <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_57 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/AmyBaikLee' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_58 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/amybaiklee/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_59 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://www.amybaiklee.com/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow I See a Light by Matthew Clark  &nbsp; I see a light, I see a light  Like a spear thrust through gloom  I hear a voice I hear a voice  Like a song in the middle of the field of war  &nbsp; I see a table, I see a table Set for the hungry in their time of need  I feel a touch a gentle touch  Brush like a breeze in the desert heat  &nbsp; CHORUS With all my strength I turned my face And found you were facing me, facing me  You saw me naked there when my shame fell round my feet, fell round my feet  &nbsp; I hear a song, I hear a song  Kindled in my stricken heart  I learned a dance, I learned a dance  And a music I’d not known to look for  &nbsp; I nearly gave up, I nearly gave up  So great the flood of evil that arose  But then the tide turned and I heard laughter  The Only Unconfused One comes to judge  ©2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E17 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Amy Baik Lee, &#8220;The Sound of Eucatastrophe&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Learning to Walk Again by Adam R. Nettesheim | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E16-OTLS_Adam-Nettesheim.mp3 Adam R. Nettesheim wanders through the arts as a vagabond. Though he “still hasn’t found what he’s looking for,” his travels have shown him that God has been weaving the golden thread of his story through our stories since the beginning, and he’s not done yet. He writes for The Cultivating Project. Adam and his wife Sarah have three children and live in Northern Colorado.  <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_60 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/a.nettesheim' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_61 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/vagabondofthearts/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_62 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='http://adamrnettesheim.com/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Return of the Prodigal Son  I am aching brother aching for someplace to lay my head  I am searching darling searching for a bit of daily bread  Well, I thought I heard you speaking, thought I felt you drawing near  Like the touch of some old memory that I wait for year to year  &nbsp; CHORUS  Oh, this is the return of the prodigal son  &nbsp; Oh and still I keep that picture somewhere in the back of my mind  With your hands upon my shoulders, where you held me in a holy light  Someone said we live our lives on the brink of a great beginning I’m still praying for that miracle &#8211; some glimpse of a happy ending  &nbsp; BRIDGE A fool can hope, someone could be   Fool enough to show him mercy To love this dead man back to life   ©2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E16 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Adam Nettesheim, &#8220;Learning to Walk Again&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Excavation by Jessie Todd | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E15-OTLS_Jessie-Todd.mp3 Jessie Todd lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and works as a labor and delivery nurse by night and an amateur essayist by day. She has an English degree from Grove City College, and worked as a middle school English teacher at Evangelical Christian Academy in Madrid, Spain for several years before getting her nursing degree. She authors a newsletter called The Melancholy Monthly, and you can find those newsletters and her other work at themelancholymonthly.wordpress.com. (Coming Soon) She enjoys spending her free time walking and running through the Cuyahoga National Park, cooking any and all things autumnal, and caring for her many house plants. <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_63 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/melancholymonthly' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_64 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/carrotsandtea/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Only the Lover Sings by Matthew Clark You’ve never met a liar You’ve only met the lie that they put forth There ain’t no soul more lonely Until you tell the truth you can’t be touched And I wanna be touched, I wanna be touched CHORUS Only the lover sings Only the one who dares to look you full-on in the face Finds out the shocking good news I learned a terrible habit I speed away when the red light says to stay And when the green light’s flashing I go to sleep to keep the light at bay But I wanna wake up CHORUS BRIDGE What will you find if you look into those eyes? It’s hard to believe but maybe you’re in for a surprise I feel a new song coming Swinging like a blade that cuts through fear I don’t owe jack to confusion Now love has come and made himself so clear And I wanna trust I wanna be touched I wanna wake up I wanna trust ©2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E15 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Jessie Todd, &#8220;Excavation&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Way Home by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E14-OTLS_Matthew-Clark.mp3 The Heart of Our God Matthew Clark Now I know that it’s hard to talk about   I know guilt and shame and sin  And punishment and wrath are awkward at best  And at worst unmentionable things  &nbsp; But we can’t just pretend like we all are ok  Like what’s under the rug doesn’t haunt us  Out of sight never did take the cancer away  And we could use some good news if we’re honest &nbsp; Interlude  &nbsp; But it’s hard to look up at a man on a cross   Hard to feel the full weight of our glory  If it means that the good thing we each might have been  Went this wrong and now this is our story  &nbsp; That however far from his beauty we fell That man hanging there is the hard truth  Of what God had to do to remove the disease Of rebellion that killed all his family  &nbsp; BRIDGE Cause I swear you weren’t born with these chains on your arms  You were made to dance free as a song  It was not God’s intent that your life would be spent    Slowly dying alone with no hope you could find your way home  &nbsp; Now, whatever you’ve heard about love up till now  And whatever they say about God   Well, I don’t think you’ll find a more beautiful thing  Than a friend who would lay down his life    And I promise it’s worth it to stare down the worst  To face up to a Face crucified   If it means we can find an old highway has cleared  That leads home to the heart of our God  ©Matthew Clark 2022 , Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP) &nbsp; The post S4:E14 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Matthew Clark, &#8220;The Way Home&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Embracing a New Name: St. Photini by Heidi White | Only the Lover Sings https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E13-OTLS_Heidi-White.mp3 Heidi White, M. A., is a teacher, editor, podcaster, and author. She teaches Humanities at St. Hild School in Colorado Springs. She is the Managing Editor of FORMA Journal and a contributing author, blogger, and speaker at the CiRCE Institute. She is contributing author to 30 Poems to Memorize (Before It&#8217;s Too Late), published by the CiRCE Institute. She is a weekly contributor on fiction, poetry, and Shakespeare on the Close Reads Podcast Network. She serves on the Board of Directors of The Anselm Society as well as sitting on the Academic Advisory Board for the Classical Learning Test. She writes fiction, poetry, and essays, and she speaks about literature, education, and the Christian imagination. She lives in Black Forest, Colorado with her husband and children.  <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_65 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-youtube'><a href='https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWI8EuwCV-g' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Youtube' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_66 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/heidiwhitereads/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_67 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://www.circeinstitute.org/speaker-consultant/heidi-white' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Trying to get my heart back by Matthew Clark I went down into the cedar brake  Down to where the earthquake  Shook up all the old ways  I used to use to navigate   &nbsp; I went looking for a sign of life   Somewhere past the edge of night  Digging through the trash cans  Trying to find a long lost friend  &nbsp; CHORUS Trying to get my heart back Cause you can’t give away Something you do not have  Trying to get my heart back  &nbsp; Now I woke up to the silver moon  Thin enough to squeeze through  Sneak in past the black dogs  Climb into my bedroom  &nbsp; Write upon the dark walls   Something like a love song It is beating on my windows   So I’m thinking I should hold on  ©Matthew Clark 2022, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP) The post S4:E13 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Heidi White, &#8220;Embracing a New Name: St. Photini&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

In the Darkness of Noontide by Adam Whipple | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E12-OTLS_Adam-Whipple.mp3 Adam Whipple is a songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, composer, poet, and author releasing records and writings into the world from his home in East Tennessee. The founding editor of the arts journal Foundling House(2015-2021), his work has also appeared in The Rabbit Room, Curator Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, and the hometown Knoxville lit mag The Pigeon Parade Quarterly. He has one patient wife, four bright children, five clueless chickens, and a tendency to wax eloquent about compost.  Visit Adam at www.adamwhipple.com &nbsp; <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_68 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/adamwhipplemusic' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_69 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-twitter'><a href='https://twitter.com/adamwhipple' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on X' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_70 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://www.adamwhipple.com/home' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow When desire itself is soured wine  You will drown in your own wishing well  Cause when love is god your bleary eyes  Will be the wandering stars you’ll travel by  &nbsp; And I was sure that love was leading me  And that God himself had paved the way  But above all else the human heart is deceitful  &nbsp; CHORUS  When I got to the end of the heart that all my loves had emptied  I lost everything, everything, but you  &nbsp; I tore a page out of the holy book  And I tailored words to suit my ears  But I’d spun those clothes like spider webs  Till I was cold and caught in my own fears  &nbsp; Cause that sugar coat can’t cover grief  I learned light does not need dark to see.  Oh my bones were sown in Eden’s soil, don’t it make you tired?   &nbsp; CHORUS  BRIDGE  Past the gates of hell where I made my bed  I woke up from my dreams to face the truth  That the truth has a Face &nbsp; CHORUS  When I got to the end of the heart that all my loves had emptied  I lost everything, everything, but You  ©Matthew Clark 2022, Path in the Pines Music, ASCAP The post S4:E12 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Adam Whipple, &#8220;In the Darkness of Noontide&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

&quot;Below the Tideline&quot; by Théa Rosenburg | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/OTW_S4-E11-OTLS_Thea-Rosenburg.mp3 Théa Rosenburg has worked as a dental assistant, an indie musician, a peddler of handknit gifts, an art teacher, an informal librarian, and an editor. She is a regular contributor to Story Warren; her work has also appeared on The Rabbit Room, Risen Motherhood, Deeply Rooted, and in Wildflowers Magazine. Théa lives with her husband and four daughters in the Pacific Northwest where, when the wind blows from the right direction, she can smell the ocean from her front yard. She reviews children’s books for her blog, littlebookbigstory.com <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_71 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-pinterest'><a href='https://www.pinterest.com/trosenburg/_saved/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Pinterest' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_72 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/thearosenburg/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_73 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='http://littlebookbigstory.com/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Find out more about the Book &amp; Album &#8220;Only the Lover Sings&#8221; on the following podcasts&#8230; The Well By Matthew Clark Jesus, tired as he was, went and sat by Jacob’s well  There was no else around, until a woman came from town  She wound her way to him, With an empty water jar  She was worn and withered thin, With only thirst to fill her heart  &nbsp; And Jesus asked her for a drink; now, she was used to forward men  So she smiled and played the game, Cause isn’t every man the same?  When he tried to catch her eye, she would not cast a glance  Into the mirror of those depths, Where the Living Waters danced  &nbsp; Interlude  &nbsp; Then he touched a nerve so deep, he said the worst thing he could say  When he laid her sin out plain, In the open light of day  But he would not give up yet, Till she could hear him say her name  But she pivoted so quick, just trying to outrun all her shame &nbsp; With a wave she flung off hope, She dismissed it like a joke  Said, “It’ll all work out someday, if Messiah ever shows”  But as she took her jar to go, She turned just quick enough to see  A word well up in Jesus’ face, Enough to rinse a harlot clean  &nbsp; BRIDGE And I, I want to see it  I want to look him in the eye, I want to look him in the eye  I, I want to see it See what made that woman sing, see what made that woman sing  &nbsp; Because she dropped her old clay jar, and ran to tell the rest  Of the man who lifted every burden, Weighing on her chest,  And she sang out clear and clean, Like a virgin for her groom, “Let the whole world come and drink  From the Well who makes what’s sad untrue”      © 2022 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music ASCAP The post S4:E11 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Théa Rosenburg, &#8220;Below the Tideline&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Eggardon Hill by Lanier Ivester | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/OTW_S4-E10-OTLS_Lanier-Ivester.mp3 Lanier Ivester is a homemaker and writer in the beautiful state of Georgia, where she maintains a small farm with her husband, Philip, and an ever-expanding menagerie of cats, dogs, sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, and peacocks. She studied English Literature at the University of Oxford, and her special areas of interest include the intersection of Christianity and art, the sacramental nature of everyday life, and the truth-bearing witness of the imagination. For over a decade she has kept a web journal at lanierivester.com, and her work has also been featured on The Rabbit Room, Art House America, The Gospel Coalition, and The Cultivating Project, among others. She has lectured across the country on topics ranging from the meaning of home to the integration of faith and reason, and in both her writing and her speaking she seeks to honor the holy longings of a homesick world. <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_74 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/lanierivester/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_75 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-youtube'><a href='https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjgcHtm4NoI' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Youtube' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_76 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://lanierivester.com/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow Every Beauty  Think of the world the Lord has made As if it were a lover’s bouquet  Held out just to make the heart of God Plain in every beauty that you see  Every star in the sky  Every kind look in someone’s eyes  He is calling out to you Through the good things he’s speaking through  &nbsp; Maybe a there’s a story that you’ve heard  That opened up an aching in your heart   Where something like a light behind a door  Has made it through the cracks to where you are  There’s a lump in your throat  And the tears come to your surprise Like there’s someplace that you belong  With someone who loved you all along  &nbsp; BRIDGE  Every heart born on earth, Is so thirsty to be loved But every heart gets so beat up, Till it’s lost out in the hurt  And the heartbeat of our song, As we try to get it back  Is same tune that the Lord, Is singing back to us  &nbsp; Now, there is a highway through this world  That opens like an aisle for a bride  And you can hear the song the groom has made  Threading through the patchwork of our days  There’s table like a ring  And a King down upon one knee  Hear the blood and body speak:  Make the whole world our wedding feast © Matthew Clark 2022  &nbsp; The post S4:E10 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Lanier Ivester, &#8220;Eggardon Hill&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

A Stranger on the Road by Andrew Roycroft | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/OTW_S4-E9-OTLS_Andrew-Roycroft.mp3 Andrew Roycroft is a pastor and a poet from Northern Ireland. He is married to Carolyn and the father of two wonderful daughters. Andrew’s big interests lie in theology and literature, and their capacity to point us towards God, his gospel, and his glory. Andrew serves as pastor of Portadown Baptist Church in County Armagh, and as a visiting lecturer in Biblical Theology and Apologetics at the Irish Baptist College. He also is privileged to provide regular contributions to The Rabbit Room website. His poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals, and has been featured in community arts projects in Northern Ireland, in collaborative work with ministries New Irish Arts, and in radio broadcasts with the BBC.  <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_77 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/andrew.roycroft.52' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_78 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/andrew_roycroft/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_79 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-rss'><a href='https://thinkingpastorally.com/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on RSS' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_80 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-twitter'><a href='https://twitter.com/AndrewTRoycroft' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on X' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow The post S4:E9 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Andrew Roycroft, &#8220;A Stranger on the Road&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

I want to see what she saw by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/OTW_S4-E8-OTLS_Matthew-Intro.mp3 "Only the Lover Sings" book & album are available now! Click Here to buy the book on Amazon! What exactly did she see that day on the face of our tired, thirsty Lord? Because, God knows, all of us long all our lives to see it ourselves, searching for it in every face we meet. Notably, we’re not given a description of what the woman at the well sees. We’re only allowed to see what happens as a result of what she saw. So, what is the result of coming face to face with Jesus? She blooms like a virgin bud facing a gladdening light—a burgeoning flower lifting its face toward the summons of gentle dawn. She sees Jesus seeing her, and in his face, she sees herself truly as God’s bride, radiant. Once she has seen him seeing her, she will only ever see herself as situated beneath the banner of the Lord’s loving gaze. And this is too good not to mention: My friend Esther pointed out that in the Bible, typically, when you see a man and woman meet at a well, guess what happens next? Somebody’s getting married. It’s a pattern in Scripture. As this bizarre meeting of Jesus and the Samaritan woman was retold, every Jewish reader would’ve picked up on the familiar plotline. So think about it. This woman has been through five husbands, is working on number six, and then she runs into a man at a well. And he’s number . . . what? Seven. Jesus is himself the Sabbath, he’s her seventh and final Sabbath husband. This poor, worn-out woman can finally rest.  But this story is about so much more than just one woman’s healing encounter. The One through whom Creation was brought into being is putting the whole disordered cosmos back in order by replacing its discarded Sabbath Capstone. Buechner beautifully said that “the story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all,” and this story is like that. As much as it is about this one particular woman, it is about all of us, who are so worn out trying to live without our Sabbath Lord. As St. Augustine said, “Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee.” For a man with Augustine’s past, I doubt those were just pretty words. So, if the Sabbath Himself has come to spread his banner of love over humanity, his Bride, then you and I are being asked, in the midst of our most dried out, exhausted places, to look up and be surprised to find, not one more frowning mirror, but a face (oddly enough) delighting in us.  Which leads me to this:  I want to see what she saw.    Beholding Jesus: A New Song I’d like to tell you about a turning point toward the end of the first two years after my divorce. Those years were very dark, and nearly all my time was spent in constant anxiety, turmoil, and depression. One day, having worn myself out by spinning my wheels in the muddy rut of my fears and hopelessness, I looked up and across the room. In my mind’s eye, I saw Jesus sitting on the gray bricks of the hearth like the rim of a well, calmly saying, “I’m still here, and when you’re finished, I’ll still be here.”   My worst sins and rantings couldn’t shake him. Jesus is so quietly constant in his love, and you can’t intimidate him with your failure. I thought maybe he&#8217;d have changed his mind after all this mess, but his steady lovingkindness gave me the courage to keep going. Could there be new chapters in my book?  The post S4:E8 &#8211; Only the Lover Sings: Matthew Clark &#8211; I want to see what she saw appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Fragrance of the Blessed Realm by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/OTW_S4-E7-The-Fragrance-of-the-Blessed-Realm.mp3 WILD THINGS AND CASTLES IN THE SKY: A GUIDE TO CHOOSING THE BEST BOOKS FOR CHILDREN Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children gives the reader over 40 essays that examine specific types of children’s books and offer suggestions in each category. Among the topics covered are: imagination, faith, classic literature, middle school books, race, fantasy, contemporary children’s books, Shakespeare, art history, Newberry books, young adult novels, poetry, and more. Curated and edited by Leslie and Carey Bustard with Théa Rosenburg (a mother-daughter team and a children’s books blogger), Wild Things and Castles in the Sky will encourage and envision parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends—to know the power of a good story and to share it with a child they love. In Philippians 4, the Apostle Paul calls us to think on things that are &#8220;commendable&#8221; or &#8220;of good report.&#8221; Wild Things and Castles in the Sky is just such a book. Filled with essays to help you find other commendable books, it also manages to be commendable in itself, replete with wonder, beauty, and inspiration. But I suppose the greatest commendation I can offer is to simply tell you that my book budget grew ten fold with the reading of it. —Hannah Anderson, author of All That&#8217;s Good: Recovering the Lost Art of Discernment The Fragrance of the Blessed Realm (first published by Square Halo Books in Wild Things and Castles in the Sky  From where I sit writing to you now, I can hear (but cannot see) two, possibly three, windchimes perfuming the air with their music. The wind is filtering through the thick, pale green leaves of an old maple that hunches over my shoul- der as I lean back in a chair by the patio table of my friends the Moons. It’s easy to imagine how Isaiah could say the trees “clap their hands” (Isa. 55:12); the trees make myriad applause above me as they are blessed by the breeze’s breathing. The wind and the leaves are filled like a glass with warm autumn sunlight, and the wavering, water-like overtones of the chimes seem to wing their song through and above everything all at once, as if the beauty of some other world (or some unseen aspect of this one) presides over all of this, singing into it its life, like light beyond the spectrum of human sight making its Presence felt from someplace off-stage. The chimes I speak of are invisible to me. I hear them; I don’t know where they are. But have you ever broken the rind of a nutmeg seed on a grater and breathed in its fragrance? It’s like that. The fragrance that escapes out of that little spice-stone seems almost rather to have escaped into this world from another blessed realm. The simple action of rubbing the nutmeg wakes a kind of communication between a world that looks like a hard, dry seed and a world spilling over with the very fragrance of life and warmth. Can you think of times you have experienced the beautiful fragrance of the blessed realm “breaking into” this world? Is there a certain place here where the reality of God’s goodness becomes palpable, the Kingdom seems truly to be “at hand”? Is there a friend in whose presence you find your shoulders relaxing and your breath deepening, though you hadn’t known you were anxious before? Perhaps there is music that, to your surprise, puts a lump in your throat? Maybe a there’s a story that you’ve heard That opens up an aching in your heart Where something like a light behind a door Has made it through the cracks to where you are?  There’s a lump in your throat, And the tears come to your surprise;  Like there’s someplace that you belong  With someone who loved you all along. There are many ways to “break the rind of the nutmeg,” so to speak, and one of the most powerful for me has been story. As a child, J.R.R. Tolkien’s storytelling both took me into another world and brought me back to this one with renewed vision, capable of detecting “heaven in ordinary,” as the poet George Herbert puts it. As a late teen, my youth minister introduced me to G.K. Chesterton. I’ve read and reread his Orthodoxy over the years, particularly stopping to linger over the chapter “The Ethics of Elfland.” If ever there was a chapter to shake the dust from an unused imagination and re-enchant the heart! That same youth minister one day handed me his copy of George MacDonald’s strange little fiction book Lilith to read. I was transported. And bewildered. I really wasn’t at all sure what had taken place, in the book or in myself. But some great hand had indeed swept across the dust-crusted glass in the picture frame, and I began to see that new color, form, and images had lain underneath all the while. (Or, as a child of the 80s, I can’t help but think of the Goonies finding a fabled treasure map tucked beneath a painting in the attic.) So, I find myself on edge for those clues strewn about this world; where might I find a loose panel opening into a passageway, or feel fur coats in a wardrobe translating into fir trees in a wood? There is a liturgy that says, “All of us go down to the dust, but even at the grave we make our song.” That seems to me to get at the experience we search for—to enter like the child Lucy Pevensie into the wooden casket, to change our garment, and wake walking in another world—but in that case, a world where it is always Christmas. Occasionally, we get those intimations in this world. Christmas itself arrives through the cracks like “light behind a door,” doesn’t it? And one of the effects is that the “goodwill toward mankind” that the angels herald to the shepherds of Bethlehem really does seem to be coaxed to the surface of our own hearts. God has smiled upon us, come to visit as Emmanuel, and it is hard not to offer God’s own goodwill in return. Not the small cynical smirk of commercialism, but the great-hearted gladness of grace that marks that season in spite of its secularization. (And Christmas is certainly a time to grate a little nutmeg atop your eggnog.) Now, Christmas is a high point of the in-breaking of God’s presence, but if Tolkien, Chesterton, and MacDonald are correct, it’s not meant to be exceptional, but indicative. The realities indicated by the Scriptures fall like snowflakes, each unique, to dissolve into the material of this world and spring up in endless ways through poems, songs, stories, and so on, which draw us toward and into the beauty, goodness, and truth of the Life of the Trinity. Now, all of that is a big approach to a little book I’ve been rereading for the third or fourth time called Sir Gibbie, by George MacDonald. Since we are looking at books for children, it may help to know that there are a few different versions: the original, due to length and frequent passages written in dialect, isn’t the best place to start for a child. Rediscovering that original version as an adult after having grown up with an abridged version would be fun, I think. I’m recommending Michael Phillips’s version, Wee Sir Gibbie of the Highlands, which has been edited for young readers. Sir Gibbie is a realistic novel set in the Scottish Highlands, and it follows a mute little boy who, soon after being orphaned, witnesses a murder and runs away from the city. He winds up on the estate and farm of the local Laird (roughly the Scottish equivalent of an English Lord, or landowner). He’s run out of there and finds refuge with an older peasant couple, Robert and Janet Grant, in their cottage in the mountains. Without giving away the story, the Grants raise him in dignified poverty, introduce him to life in Jesus, and eventually learn more about his true identity. Just the action, mystery, and fun of the story would be enough to recommend it, I imagine but, in this story MacDonald has a way of “breaking the rind” of the nutmeg for us. To begin with, Gibbie’s character in this story is an experiment in purity and innocence. It’s almost as if MacDonald asked, “What if someone could retain the innocence of childlikeness as they grew? What would a story about someone pure look like?” Gibbie is often described in angelic and other- worldly terms with great affection. Put simply, he is good. One of the great effects this book has on me, personally, is that it makes me desire goodness in myself. It makes goodness immanently attractive, which is a difficult thing to do in storytelling. You may have noticed how easy it is to make bad- ness entertaining in our media? It’s easy to take the dried brown stone of nutmeg and throw it at someone, but MacDonald gently scratches its surface to release the delicious fragrance of goodness. We find in Gibbie that the human personality can do so much more than entertain through brashness: it can nourish and delight through goodness and gentleness. With Gibbie, MacDonald allows that warm fragrance of God’s goodwill toward mankind to break in on our imaginations—to populate it with new images of how we might live beautifully through goodness. And Gibbie is not the only character to inspire us in this way: Janet and Robert exhibit faithfulness to one another, joy and contentment in poverty, tenderness, and love toward their children and the orphan Gibbie, and the un- pretentious wisdom that comes from real and regular contact with a living Jesus. One of the interesting ways that MacDonald affects goodness through Gibbie is by making him mute. Late in the story, Gibbie learns to read, write, and sign, but the majority of the time the only language at his command is action. He offers the honest gift of his presence, marked most often by his ready, warm smile and free laughter. Besides that, he serves others. He is joyful and careful with everyone he comes into contact with. MacDonald gives us a character who is literally incapable of “lip-service” to the gospel; Gibbie’s faith skips happily over speech directly into loving deeds. Recently, my friends the Moons and I watched a movie about Fred Rogers of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Fred Rogers might be a modern-day Sir Gibbie in some ways. I was reminded of a quote from one of Rogers’s speeches, where he described a news story of a young boy who kidnapped another child. When the boy was asked why he did it, he said he saw it on television and thought it was something interesting to try. Rogers went on to say, Life isn’t cheap. It’s the greatest mystery of any millennium, and television needs to do all it can to broadcast that—to show and tell what the good in life is all about. But how do we make goodness attractive? By doing whatever we can to bring courage to those whose lives move near our own—by treating our neighbor at least as well as we treat ourselves and allowing that to inform everything we produce. We all have only one life to live on Earth. And through television, we have the choice of encouraging others to demean this life or to cherish it in creative, imaginative ways. The imagination is like a corkboard where we pin images we pick up along the way in life. And it’s where we go looking for pictures of how our own lives might possibly look. Those images that populate our imaginations have a lot to do with what we acquire a taste for as well, whether it’s goodness or badness. As Fred Rogers indicates, it is very important to collect good images to pin on our corkboard, because they form a taste for the things of God and they bring good choices within reach for us. In other words, if our imagination is atrophied or populated by devastating images, we might say, “I can’t imagine myself being loved or loving well.” On the other hand, the more good stories, characters, music, and beautiful experiences we internalize, the greater our resource for godly feeling and action becomes (Phil. 4:8). Reading Sir Gibbie helps populate my imagination with goodness. When I go to consult my imaginative corkboard for images of how I might feel and act, I find Gibbie warmly smiling, silently serving, eagerly attending his friend Donal’s poetry recitations, gladly freeing an enemy who did him great violence, and embracing the poor. Often in MacDonald’s storytelling, he shows the interpenetration of heaven and earth—how “Earth’s crammed with heaven,”3 as the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning says. In Sir Gibbie, the music of those invisible wind chimes seems always to be present, as is the fragrance of Christ humbly making its way through the world like a ragged, mute orphan boy who carries the goodwill of God in his smile. A Prayer for Little Readers (and Big Ones, too) Dear Lord, this world has a story, and you are its Storyteller. We, your children, are listening for your Word, learning your voice, and looking for your character everywhere. We look and listen through the beauty of the created world you have so astonishingly given. We sense the presence of the world’s Author when we pay close attention to what Jesus has done and revealed of God in the Scriptures. And we joyfully, eagerly search the pages of our favorite myths, tales, stories and poems for the lingering fragrance of the blessed realm, your Kingdom, Lord God, where you will settle us in your family forever. There, “at last [we will be] beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” And for that we praise you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. The post S4:E7 &#8211; The Fragrance of the Blessed Realm appeared first on Matthew Clark.

What is poetry for? by Amelia Friedline | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/OTW_S4-E6-Amelia-Friedline_what-is-poetry-for.mp3 Visit Amelia's website "Innocence Abroad" Go to InnocenceAbroad.com &nbsp; What is Poetry for?  By Amelia Freidline &nbsp; What is poetry for? I’ve been writing poems regularly for more than 15 years, but I still wrestle with this question. What is the purpose of poetry — why write it in the first place?  There are times when I deliberately sit down to write a poem — I have a yearly practice of writing pieces for each week of Advent, for example — but most of the time I find my work in the wild; a poem sneaks up on me in sunlight reflected on snowflakes, in delicate pink petals fallen on the cement of a sidewalk, in conversation with a stranger buying flowers, and demands to be written. Are quiet little thumbnail sketches of my particular corner of the universe worth anything when the world is rent by war, injustice, and all other kinds of evil?  According to my good friend G.K. Chesterton, the answer is yes. Chesterton, who died in 1936, was a prolific English journalist, philosopher, essayist, novelist and lay theologian, as well as a poet. His essay “The Poetic Quality in Liberalism,” published in 1905 in The Independent Review, starts out by imagining all the things a man would no longer be able to enjoy if he were suddenly turned into a mackerel fish. These might, Chesterton writes, be climbing the Alps, taking snuff, and visiting the library, but would certainly include the pleasures of swimming in the sea.  For the sea creature knows nothing of the sea,” he says, “just as the earth-creature knows nothing of the earth. This forgetfulness of what we have is the real Fall of Man and the Fall of All Things. The evil which infects the immense goodness of existence does not embody itself in the fact that men are weary of woes and oppressions. It embodies itself in the shameful fact that they are often weary of joys and weary of generosities. Poetry, the highest form of literature, has here its immortal function; it is engaged continually in a desperate and divine battle against things being taken for granted. A fierce sense of the value of things lies at the heart [of literature]. Chesterton goes on to explain, essentially, that we tend to lose sight of the wonders of the world we live in because they are too close for us to see them as they truly are. For example, our life circumstances can lead us to forget or fail to appreciate the excellencies of a cow, he says, perhaps because we are timid and afraid of cows, or are a poor farmer whose only thought is how much the cow is worth in cold hard cash. We therefore can’t appreciate her soulful eyes, or the richness of her cream, or the wonders of her system of multiple stomachs. In order that we can actually see her again, rather than merely look at her, we must set her in a poem. The more I thought about this, the more it reminded me of a work by Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite poets: Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind Poetry is a way of telling things “slant,” of exploring the mysteries and miracles of God and the world He has made without diminishing them or blinding us with the sheer unfiltered beauty of His truth. According to Leland Ryken, English professor emeritus at Wheaton College, at least a third of the Bible is written in poetry. Jesus Himself used poetic language many times to call attention to the beauty of the reality He was talking about: The kingdom of Heaven, He says in Matthew chapter 13, is like a fabulous treasure hidden in a field that prompts the finder to sell everything he has in order to buy the field and possess the treasure. It’s like a priceless pearl that a merchant will sell everything for — including all his other pearls — so he can buy that one.  Jesus’s parables in no way diminish the spectacular worth and glory of God’s kingdom; instead, He lets His followers have a taste of this glory without blowing their minds by showing its full strength. After all, when Peter caught a glimpse of Jesus’s glory during the transfiguration, it caused him to babble like a fool.  Similarly, the Apostle John takes a more lyrical approach in his gospel account than the immediate, action-packed narrative of Mark or the painstakingly detailed story of Luke, referring to Jesus as “the Word” and as light: “In him was life, and the life was the light of men,” he says in John 1. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” And then, in the book of Revelation, John employs a series of comparisons to describe the risen and reigning Christ with startling, awesome effect: “The hairs of his head were white, like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and his voice was like the roar of many waters.” The language of poetry gives expression to things for which ordinary language is insufficient — fear, joy, wonder, the glorious heartache brought on by a brilliant blue summer sky — while also resurrecting the mystery of the everyday things we tend to take for granted. It doesn’t make ordinary things seem more wonderful than they are by turning them into abstractions; instead, it re-grounds us in reality by shaking us out of the ruts of disenchantment our thinking has fallen into.  Gerard Manley Hopkins is a genius at this kind of shaking and re-grounding, often pairing close observation of the natural world with profound theological truth in a way that startles, and then makes the heart sing. Take his poem “Pied Beauty,” for example: Glory be to God for dappled things –    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;       For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;    Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;       And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. &nbsp; All things counter, original, spare, strange;    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)       With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:                                 Praise him. Sunsets are something we commonly exclaim in awe over, but when was the last time the sight of a spotted or brindled cow caused you to erupt in praise? And yet, with his list of “dappled things,” Hopkins calls us to pay attention to their unique beauties — and, more importantly, what they say about their Creator, who is Himself the “Beauty of all things beautiful,” as St. Augustine says.  So, what is poetry for? To remind us of the value in every good thing we see, to reawaken us to the sacred wonders that crowd this world we live in — and to redirect us to God Himself, the source of every wonder there ever was. <li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_81 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-facebook'><a href='https://www.facebook.com/innocenceabroad' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Facebook' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow<li class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_82 et_pb_social_icon et_pb_social_network_link et-social-instagram'><a href='https://www.instagram.com/innocentabroad/' class='icon et_pb_with_border' title='Follow on Instagram' target="_blank"><span class='et_pb_social_media_follow_network_name' aria-hidden='true' >Follow march third by Amelia Freidline &nbsp; this could be the last spring, he said with a wary look in the over-keen eyes that peered out from beneath his ball cap brim as he told me a tale of horrors in motion that i knew had not, yet, come to fruition let’s hope things will get better, i said though his muttered departure declared they wouldn’t later i wondered what it must be like to live without hope in constant terror of the earth giving way the mountains crumbling into the heart of the sea what is it like to live as if Beauty is only transient and not transcendent? then i remembered how his alyssum rained its delicate purple petals on my steel countertop and how, after he had gone, its fragrance lingered The post S4:E6 &#8211; Amelia Freidline, What is Poetry for? appeared first on Matthew Clark.

What superabundance affords us by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/OTW_S4-E5-What-Superabundance-Affords-Us.mp3 I heard a story about some college roommates that imposed a small fine every time one of them said the word “mine”. “Hey, give me that, it’s mine!” would get a few bucks extracted from your wallet. Or I think of the seagulls in the movie Finding Nemo, who only know one word and they repeat it endlessly: Mine, mine, mine. Then, of course, there’s old Gollum and his precious. “It is mine, it came to me, my own, my precioussss.”  &nbsp; Paul leads up to the Christ Hymn in Phillippians by saying he’s not distracted by suffering. It’s not the important thing. The important thing is continuing to keep faith with Jesus, living his whole life as a response to the superabundance of love God has shown. Jesus has revealed to us the true nature of reality &#8211; that we are not living in a scarcity. We’re not even living in an abundance. We’re living in an unimaginably, eternal superabundance of love, safety, and welcome. Despite all appearances to the contrary, superabundance is what’s true about reality, because of who the God Jesus reveals to us really is.   &nbsp; Before Paul sings, he tells his friends not to get too hung up about suffering, since it’s no big shocker that a world that loves slinking around in shadows would be aggravated by the light. But that’s not even his point really, his point is that it doesn’t matter whether people are against us or not &#8211; who cares, we’ve already got all the love, safety and welcome we could ever want and need. We’re free from having to please, defend, or compete. We don’t have to hoard manna today, there’s plenty. That’s what sets up the Christ Hymn in Philippians 2 &#8211; since we have a superabundance of love, we can afford to live humbly and generously. Jesus could afford to die, because he had so much life in his account, even death couldn’t bankrupt him. And every tongue praises his name because, among many reasons, we are in awe of how free he is; how incredibly unhindered he is by any sense of scarcity or fear; how his humility and generosity demonstrate an openhandedness that to us feels terrifying.  &nbsp; We also praise him because he shows us a way of humble love that is so beautiful. There is nothing more beautiful than the way Jesus lives his life. His name is lifted above every name, because no one does things more beautifully, with more goodness or truthfulness.  &nbsp; In contrast, we cling, clutch, and cloy because we’re so afraid to lose. What if we don’t have enough? What if what’s mine gets taken from me? My reputation, my money, my achievements, etc. We are shot through with a thousand piercing threats, and we’re sure we’re bleeding out our most precious resources at every moment. We’ve got to plug those holes, stop the bleeding. So we become defensive, very easily offended, quick to anger, quick to blame, harsh, stingy, and anxious. Our culture and our world is full of this emptiness, full of the fear of not having what’s “mine, mine, mine”. If that goes on long enough, our eyes change; we can’t see our neighbor as an opportunity for love to well up; we can only see them as a threat, a potential thief, someone who’s come to take the safety, love, and welcome that we already have such precious little of.  &nbsp; In Deuteronomy, God tells Israel to cancel all debts and release anyone enslaved every seven years. Then, anticipating the likelihood of Israel exploiting the loopholes of this command, he goes on to tell them to be generous to those in need around them,   &nbsp; If a fellow Israelite from one of your villages in the land that the Lord your God is giving you should be poor, you must not harden your heart or be insensitive to his impoverished condition. Instead, you must be sure to open your hand to him and generously lend him whatever he needs. Be careful lest you entertain the wicked thought that the seventh year, the year of cancellation of debts, has almost arrived, and your attitude be wrong toward your impoverished fellow Israelite and you do not lend him anything; he will cry out to the Lord against you, and you will be regarded as having sinned. You must by all means lend to him and not be upset by doing it, for because of this the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in everything you attempt. There will never cease to be some poor people in the land; therefore, I am commanding you to make sure you open your hand to your fellow Israelites who are needy and poor in your land. &nbsp; These are folks who spent decades in the wilderness being supernaturally provided for by food from heaven, God’s manna. There ought to be no doubt in their minds that God will make sure there’s plenty to go around of whatever they need. These are people who have been miraculously rescued from enslavement and indebtedness, so that their life might be marked by a grateful return of the same generosity with which they have been treated. Even so, the fear of scarcity creeps in. The hoarding reflex is very deeply ingrained. God is working to create a context free from this fear that they won’t have enough; a context that releases them from any need to feel threatened or jealous when they see their neighbor doing well; a situation that opens to them the joy of living and loving from a place of generosity.  &nbsp; In episode 26 of this podcast, I wrote about Stanley Hauerwas’ book “The Character of Virtue: letters to a godson.” There was a very deliberate phrase that kept repeating through those pages as Hauerwas walked through virtues like joy, patience, kindness, faithfulness. He kept saying that we can “afford to be kind, because God has been so kind.” We can afford it. Being kind may be costly, but there’s no shortage of kindness in the cosmos, our account will never run out. We may feel like time is running out, but for the Christian, that’s simply not true; we can afford to spend the time it takes to listen to someone, to think wisely, or to feel deeply. Why? Because death is not the end of us, we’ve got endless time, since we live, move, and have our being in the Eternal Son. We can tell the truth, because it is endless and will outlast every lie. We can afford to forgive, because our own reservoir of grace, mercy, and freedom is inexhaustible. And on and on and on it goes with every good thing, for he has withheld from us no good thing. In fact, he didn’t even withhold his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, freely give us all things?  The post S4:E5 &#8211; What superabundance affords us appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Like a tree planted by the streams by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/OTW_S4-E4-Like-a-tree-planted-by-the-streams.mp3 Every morning at breakfast, I look out the kitchen window upon a most dismal sight: a desolate raised bed, overgrown with grass, sprouting nothing more than mountainous ant beds. Years ago, when I first moved back to Mississippi, I had big dreams of my own little thriving patch of earth. Big, red, ripe tomatoes would be overflowing. I could just see them! Things didn’t go quite like I’d imagined, and within a year or two, after being thoroughly thwarted by all manner of tomato devouring bugs, I gave up entirely.  Now, I know a few excellent gardeners &#8211; people whose whole hands are green, not just their thumbs. My friend Jimmy invited me to visit his garden in my early days as a newcomer to the church we attend. I could not have imagined what I was in for. Jimmy’s garden qualifies as a Faerie Realm. You can go for a 30 minute stroll there and see a new beauty at every corner.   If you were to choose who to ask for advice about planting this or that,  you would be a fool to ask me and not Jimmy. I’d be more than happy to assist you in the cultivation of unintended ant colonies, but if you want to grow a beautiful wonderland of flowers and trees, Jimmy is your man.  &nbsp; We’re always having to choose who to go to for wisdom. In a world so confused, it’s difficult, isn’t it? Jesus says  “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” It takes a sustained, deliberate effort to listen for the voice of our Good Shepherd. And we can’t do it alone. We need all the help we can get holding onto the truth about Jesus, and the truth that we belong to him as his beloved ones. There’s no shortage of thorny voices working to prick and scratch at our most vulnerable trust.  Who are the “master gardeners” we can turn to? Where do we see evidence of good fruit (not success or acclaim)? The Scriptures first, of course; we start with the history of God’s mighty acts in the world and the apostle’s teaching. And then, throughout history, we have the writings and testimonies of faithful fellow pilgrims that have stood the test of time. We meet together regularly to listen, sing, pray, and feast at the Lord’s Table. And, we go to the actual garden of Creation itself to encounter the innumerable declarations of God’s glory that persist at every moment. In short, “victory is won through many counselors.” If the path has been “marked out for us” as Hebrews 12:1 says, that means that the trail of faith-keeping has been blazed by a trailblazer who has gone before us, namely Jesus, but also these witnesses: these steady stars who shine out in the universe, marking out this path of ours that only faith has eyes to see, that ends in Joy. Ultimately, Jesus himself has promised that the Holy Spirit, The Lord the Giver of Life, is available to each of us both individually, and as we meet together. Who can untangle the confused mess we must endure in this world in order to keep faith in Jesus? Whose eyes are clear enough here where we see through a muddy mirror in the meantime? If only we had access to the clear and unconfused Mind of Christ. Well, actually, Paul says that we do:  For who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God… we have the mind of Christ.  Last night, two different experiences encouraged me. The first was a prayer meeting at our church. There are a few folks in our church family who are especially passionate about both praying for people behind the scenes and creating gatherings where folks can pray together. Last night about forty or fifty of us got together at the church, a woman improvised on a viola quietly in a corner of the room, and the rest of us spread out. Those who wanted to be prayed for wrote a prayer request on a card and set it beside them so anyone else who wanted to pray could walk around, read the request, and pray silently for a moment behind them. Addiction, broken families, divorce, fear, sorrows all showed up on those cards. Folks asking for quiet in their noisy minds, wisdom amidst confusion, assurance of belovedness, folks wanting to learn how to love alongside Jesus, or prayers for strength just to keep from giving up entirely.  It was good to pray together.  The other experience was at the weekly small group I’ve been attending for the last four or five years. We started reading Richard Foster’s “Celebration of Discipline.” It’s a book that sat patiently on my shelf for a very long time, and never got read. But last night, we read the introduction together and it felt like sitting with a master gardener. Some anthills got a little stirred up, some weeds got tugged at, but it felt good, you know?  Foster pointed out that, if we desire any real change in our lives we won’t be able to do it through willpower. We just can’t heal ourselves. You can’t fix a broken thing with that broken thing. If your brain or heart is sick, don’t expect to think or feel your way to wholeness. Only an Unconfused One can untangle confusion. Only a holy one can mend us. Foster goes on to say that the spiritual disciples like prayer, fasting, service, study and so forth are not in themselves magic procedures through which we can accomplish our own transformation. Instead, they are practices that cultivate proximity and receptivity. Proximity to the God who is unconfused and can touch our souls with healing, and receptivity to that graceful touch. They are practices that keep us close and open to the Heart who is the  true life of our hearts.  &nbsp; My master gardener friend Jimmy would probably say that he is not the one who made the flowers or who makes the flowers grow, but he has learned how to care for them, to keep his plot of ground in touch with the things that make growth possible. Jimmy is not water or sun, air or soil. No amount of willpower will make a flower grow, but care and loving discipline can give a dull corner of earth a chance to be transformed into something gloriously beautiful.  The prayer leaders at my little church would probably say that they don’t have any magic words to manage or manipulate reality. We gathered to pray, not to will some change into manifesting, as if a flower could strong-arm the sun into shining. No, we gathered to practice getting close to each other and to the God who is like water, sun, air, and soil to our souls. We pray to help each other stay close and open to the work that only God can do, and in his gracious love deeply desires to do.  There’s so much I’d like to change in this world, and so much I’d like to change in my own heart. I’ve tried working myself into a frenzy of unsustainable determination, only to wear out and find the real root issues untouched. How discouraging. But then I’m reminded by the master gardeners in my life that it’s the small, steady, unimpressive practices that keep me turning and opening my heart to Jesus that make healing possible.  It’s worth noting that, like everything God asks us to do, this is a life-giving pattern that applies just about anywhere. Research shows that there may be something to the old clichés that say “The family that prays together stays together” after all. Love is not automatic, nor does it respond well to willful demands. Any loving relationship, if it’s to develop and thrive, calls for the same practiced patterns that Foster outlines in “Celebration of Discipline” and that the church is built around. Eating together, praying together, singing, serving together, listening to one another, apologizing and forgiving, studying the truth together, practicing self-restraint, and so on. These things in themselves aren’t magic procedures, but practices whereby we keep our leaves open to sunlight, our roots near to water, like a tree planted by the streams. And as we do these things together, we’ll have help getting the bugs off our tomatoes, keeping the ant beds in check, and the thorny weeds from choking out the good things God dreams of for his children.  Who knows maybe a little more of the kingdom of God will spring up here on earth?  Day was opening in the sky, and they saw that the mountains were now much further off, receding eastward in a long curve that was lost in the distance. Before them, as they turned west, gentle slopes ran down into dim hazes far below. All about them were small woods of resinous trees, fir and cedar and cypress, and other kinds unknown in the Shire, with wide glades among them; and everywhere there was a wealth of sweet-smelling herbs and shrubs. The long journey from Rivendell had brought them far south of their own land, but not until now in this more sheltered region had the hobbits felt the change of clime. Here Spring was already busy about them: fronds pierced moss and mould, larches were green-fingered, small flowers were opening in the turf, birds were singing. Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness. South and west it looked towards the warm lower vales of Anduin, shielded from the east by the Ephel Dúath and yet not under the mountain-shadow, protected from the north by the Emyn Muil, open to the southern airs and the moist winds from the Sea far away. Many great trees grew there, planted long ago, falling into untended age amid a riot of careless descendants; and groves and thickets there were of tamarisk and pungent terebinth, of olive and of bay; and there were junipers and myrtles; and thymes that grew in bushes, or with their woody creeping stems mantled in deep tapestries the hidden stones; sages of many kinds putting forth blue flowers, or red, or pale green; and marjorams and new-sprouting parsleys, and many herbs of forms and scents beyond the garden-lore of Sam. The grots and rocky walls were already starred with saxifrages and stonecrops. Primeroles and anemones were awake in the filbert-brakes; and asphodel and many lily-flowers nodded their half-opened heads in the grass: deep green grass beside the pools, where falling streams halted in cool hollows on their journey down to Anduin. The travellers turned their backs on the road and went downhill. As they walked, brushing their way through bush and herb, sweet odours rose about them. Gollum coughed and retched; but the hobbits breathed deep, and suddenly Sam laughed, for heart’s ease not for jest. They followed a stream that went quickly down before them. Presently it brought them to a small clear lake in a shallow dell: it lay in the broken ruins of an ancient stone basin, the carven rim of which was almost wholly covered with mosses and rose-brambles; iris-swords stood in ranks about it, and water-lily leaves floated on its dark gently-rippling surface; but it was deep and fresh, and spilled ever softly out over a stony lip at the far end. The Return of the King, &#8220;Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit&#8221;  J.R.R. Tolkien  The post S4:E4 &#8211; Like a tree planted by the streams appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Why is it so hard to apologize? by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/OTW_S4-E3-Why-is-it-so-hard-to-apologize.mp3 One of my favorite things is to hang out with my friends who have families. Some of those friends have teenagers now that I remember as newborns just coming home from the hospital. Being a traveling musician allows me to make the rounds and stop in to catch up with folks I’ve come to love over the course of many different seasons of my life, and I’m thinking of how good it has been to see, in my friend’s homes, so many wonderful examples of what families can look like. I’ve seen and heard much of the pain and difficulty, and I’ve seen some very beautiful things.   One of the most startling and beautiful things I have seen over the years has been families that model humility and, more specifically, apologizing.   Apologizing is a funny thing, isn’t it? There is something about it that feels incredibly dangerous. Why is that? Why do we feel so much resistance to it? I know it doesn’t come naturally or comfortably for me. It’s really been the experience of seeing other people do it well that has made me want to learn to do it, too.  I remember one of the first times I saw an adult parent apologize to their child. It was a bit of a shock to me, honestly. Maybe it did happen in my family, but I have no memory of it ever happening. Admitting you were wrong and apologizing is not something I remember being modeled for me growing up. Not at school or at home. So you can imagine how startled I was to hear my friends admit a mistake, say they were sorry, and ask for forgiveness from their child. And then to see the child respond with grace; to see parent and child build trust, vulnerability, and peace together through humility. It was beautiful. But it also made me a little uncomfortable, and that made me curious as to why I felt those two apparently contradictory emotions. Why did apologizing feel dangerous and beautiful at the same time?  &nbsp; I’d like to start with the most basic human need, which is to be loved. Belovedness is what we were created for. To be wholly known, seen, welcomed, and delighted in by another (any other, but ultimately God) is fundamental to what it means to be alive. We die a little bit when some part of us remains unknown and unseen, quarantined from access to love. We die a little bit when someone rejects us and we feel unwelcome and unwanted in the world. We die a little bit when we experience ourselves as a disappointment and a cause of displeasure in someone else’s eyes.  We so deeply require the seeing, knowing, welcoming, delight of another soul. The threat of being unseen, unknown, unwelcome, and displeasing to others is genuinely terrifying. It’s terrifying because it gnaws at us in the very deepest places, right down at the roots of our being. A threat to that place is a threat to the legitimacy of our very existence. It can be hard to find a reason to live, if you feel fundamentally unloved or unloveable.  This might be where some of the sense of danger comes from as we approach apologizing. To apologize is to expose a deep place of vulnerability where we are admitting there’s something frighteningly reject-able about me. I’m giving someone else a kind of unguarded access to the root of my being, and that can go in two directions. One: they can say that my offense has, for them, absorbed their entire sense of who I am, and that they can’t see me without seeing the wrong. They can throw us out of their life, baby and bathwater. Or Two: they can say that they see a friend who has done something wrong and hurtful, but that they know you are so much more than the sum of your failures. They can hose down the baby in the yard, wrap it in a towel, and bring it inside the warm house.  If we’ve experienced that kind of forgiveness and welcome from a love that is not blind, then the core of our being is safe in the knowledge of our belovedness. We can be wrong, and it won’t kill us. We can apologize and know that the baby will never be thrown out, though it’s certain to need regular changing and washing. That frail, tender creature at our core will grow a little more secure as it grows up in a climate of love.  &nbsp; However, I’ll speak for myself, that I have a tendency to defend myself when first begin to hear the call to apologize. Rather than admitting I was wrong, surely the better thing to do would be to explain the situation so that you understand the (most) good intentions I had. You see, there were extenuating circumstances, I see there was a right thing to do, but you can understand why I couldn’t do it, and on and on. In short, I opt to protect myself from the possibility of rejection. If I can soften the offense, then I can lessen the vulnerability. Here’s the thing, if that becomes a habit, it creates all kinds of blindspots; and in the long run, a really pervasive practice of self-protection makes way for the justification of any number of despotic cruelties. It’s dictators who become paranoid that someone is out to get them, tyrants who silence anyone who might speak against them, abusers who prey on the vulnerabilities of others so that their own vulnerabilities are not exposed. Cain’s murder of his brother Abel was the wrong response to an invitation to admit he was wrong.  Similarly, Jesus’s blood is spilled by a race who have followed Cain’s habit of protecting ourselves against the vulnerability of admitting that we are wrong. Cain shows us that Murderous Pride and Debilitating Insecurity are are two sides of the same coin. We’re afraid Jesus will reject us if we apologize, so we reject him. But nothing could be further from the truth. Jesus’s every intention as he approaches us is to see, know, welcome, and delight in us, if we will see, know, welcome, and delight in him.  Ironically, though God has no sin to apologize for, he chooses the way of vulnerability. Jesus chooses the same kind of unguarded exposure to our potential disgust that feels so dangerous to us. We are allowed to throw him out with the bathwater. To spit on him, hate him, beat him, reject him. And yet there he is again and again bending down to wash our feet &#8211; an embrace that brings life and blessing at the very roots of our being where we most need to know that we are known, seen, welcomed, and delighted in. Because he knew he was loved by the Father, he didn’t have to defend himself. He could afford to wash the babies, wrap them in his towel, and bring them in to live in the house.  When I cease trying to protect myself from God, and allow him to touch those most tender places with his gentle and complete acceptance, I can forgive myself, and I can forgive others. When I am safe in Jesus’s vulnerability, I can afford to be vulnerable myself. There is another good conversation to be had about safe and unsafe people, but here I’m talking mainly about my own desire to get better at apologizing. Because growing in our ability to apologize is key to loosening the grip of fear on our hearts, allowing our thirsty roots to stay near the Living Water &#8211; like naked toes in Jesus’s washbasin, where God in vulnerability and humans in vulnerability meet in a place that feels so dangerous. But that is the place and those are the conditions where we discover we truly are known, seen, welcomed, and delighted in.  The post S4:E3 &#8211; Why is it so hard to apologize? appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Open System/Closed System: Welcoming New Hope by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/OTW_S4-E2-Open-SystemClosed-System-Welcoming-New-Hope.mp3 I don’t think I was tall enough to even reach the stovetop at the time, so I stood on a little stool. Ruby B. had taken down a small cast iron skillet, and was teaching me to cook eggs. Long before I was born Ruby B. had worked at my granddad’s cabinetry factory. Grandad died before I was on the scene and that business had been closed not long after he passed away. Everybody knew Ruby B., she was a town fixture. She even wrote a regular social column for the local newspaper where she reported on all the goings-on each week. She used to write me letters at summer camp, and sometimes our family would show up in her newspaper articles.  The day I’m remembering now, she had taken this little toe-headed boy as her apprentice in the kitchen. I was blessed to grow up around a lot of great cooks, my Mom and Grandmothers included, and Ruby B. was a great cook too. A great cook in the southern tradition where any real concern for health is right out the window. Bring on the bacon grease, bring on the butter. Don’t skimp, we’re going for flavor here.  My parents still have that little cast iron skillet that Ruby B. brought out that day. She put a generous portion of bacon grease in it (we always kept a little jar of bacon grease aside. You’ll find one in my kitchen right now, in fact). She showed me how to scramble and fry. How to add a little milk, salt and pepper. She taught me that eggs cook fast so you don’t want the heat to be too high. Cook them slow and easy and don’t let them dry out. And if you’re making a big breakfast with other components, the eggs should be the very last thing, because they cool as fast as they cook.  That was a threshold moment for me. Before it I didn’t know how to cook eggs, and after that day, I did. An experience was interjected into my life that changed what was possible for me. It changed me from a regular kid to an egg-cookin’ kid.  To this day, I love to cook. In fact, it’s one of life’s big joys for me. It may sound silly, but spending some time in the kitchen cooking a really good meal is often the cure for a really stressful day. That particular day in the kitchen with Ruby B. was one of the early experiences of my childhood that put that love for cooking in me. I’m so thankful.   &nbsp; Last night our small group met to finish the last in a series on Nehemiah by Dr. John Oswalt. Oswalt described the return of the Israelites from Exile to the ruined city of Jerusalem. The temple had been obliterated by the Babylonians and the wall around the city had been torn down. The Lord calls Nehemiah to organize a rebuilding campaign to restore the wall and its gates, and to reconstruct the temple. But what’s really going on, Oswalt points out, is that God is rebuilding a people whose identity has been demolished. How will God rebuild his people after exile? How will he reconstitute their sense of themselves as a people belonging to Yahweh? How will he restore and fortify their imaginations with hope and purpose, after they’ve been so deeply ruined by exile?  Oswalt’s answer was fascinating to me. God will give them a concrete, tangible task. He will rebuild the people, through the process of having them rebuild the city.   There’s a clue here to how people grow &#8211; how people are transformed. Abstract pronouncements don&#8217;t tend to transform us. We wish they would, because that would mean simply explaining the facts reasonably to our upset friend would flip a switch and solve everything. Similarly, sheer willpower doesn’t typically transform people. That’s likely very relatable here at the beginning of February, now that those new year’s resolutions have fallen by the wayside. Mere information and mere willpower don’t usually get us all that far. We need longer processes of creative and relational growth.  Israel’s understanding of themselves has been almost completely obliterated, yet here they are back in the old promised land. Look at it; it’s a dump. And God says, clean it up. The slow, concrete practice of putting the city back together is the exterior work through which God will work a corresponding inner healing. It is mysterious, but that’s one major way that people actually become different. What we labor at, what we practice, what we pay attention to, molds and shapes our souls. And we have to start doing this kind of thing long before we feel like doing it, and we have to do it with other people. One more thing, we need a leader from the outside (like Nehemiah) to break in and demonstrate the new possibility.  &nbsp; Some years ago, I had a great counselor who explained the idea of open vs closed systems, and it has stuck with me. (Much of Proverbs is about the wisdom of open-systems) She said that in a closed system, nothing new is allowed to enter, and so change is not possible for that person. The Closed System person seeks no advice, tries nothing new, listens to no one, deflects consequences, blames and takes no responsibility, and so on. They become like a stagnant pond that has no inlet and no outlet. Eventually, the closed system becomes so cut off that they become stuck in their own little world of muddy, stagnancy where nothing can live or grow. That’s hard-heartedness.  On the other hand, the Open System person seeks counsel, is willing to try something new, takes risks, takes responsibility, listens and learns from failure, and so on. They recognize that they need other people &#8211; that some resource from outside of themselves to break into the circle and bring new possibilities that they can’t simply generate on their own. This open system person has access to a flowing inlet of fresh water, and they have an outlet whereby they can let go of what needs to be let go of.    This is just what we see across Scripture as God repeatedly knocks on the door of the world and enters into the otherwise closed-system to introduce new possibilities. He steps into the most stagnant of situations and brings fresh water. He digs an outlet trench so that certain things can be washed out. In the Old Testament, God steps into a world stagnant with pagan cruelty, the anxiety of idolotry, the terror of human sacrifice (even child sacrifice), and begins to introduce a new way of life to Abraham, and later to rabble of rescued slaves who he transforms into a people. In the New Testament, the inflow of possibility exponentially increases with the arrival of Jesus who introduced unimaginable hope. It turns out, anything is possible with God, the closed-system is blown so wide-open that even death is flushed right through the outlet into the abyss. Then the Holy Spirit steps in at Pentecost and the system opens even wider &#8211; anyone from any nation has access to this newly introduced transformative hope of forgiveness and resurrection in Jesus.  And on it goes.   Like Ruby B. introduced the possibility of cooking to me when I was a kid, something new has entered the world for us, and we can practice it and find ourselves tasting new and wonderful things. Like Israel rebuilding Jerusalem, discovering that as they work, God is showing them what good things are possible in their own beat up hearts.  If this world had remained a closed-system nothing could change for us. But that is not the case. The system has been opened and the world’s creator has entered into it and offered himself as its healer. Any good thing is possible now. The only thing that remains is whether we will be open or closed? Whether we will remain stagnant or be refreshed? Shut our ears and eyes or open them to new songs and new visions of hope.   &nbsp; The Caged Skylark BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,     Man&#8217;s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells —     That bird beyond the remembering his free fells; This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life&#8217;s age. Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage     Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,     Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage. Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest — Why, hear him, hear him babble &amp; drop down to his nest,     But his own nest, wild nest, no prison. Man&#8217;s spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best, But uncumberèd: meadow-down is not distressed     For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bónes rísen. Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985) The post S4:E2 &#8211; Open System/Closed System: Welcoming New Hope appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Furious Love Song of a Dying Man by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/OTW_S4-E1-The-furious-love-song-of-a-dying-man.mp3 Can you guess what one of the very last things is that Moses does before he dies? Here’s the setting: Forty years ago, the Israelites had been brought to the very brink of the Promised Land, but they got cold feet and refused to trust God and go in. They’re sent to wander in the wilderness for forty years, and the next generation is finally brought back to the same spot where their parents stood back then to give this another shot.  Moses walks them through the covenant agreement that God had made with their parent’s generation (that’s Deuteronomy). His point is to make sure they understand that this covenant wasn’t just for their parents, it is also for them. Even though they weren’t there or were too young to remember what happened at Mount Sinai, they are bound to this agreement as well. Now, here they are, they’ve taken up the covenant, and it’s time to cross over into the Promised Land and claim it.  But Moses won’t be going with them. Joshua has been appointed to make the transition into this new life. Moses has a few last things to wrap up before he climbs a mountain and dies. He does two things before dying, and I was surprised to see what they are. Can you guess?  The very last thing he does is pronounce blessings over the people tribe by tribe. But the second to last thing he does really surprises me: He teaches the people a song. Imagine if you were about to die, and you’d gathered all your family around you. Then you say, “Ok, somebody get out a notepad and write down these lyrics. It’s critical that you memorize this song I just wrote for you.”  Isn’t that interesting? As a songwriter myself, I perked up when I read that this is basically what Moses does. What’s this about?   &nbsp; First of all, songs and stories have long been among the ways that cultures preserve a sort of social imaginal fabric. Songs, liturgies, festivals, traditions &#8211; these are things that humans from time immemorial have made as containers to hold their social self-understanding. When we forget who we are or what we’re about, we revisit the songs and stories of our people. Think of the book of Psalms, and the Bible, in general. It is a richly crafted record that preserves for us the truth about us, according to God, and in large part it is in poetry, lyric, and story form.   So Moses is writing a song for this people to help them preserve an understanding of themselves. And it may be that this song will unfold its meaning more and more as the generations unfold. Songs often do that, because the best art always means more than the artist him or herself could possibly have consciously meant for it to mean. The truer the artwork, the more naturally and deeply prophetic it will tend to be, whether the artist knows it or not. Very occasionally, I’ve experienced myself that a song I wrote will confront me with meanings I had not intended or foreseen.  That the one of the very last things a major shepherd of God’s people like Moses would do before he dies is write a song, is wonderful to me. However, the song itself is no pep-rally cheer. It’s actually quite sobering. It’s more of a warning song, really. There’s quite a lot in it about punishment of those who reject God, even when it’s his own people. On the other hand, by the end of the song, God is fighting on behalf of those who have sought his face, he’s redeeming, and atoning the land and his people. He even calls for the nations (those who are not his people) to rejoice with his people.  As a side note: Paul quotes this last song of Moses several times in the last part of his book to the Romans, as he is talking about salvation being offered to the whole world and not just the Jews.   &nbsp; What struck me this morning as I was reading the song itself, is something that is very hard to talk about. This is a song to help this people understand themselves as God’s people, and it’s also a song of warning to those among them who don’t take that call seriously. I’m not going to lie, this is one of those places folks might point to and say, “See, the God of the Old Testament is so mean. How can you possibly reconcile that with the loving Jesus in the New Testament?”   What is going on here? Is there a problem? How can we better understand the position God is in as he works to save the world from the onslaught of death? Because those are the stakes, and the stakes are high beyond our ability to imagine. That may be part of why God’s sternness feels a little over the top &#8211; because we’re like a kid stooping to pick up a penny on the asphalt and we don’t see the speeding bus heading our way. Meanwhile, our feelings are hurt by the red-faced guy on the corner screaming at us. Why’s he yelling at us? It’s just a penny. What’s the big deal?  There’s a certain hilarious meme with pictures of screaming toddlers with text describing the things about which they are throwing a fit. In every one of the photos, the parent has prevented them from either doing something impossible like holding the moon, or something dangerous like playing with the kitchen knife. It’s funny because we can relate, and it’s relatable because it’s true. We still find ourselves surprised to be hurt by something we thought we wanted so badly. I hope I’m not the only one who experiences that almost daily.  Something is going on in this world that is so incredibly important to our well-being that it’s worth God getting really mad about. Because, as Henry Cloud and modern psychology, in general have pointed out: if you want to know what really matters to someone, pay attention to what makes them angry. If they blow their top because you spilled mustard on their shirt, they may love their appearance more than they love you. If they’re ready to punch somebody because they insulted you, maybe they love you more than they love their own bodily comfort or safety. That leads us to follow the line through anger to suffering, then. If someone is willing to disregard their own safety and comfort for your benefit, righteous anger and willingness to suffer may be related, they may be on a continuum.   If that’s the case, then the God whose wrath flares up when his people shirk their responsibility as collaborators in the redemption of the world in the Old Testament, is the same God who completely disregards his own comfort and safety when it comes to the fulfillment of that same work of redemption in the New Testament.  In other words, anger over a threat against a loved one and an almost crazy willingness to suffer for a loved one, are two sides of the same coin. Our God loves us enough to get angry in our defense, and he loves us enough to face our enemies and lay down his life for us. And so, in the tradition of Moses, Rich Mullins can sing (without a hint of sarcasm) of the “reckless, raging fury that they call the love of God.”  The post S4:E1 &#8211; The Furious Love Song of a Dying Man appeared first on Matthew Clark.

The Light of a Face by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/OTW_S3-E30-The-Light-of-a-Face.mp3   ….Christ plays in ten thousand places,  Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his  To the Father through the features of men&#8217;s faces.    G.M. Hopkins, As Kingfishers Catch Fire   What is a face? When you think of a face, you may first think of a physical object, an arrangement of features. Its eyes are said to be windows through which we may glimpse the soul, something beyond the material world. From its mouth come words that can kill or give life, curse or bless; from its lips may emerge the mystery of song. The human face is an invention along with the human body and the rest of creation. But, what makes the face what it is is a reality beyond the physical that manifests through it. The face is a chink through which passes the sunlight of personhood from the vast outdoors of Reality into the garden toolshed of human experience. Gerard Manley Hopkins may have said all I’d like to say in his poem, As Kingfishers Catch Fire. He describes how each mortal thing “deals out that being indoors each one dwells &#8211; selves”, and he lands this whole idea on the last word of the poem: faces. The instant a kingfisher emerges from the water to catch the fire of the sunlight and flickers for one bright moment, we see a brief glimpse of a face from beyond nature crossing the threshold of creation.   A few nights ago, I sat by a campfire in Wisconsin as the Milky Way emerged above me through the dark pine crowns. A constant thrum of cricket and frog voices melded with the crackle of branches amidst the embers. The Mississippi River, early in its long journey down past my home state to the gulf, below conscious hearing, whispered in the night not far away.  I sang quietly before going to bed, “Praise Him, all creatures here below.”  If Hopkins is right, then everything God has made, by “acting in God’s eye what in God’s eye [it] is” manifests in this world something of God’s immaterial ‘face’.  And God has invented in the human face a wondrous resting place &#8211; a habitation &#8211; for his glory. In its features, Hopkins says, we see Christ at play to the Father’s glory and for his revealing. Ultimately, this truth is fully realized in Jesus, where we discover, “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.”  “Face”, then, is an uncreated relational reality from ‘before all worlds’; the incarnation of Jesus and its consummation in him is the deepest fulfillment of the human face. The members of the Trinity face one another: Jesus is the son because he faces the Father, and so on. To turn and face the God who is facing us in Jesus Christ is to be ratified; to see him seeing us is to learn to see ourselves truly, as well as to be given our true self in Him and in the shining light of his face.  And what is a shining face? It is a face that is bright with the gladness of a smile.  &nbsp; The Samaritan woman at the well experienced such a shock of discovery by the end of her conversation with Jesus in John chapter four. What did she see in his face? I wonder, because once she’d seen it, everything changed for her. Exploring that encounter at Jacob’s Well is the focus of the album I’m recording right now called “Only the lover sings”.  That title comes from St. Augustine, and the chorus of the title track says, Only the one who dares to look the Lord full-on in the face finds out the shocking good news. The Samaritan Woman, after finding God’s face turned in love toward her, drops her jar and runs off knocking on doors, singing, “the Messiah has come!” She is astonished to discover she is the Lord’s beloved. With all I’ve done and been through, how can it be? Isn’t it always a shock to turn toward God, bracing ourselves for the worst like the returning prodigal, only to find God’s face bright with joy at our approach?  The woman at the well is lit like a candle and she goes door to door singing, “the Lord has made the light of his face to shine upon us. Come and see!”  And her story is our story too. &nbsp; In his book “The Face of God”, Roger Scruton says the face is a threshold over which passes into the immanent material world the transcendent immaterial personal presence. You search a face to discover whether you’re looking at a thing or a person. Here, says Thomas Howard, “the distinction between spirit and matter disappears, as it does in the Sacraments. For here I experience the oddity that flesh is the mode under which I apprehend the truth of the thing. It is the epiphany of the thing… the human body is the epiphany of personhood.” When I look at a giraffe,  I can see traces of God’s personality; “Someone has been here,” I say to myself laughing, though the animal itself is not a person. But with a human, I say, “Someone has been here, and someone is, in fact, here!” The Creator God has left his coinage, and a new person stands before me.  We see that face across all that he has made and given, in all of creation and in the Church’s Sacraments. Even humanity’s experience of sex is a shadow analogy of the real appearance of Jesus to his Bride, by which the bride’s true personhood and humanity are ratified and realized. “When he appears we shall be like him” means that we will finally be really and truly human.  &nbsp; Recently, my friend Jessie, who walked the Camino in Spain, told me that her favorite Spanish word is mirada, which means “the look in one’s eyes.” Often a single word can germinate into a rich range of connotations. I wondered whether Jessie’s favorite word might branch out in some fruitful ways with regard to the idea of facing.  And lo and Behold (as we say in the South), it did!  It turns out that mirar sprouts out into: mirror, miracle, wonder, even to look and to contemplate, to regard, to smile or laugh. I got excited watching this one word harmonizing so many ideas across this essay. Now, hold mirar one hand, and open your palm to hold another word: gentleness.  Gentleness is a word that has to do with inheriting the likeness of those from whom you were generated: your parents. Gene&#8211; is the root of genesis, generate, generations, genteel, gentle. These are words about origins, birth and family patterns. Gentleness is handed down by birth and fostered by family. Maybe it’s a basket-word that cradles all kinds of good family fruit. We are made in God’s image; called his sons and daughters; gentleness means to bear the family likeness as we carry on the patterns of loving as we have been loved.  In one hand mirar; in the other, gentleness&#8230;  Mirar: When we turn to face Jesus, then we have beheld ‘the look in God’s eyes’ toward us. Seeing his face mirrors back to us the truth about who and what we really are. Something we thought was impossible suddenly becomes wondrously, miraculously possible: new birth from apparent barrenness into God’s Family.  Enter gentleness…  Gentleness: When we turn to face Jesus in faith, we are re-generated (born again) into a new family. The Word who became flesh and dwelt among us makes available for us a new generative reality. Each of us is faced with the miracle of a second genesis, where we are forgiven in the light of his face and called “very good” again. God offers this gladdening light to us, and like a candle lighting a candle, we offer it to each other and the world as we face others with the reality that God has made his face to shine upon us and that shining face is Jesus Christ himself. Closing Prayer Lord, “with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light”. But, though we are thirsty like the woman at the well, we are afraid to turn from darkness and face your shining face. Maybe because your light is a light that reveals even as it heals, and we are afraid to face ourselves and be seen by you. What if it’s a trap door and you don’t really love us? But, Lord, your face is bright with delight over every prodigal that turns toward the father’s house. Give us the courage to answer your proposal, to look you full-on in the face, where we will be astonished to discover that you are looking upon us with delight, claiming us as your Beloved. Oh Lord Jesus, to see you seeing us in love is the only thing that can truly set us free. Help us to turn our faces to you and trust in your love for us. Amen.  The post S3:E30 &#8211; Season 3 Finale: The Light of a Face appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Maribeth Barber &#8220;I’m a small-town Southerner captivated by the tales of underdogs, homebodies, and royalty. When I’m not blogging or writing novels, I’m reading, gardening, and collecting figurines of my favorite fictional characters on my family’s hobby farm in Louisiana.&#8221; Online presence: A Writer’s Tale (blog): maribethbarber.com “The Movie Score” podcast with Maribeth&#8217;s brother, Ben Current/upcoming projects: You can find all of Maribeth&#8217;s articles for the The Cultivating Project here, and her debut novel, Operation Lionhearted, will be released on October 13, 2021. Follow her on instagram @maribeth.barber The Defiance of Laughter by Maribeth Barber | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/OTW_S3-E29-Maribeth-Barber-The-Defiance-of-Laughter.mp3   The Defiance of Laughter   “Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die. And you will have a window in your head. Not even your future will be a mystery any more. Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer…”   Thus Wendell Berry—author, poet, farmer, and rebel—begins his famous poem, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front.” Long before I read any of Berry’s novels, I read this poem—and something about it settled deep into my soul, especially the way he introduces his solution to the dismal chaos of modern American life:   “So, friends, every day do something that won’t compute.”   As a homeschool graduate who chose to live at home with my family and pursue my writing career, I’m no stranger to nonconformity. An introverted homebody from childhood, I was the little kid who burst into tears one day and begged my parents not to send me away to a college campus. I knew by that point that what I really wanted to do was write stories…yet the older I grew and the more I knew of the world, I came to the sobering realization that this meant I’d probably never meet certain, traditional expectations.   This was a terrifying revelation, made all the more unnerving by pointed comments, worried questions, and subtle pressures to reconsider from well-meaning friends and family. On the one hand, I was eager to make my own choices and live the simple, creative life I desired. But on the other, I was determined to make my small rebellion worthwhile. I would never be idle at home, I would publish my books and keep a blog…and I would succeed, no matter what.     I wouldn’t discover Wendell Berry’s poignant turn of phrase until well into my late twenties, yet I can say that I deliberately and happily chose to “do something that won’t compute.” Over the years, that decision has given me the freedom to enjoy and serve my family, keep a weekly job, self-publish my first novel, and contribute to various ministries and collaborative writing projects. In many ways, this is the quiet, peaceful life my little hobbit soul always wanted.    And yet, despite the joy and fulfillment I have experienced, doubt and fear have always plagued me. More often than I care to admit, I worry that my lifestyle is insignificant and unsustainable. That’s why I resonate so strongly with Kathleen Kelly in the iconic film, You’ve Got Mail, when she writes:    “Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life—well, valuable, but small—and sometimes I wonder: do I do it because I like it, or because I haven&#8217;t been brave?”   I’d love to tell you that I’m always confident, that I no longer care what people think of my choices, and that I’ve never looked back. The truth is that I’ve wrestled my entire life with a frantic need to show the world that I’m just as tough and relentlessly productive as everyone else. I’ve craved the opportunity to wave my accomplishments in all my skeptics’ faces and say, “You see?! I don’t have to look like everyone else! I can do things my way and do just fine, thank you very much!”    But do you hear it? The insidious, arrogant, activity-driven striving? How is this attitude of mine any different from the kind of life I’ve actively tried to avoid? In my high-and-mighty dudgeon, I hear echoes of the frenetic “busy-ness” that Wendell Berry describes at the beginning of his poem. “Not even your future will be a mystery anymore,” he warns—and I know that if I wallow in an embittered struggle against modern expectations, my resentful self-justification will define my future.     But perhaps there is a more excellent way…a more peaceful way that has less to do with looking different and proving myself, and more to do with living well, loving well…and laughing well.    If Wendell Berry had ended his poem with his dreary account of modern society, his Manifesto would be a depressing one, indeed. But thank goodness, the poem isn’t over yet! Berry goes on to describe what it means to “do something that won’t compute” every single day of our lives.   “Love the Lord,” he writes. “Love the world. Work for nothing. Take all that you have and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it. Denounce the government and embrace the flag…Invest in the millenium…Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts…Practice resurrection.”   I think Berry is proposing here that “a life that doesn’t compute” stems not from rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but from love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Living a life that doesn’t compute—one that quietly and joyfully defies our chaotic culture—means that I choose to see my life as a lavish feast given to me by the God Who Sees Me…and not Exhibit A of my self-sufficiency in the court of public opinion.    This choice is transformative. When I truly believe that my small life is seen and cherished by the Lord God Almighty, I don’t need to strive for anyone else’s approval. And when I am free, then I can laugh—not in derision, but in immeasurable merriment. I can invest my time and toil in our garden even as I expect the end of the world. I’m even free to consider hard facts such as this one: writing will probably never make me rich. But I also know the joy that comes when my characters leap off the page and sweep me into their adventures—and I wouldn’t miss that delight for all the money in the world.   So…do we live our small lives because we like it, or because we haven&#8217;t been brave? Well, I would propose to Kathleen Kelly—and to anyone else walking this road less-traveled—that your small life is the brave life. But you aren’t brave just because you’re different. You are brave because you love well, work well, think well…and rejoice well.    This is the holy defiance of laughter. This is the beauty of a life that doesn’t compute. “To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion, to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly, to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart, to bear all cheerfully, to all bravely await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual unbidden and unconscious grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.” William Henry Channing The post S3:E29 &#8211; Maribeth Barber, The Defiance of Laughter appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Erling Rantrud Instagram: @erling.rantrud Website: www.underfikentreet.no &#8220;I have always loved all growing things. From the tallest trees to the smallest mosses to the sea weed in the fjords. And if I can spot a squirrel, a frog, or a porpoise amongst the growing things I am happier for it. I have always loved God&#8217;s creation.  That is probably why I was first trained as a gardener. But I like people, too. And the Bible. So after a few years of gardening I went on to teach and became a teacher at a high school. But church also occupied my mind, so now, and for the last eight years, I have been a pastor in a small Lutheran church in Sandefjord Norway. And my congregation has to endure my endless ramblings about God&#8217;s wonderful creation every time I find tadpoles in my garden or a badger crosses my way.  Even though I am waiting to turn 40 in September, I have been married for 20 years to my wife Gina. We have three children aged 14 to 19. Besides church and gardening, I love to kayak, read, and paint. I do water colors mostly connected to Bible verses. You may see some samples on my instagram @erling.rantrud or visit my neglected web page underfikentreet.no (under the fig tree).&#8221;     There Was A Garden by Erling Rantrud | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/OTW_S3-E28-Erling-Rantrud-There-was-a-Garden.mp3 “The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.” Genesis 2:15 ESV In the beginning there was a garden. &#8220;Work it and keep it!&#8221; God said to the humans who were there. And they did. Black, rich and fragrant soil was covered with green! Seeds sprouted, stems stretched towards the sky, buds and leaves spread over the whole earth.  Bathed in golden, green light, branches bore fruit, and down on the ground in the cool shade sweet, ripe berries were food for all who wanted them. Streams trickled, and both sun and moon mirrored their life-giving light in clear waters. Birds, fish, animals and humans found both work and rest in a wild but safe garden. God created the heavens and the earth. The heavenly and the earthly. There is something wonderfully beautiful about the fact that God chose a garden as the place for heaven and earth to meet. For that is most profoundly what the Garden of Eden was. A dwelling for the peoples of the earth saturated with heaven. A garden is a safe place. Full of life. I do not know what memories you have of gardens, but there is a particular garden at the centre of my childhood memories. In Grandma and Grandpa&#8217;s garden in the countryside somewhere in Western Norway where I am from, I could pick and eat currants to my heart&#8217;s content. I could play ball in the grass or lay down with my nose in a book and draw in the scent of clover and bathe in the beauty of the warm summer sun. I would often dream away those happy days as I took shelter in the giant blood beech with the biggest and strongest branches in the whole wide world. I would count the stripes on the bumblebees, listen to the heron’s hoarse cry in the spruce trees, and watch the deer trotting on the ridge at dusk. There was freedom in my grandparent’s garden. And the work that came with it was good, like raking the grass after Grandpa had rushed noisily by with a puff of smoke from both the lawnmower and his tobacco pipe, or picking currants in a bucket that went straight into the pot where Grandma made red currant jelly. That work was good work to be a part of. I wonder what memories from your childhood you carry with you of those happy places like my grandparent’s garden? For me, a garden is both work and rest at its very best. For the workplace is the resting place and the resting place is the working place and the result of both is new life! If man is created in the image of God, God is the great Gardener. Both God and Gardener with capital G.   We do not know how long the first humans were in the Garden of Eden, but we can guess what kind of life they lived. And we know they were not alone. They lived where the heavens meet the earth and all is green and growing and full of life! God was there, walking with them in the evening breeze. Was God there all the time, or did he come and go? Perhaps he came and went, while the humans always experienced and felt the presence of God. In that Garden, they were free. Free to work. Free to rest. Free to praise God. By the way, did you know that the Hebrew word for work, Avodah, also means to serve and worship? We both honor and glorify God and worship Him when we work in the garden. In the end, people were also free to eat from the Tree of Life in the middle of the garden. For there, in the centre  of that lush place where the heavenly and the earthly met and God still walked, there was life and abundance! Unfortunately, that was not enough for the humans. Once they had been deceived into believing that a life outside of the garden would be better. And they found out the hard way that it wasn&#8217;t . So they made their choice to take and eat what they neither needed, should have, nor were entitled to. “And they heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden.” Genesis 3:8   Since then, we humans have done the same. Instead of walking openly, we hide from both God and each other and withdraw to the darkest shadows where we think it is safest. But it is cold and dark and damp in the deepest shades. How often do we humans find ourselves sitting in a dark corner longing to step out into the warm sunlight but don’t? We are shadow plants. Afraid that the gardener will see us. We fear being pruned and fertilized and watered. But what happens to plants in the light? When we weed and water, prune and care for them, there will be new growth and flowers and fruit! The gardener is not scary. He calls you lovingly and knows exactly how to best care for you! &nbsp; At the time of this writing it is Easter in the garden. It is not long since we remembered Jesus&#8217; death and celebrated his resurrection. Mary, one of Jesus&#8217; friends, also had an encounter with the great Gardener and was once again allowed to take on a life of good work and rest in God&#8217;s garden. For when the curtain of the temple was torn in two and Jesus died, the temple again became a place where heaven meets the earth. Only now it was the humans themselves who would become the temple of God. God dwells within us here on earth with his heavenly, holy spirit! But Mary did not know this yet. She approached the tomb at dusk before the sun rose. Can you imagine how heavy the shadows were around her in those moments before dawn? “But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb, and as she wept she stooped to look into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet.  They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Having said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing, but she did not know that it was Jesus.  Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”  Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”  Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”  Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”—and that he had said these things to her.” John 20:11-18  Mary met the Master, who she first thought was the gardener, and she was right. It was the Master Gardener she met, indeed! He who comes and goes. He does not leave you, but he has many plants to take care of! Lots of places to be! And then we, who are just small sprouts, shoots and branches, are miraculously allowed to imitate the gardener as we work and rest in the garden where he has planted us. Until the time when heaven again comes down to earth and everything is re-created and the whole world becomes a garden of Eden, we wait for Him. Then we shall walk with God in the cool evening breeze. A huge flock of little gardeners in the middle of all the life-giving greenery and no one shall hide, because God&#8217;s beautiful light blesses all things and the shadows are no more!     Closing Benediction Velsigna du dag over fjordan. Velsigna du lys over land. Velsigna de evige ordan. Om håp og ei utrakt hand. Verg dette lille du gav oss Den dagen du fløtta oss hit. Så vi kjenne du aldri vil la oss forkomme I armod og slit Gud fred over fjellet og åsen. La det gro der vi bygge og bor. Guds fred over dyran på båsen Og ei frossen og karrig jord. Du ser oss i mørketids-landet Du signe med evige ord. Husan og fjellet og vannet Og folket som leve her nord. Bless the days over the fjords Bless the light on the lands Bless the eternal words about hope and a helping hand Guard these small things you gave us the day you moved us here So we know you will never let us despair, but be sure you are there. Gods peace over mountains and hills Let it grow where we toil and dwell Gods peace over livestock and sheep and over the frozen and barren earth. You see us in our land of darkness God bless with eternal words  The houses and mountains and waters and people who dwell up here north The post S3:E28 &#8211; Erling Rantrud, There Was a Garden appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Showing Up in Spirit and Truth by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/OTW_S3-E27-Showing-up-in-Spirit-and-Truth.mp3   There are plenty of very uncomfortable things in the Bible, and it can be hard to discern the underlying rationale to their inclusion in the narrative. Every author has to decide on some kind of editing principle or a set of narrative objectives that will help them decide what stays in the book and what gets cut out, right? The Bible is a very complex book, and I won’t pretend to understand all of God’s reasons for what’s included and what’s not. What is clear is that God does have reasons. He is a deliberate person, and has assembled a collection of writings that is carefully crafted to make it possible for his family to come home to him.     For instance, the Bible is not the story of everything that has ever happened, or everything God has ever done. There’s a primary editing principle, and it shows up in the 12th chapter of Genesis as the promise given to Abraham. That’s the Bible’s topic sentence, if you will. Basically, God promises to bless Abraham, make a nation from his descendants, and through that nation to bring about a blessing for the entire world. Everything that follows gets either included or edited out based on how it relates to the fulfillment of God’s promise to Abraham, which is eventually realized in Christ.     So, are dinosaurs real? Sure. But, though that’s an interesting question, it’s not one that’s relevant considering the fact that the Bible’s editing principle sets the trajectory of this particular book within the narrow constraints of God fulfilling his promise to a man named Abraham through a man named Jesus Christ. Even God has to narrow his focus in order to get his objective accomplished, just as any author, if they want to actually write a book, must decide to write about something rather than everything.    Today, I read Psalm 88, which is one of those uncomfortable bits I mentioned. It’s not the only uncomfortable psalm, but, unlike most psalms, it doesn&#8217;t resolve by the end. There’s no closure. Let me just read it, and you can see what I mean&#8230;    Lord, you are the God who saves me;     day and night I cry out to you. May my prayer come before you;     turn your ear to my cry.   I am overwhelmed with troubles     and my life draws near to death. I am counted among those who go down to the pit;     I am like one without strength.   I am set apart with the dead,     like the slain who lie in the grave, whom you remember no more,     who are cut off from your care.   You have put me in the lowest pit,     in the darkest depths. Your wrath lies heavily on me;     you have overwhelmed me with all your waves.   You have taken from me my closest friends     and have made me repulsive to them. I am confined and cannot escape;     my eyes are dim with grief.   I call to you, Lord, every day;     I spread out my hands to you. Do you show your wonders to the dead?     Do their spirits rise up and praise you?   Is your love declared in the grave,     your faithfulness in Destruction? Are your wonders known in the place of darkness,     or your righteous deeds in the land of oblivion?   But I cry to you for help, Lord;     in the morning my prayer comes before you. Why, Lord, do you reject me     and hide your face from me?   From my youth I have suffered and been close to death;     I have borne your terrors and am in despair. Your wrath has swept over me;     your terrors have destroyed me.   All day long they surround me like a flood;     they have completely engulfed me. You have taken from me friend and neighbor—     darkness is my closest friend.   Can you hear the misery in this psalmist’s voice? Did it make you squirm a little bit to listen to it? It makes me squirm, for sure. How would you summarize this psalm? Maybe something like, “God, I’m miserable and I thought you’d help me, but you, Lord, are a huge disappointment. In fact, you’re only making things worse. You’re a lousy friend, darkness and misery are better friends than you. They’re all I have left at this point, thanks to you.”     This is a brutal, gut-wrenching psalm. Why in the world is it in the Bible? Wouldn’t you expect God to edit this kind of thing out of his book? I would! If I were God I would find this insulting and offensive; it’s embarrassing, if God’s narrative objective is to make himself look good. The tone is generally disrespectful and ungrateful; by what editing principle has God decided that special care should be taken to make sure this miserable psalm does not get left out? This psalm is here, because God wanted it to be. But why?    Let me skip over to another uncomfortable moment, this time in the New Testament. It’s one of my very favorite scenes in John 4 where Jesus and a Samaritan Woman meet at a Well. In fact, this story has become very dear to me over the last 7 years, as the Lord has been working with me through a long season of grief after trauma. The album I’m recording right now is based on this scene.     At any rate, this is a complex encounter with the Woman at the Well, and endlessly fascinating, uncomfortable, and encouraging to me.    It doesn’t take long for Jesus to ask the most uncomfortable question imaginable to this woman. He deliberately brings up her miseries. Her five failed marriages and a current sixth inappropriate relationship. An accumulation of tragedy, rejection, and failure. But the next thing this woman does is particularly interesting. She changes the subject. As soon as Jesus opens that wound, she deftly switches gears and launches into a kind of religious talk, but you can feel that it’s forced. She recognizes she’s dealing with some kind of holy man, and so she starts playing the religious game. She says the things religious people are supposed to say, asks the questions spiritual people are supposed to ask. What happens next is something that may shed light on an editing principle that helps us understand why things like psalm 88 get included in the Bible.    Jesus accepts her redirection and pretension, but he doesn’t give up. She’s asked him which mountain does God approve of for worship. It’s a technical question; she’s trying to steer the conversation away from personal issues. But Jesus says that God doesn’t really care all that much about this or that mountain. There’s no magical procedure, temple, or mountain. What God is really interested in are people who will worship in “Spirit and Truth.”     In other words, people who will stop playing religious games. Stop with the lip service. Stop with the pretension. Stop saying the things spiritual people are “supposed to” say. People who will be honest about who they really are, right where they are, as they are. God wants people who, like the writer of psalm 88, will make themselves available to God in a way that you might think would get you struck by lightning, edited out of existence for being brutally truthful.     At this point the Woman at the Well seems to speak with a sort of hopeless sigh of despair, “Yeah, you’re an idealist I can see. Good luck with that. I’m sure when the messiah shows up (fat chance) everything will be hunky-dory.” She’s done with this conversation and starts to leave. But Jesus says, in effect, “Ah, right there, there you are, there’s the real you. Well, here’s the real me: a tired, thirsty messiah, who’s been looking for you.”     Why are these painfully uncomfortable stories included in God’s Book? Because life is actually like this, isn’t it? Life is painful, confusing, disappointing, full of tragedy mixed with wonder, laughter, and all manner of ruin and revelation. It may be that the people most dismissive of the Scriptures, are those who have a hard time being truthful with themselves about the gap between what they wish life was like and what’s actually true about life.     The title track of this new album I’m working on is called “Only the Lover Sings”, and the first verse of the song says, “you’ve never met a liar, you’ve only met the lie that they put forth. There ain’t no soul more lonely, until you tell the truth, you can’t be touched. And I want to be touched.” Jesus wants to meet us, but he wants to meet the real us.    God is looking for people who will show up in “spirit and truth”, because when we play the religious game, we’re hiding behind a protective pretense and remain untouchable. We aren’t making contact with reality, and God, who will not trespass against us, is left without access to us as we truly are. Which means nothing can change for us. And so he honors the painfully honest writer of psalm 88 who becomes an example for us in how to make ourselves truly available to the Lord.     So, it turns out, that one more editing principle of Scripture could maybe be called “truthful contact”. God is showing up as he really is and sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes he’s angry, frustrated, weary of our rejection, but always deliberate and stable in his love and longing to rescue us. And he invites us, not to some weird game of pretension and ‘saying the right thing’, but to possibly uncomfortable, but real, contact right from wherever we really are, whether it’s angry, frustrated, sad, or feeling like God himself has screwed us over.     In that place, something new becomes possible, as the truth of Jesus’s sorrow and our sorrow make contact and intermingle. It is a surprising thing to meet like that, and maybe the most uncomfortable thing to speak of is God’s own vulnerability, as God longs to be with us right where we are, as well as for us to be with him where he is.  Closing Prayer Jesus, Scripture says you were very tired when you got to Jacob’s Well that day. I confess I sometimes don’t allow for you to show up as you really are in your anger, frustration, weariness, or sadness. But you have taken pains to make sure that we know we are allowed to come to you in spirit and truth, not having to play religious games, or pretend. You have pioneered vulnerability with us, inviting us to be vulnerable with you. You’ve been honest with us, inviting us to be honest. Thank you, for not playing games with us, so that we can be set free from the games we tend to feel we must play. For we long to make real contact, to be truly touched, to be comforted in our hidden depths, and for our sorrows to find their home in your tender presence. Amen.  &nbsp; PS.  I think this Rich Mullins song, &#8220;Hard to Get&#8221; is a great example of someone showing up in Spirit and Truth. But I couldn&#8217;t play it in the podcast for copyright reasons.   Give it a listen =&gt; The post S3:E27 &#8211; Showing Up in Spirit and Truth appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Your Place in the Story, Pt. 4 - Virtues: The Heartbeat of Reality by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/OTW_S3-E26-Your-place-in-the-story-pt.-4_Virtues_the-heartbead-of-reality.mp3 &nbsp; For the last several weeks I’ve been reading a book by Stanley Hauerwas called “The Character of Virtue, Letters to a Godson”. I’d heard of the author here and there over the years, and I’ve even had another unread book of his on my shelf for more than a decade. I’m glad to finally be reading Hauerwas, and this book has been a joy to read.     Hauerwas was asked to be a godfather to a friend’s newborn son. The agreement was that he’d write a letter to the boy each year on the anniversary of the child’s baptism. In each letter, Hauerwas would commend some virtue, whether it be patience, truthfulness, courage, temperance and so on. For instance, he describes how kindness is cultivated by growing up in a family that is kind, or even by caring for their family dog, Connie.     Personally, I didn’t grow up with much talk of virtues, so the descriptions of how they’re developed and what they are has been fascinating to read. Especially in the context of real letters to a child from a caring adult, as I believe that authors do mentor us through their writing. Words on a page make the lived wisdom of faithful folks we may have never met available to us in such a way that we can experience a kind of real involvement through which the Holy Spirit joins our lives and blesses us.     That’s why Hauerwas’ explanations of the virtues have been such an encouragement. I feel like I am being addressed in these letters and accompanied by a friend on my own journey, as the Lord takes the raw lumpy clay of my own desires and gives shape and purpose to it. Hauerwas points out that you can’t really will yourself to be virtuous. It doesn’t work that way. Rather, virtues are formed in us through habits. He says virtues “ride on the back” of activities we discover along the way. For example, reading good fiction forms in us the virtue of empathizing with the experiences of others, which counteracts narcissism, which in turn means our desire for connection with others becomes possible. Even learning to play baseball or a musical instrument turn out to be practices that inwardly form patience, generosity, and joy. And I can’t help but think that the idea in Scripture (Psalm 115, for instance) that you become like what you worship is working similarly.    In fact, that was a very helpful place to begin to understand how the virtues work. Contrary to what I would have thought, the virtues don’t suppress or diminish desire, rather desire is apprenticed to the virtues in order that desire may develop and be directed rightly.  The virtues train and nourish the passions, so that our passions can be given meaningful and life-giving roads to travel toward beautiful destinations that end in flourishing. In that sense, human desire and passion actually get their power by plugging into the virtues. Without virtue, desire is mostly aimless and impotent. Hauerwas says,    “[The Virtues] involve the habituation of the passions. The virtues do not so much control the passions as the virtues form the passions so that our desires become the source of what makes us capable of goodness.” pg. 77   I can’t help but think of Lewis’s little book, “The Great Divorce”, which depicts an imaginary trip for a busful of people from hell up to the outskirts of heaven where they have a chance to confront and reject their own sin and enter paradise. It’s a fun fictional experiment that allows Lewis to explore how humans either cling to or relinquish the things that hurt us. Basically, it&#8217;s a study in malformed loves, or passions that have not been trained by virtue, and it’s very insightful.    But the scene that powerfully illustrates how virtue actually empowers desire rather than diminishing it, involves a man with a little red lizard on his shoulder. The tiny lizard is lust, and though an angel sent to the man from the higher regions of heaven pleads with him to let go of lust, he can’t imagine living without it. Wouldn’t it kill him to have his desire squashed? Would it be unnatural? But, finally, the man admits that if killing the lizard of lust kills him, it would be better than living as a slave to perverted desire. Passion untrained by virtue led the man to a dead end, where death seemed more desirable than his desire. So that angel is given permission to kill the little red lizard, whose back he breaks and whose body he flings to the ground. But then something astonishing happens. The little lizard is transformed into a huge, muscular, shining stallion which the healed man then mounts and dashes off upon into the deeper realms of heaven.     And that’s the idea. The righteousness that training in virtue makes available actually transforms our puny perversions of passion and desire into huge, muscular shining creatures upon which we can travel from the outskirts of reality deeper into its vibrant glory. Virtue limits in the sense that it sets a course, which means we’re free to actually get somewhere. Whereas, aimless desire seems free to go anywhere, but in the end is only really free to fold back in upon itself and get nowhere.     So that’s a little bit to clear up a common misconception about virtue. And reading Hauerwas has been helpful in that way, but another thing that has been very encouraging is a certain thread that I’ve noticed running through every letter and every virtue he’s described. And that thread is gratitude. What makes virtue possible seems to be a recognition of God’s virtue-saturated gift of love toward us. In that sense, all virtue is a way of returning our lives to God as an offering of love, as a response to the great love God first poured out on us.  Thankfulness is the life-blood of virtue.     For instance, patience is gratitude for the fact that God has supplied time for us to know his love, God’s kindness toward us teaches us that we can be kind. God has been truthful toward us, so we can afford to tell the truth. God has been vulnerable and brave by opening himself to us in friendship, so we can be courageous and respond as friends, too. Jesus has demonstrated God’s humility and love for humanity by becoming one of our kind, so we can be kind and humble.     In fact, one of the themes in this book is that the virtues are actually indicative of our true origin and our true nature. The virtues are, in fact, what we were destined for. These are the truest things about reality itself, which pours forth from the Life of the Trinity. The heartbeat at the center of all Creation is kind, truthful, courageous, hopeful, generous, faithful, constant, and joyful. These are the unshakable and super-abundant things in this universe, because they originate in a life that is bigger than and encompasses all created reality.    Which brings me to what struck me so strongly this morning. This little quote from Hauerwas:    “That we are creatures of such a God, a God that would become one of us, means we are a people who believe that we do not live in a world dominated by scarcity. Our Lord is a Lord of abundance whose love of the other makes our love of another possible. We’re able to give (and receive) because we’ve been given all we need [in order to be] generous.”    The practices that we habituate either form virtue in us or malform us. And the story we inhabit puts us in touch with habits that form those virtues. The story Christians inhabit and the habits Christians practice are based on a vision of reality as being created and ruled by a Lord of loving abundance. Which means that God’s people don’t have to be scared about scarcity, because scarcity is ultimately and simply not true of reality. We can afford to be vulnerable, because God is rich in vulnerability. We can afford to be kind, because the Origin of the Universe has proven through Christ that God is abundantly kind.    That means, that as we find our place in this most beautiful story we discover that the whole world, indeed all of created reality, has at its heart a God who is abundantly good and virtuous. And as we form habits that form virtue in us, we are simply becoming more attuned to reality, to perfect love, where fear and scarcity have no place.     This is what Jesus came to clear up. Do you remember his story about the widow and the unjust judge? That’s a story where Jesus acknowledges the people’s misconception about God. They’d been thinking the heart of reality was primarily stingy and begrudging. The widow can’t get the judge’s help unless she just pesters him to death by beating on his door. The judge only helps to get her off his back. Jesus says they’ve got it all wrong, the Father is nothing like that. The truth about reality is better than they ever could have imagined. The virtues, then, prove to be a way that we enter into the truest thing about ourselves and our world, which is the loving abundance and endless joy of our beautiful God.  Closing Prayer LORD, root us deeply in your beauty, goodness, and truth. You are the super-abundant source of all that makes life wonderful, joyful, and hopeful. The story you have invited us into is, in fact, nothing less than your very life, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. That means that we do not have to be scared of scarcity, since it is an untrue narrative. In you, Jesus, we have unimaginably abundant life. We have every reason to be a people constituted by gratitude. Holy Trinity, direct us into activities and practices that inwardly form the shape of your divine nature within a people called by your name, so that we may bless the world you fashioned with a living recitation of the story you are telling through our very lives. Amen.  The post S3:E26 &#8211; Your Place in the Story, Pt. 4 &#8211; Virtues: The Heartbeat of Reality appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Your Place in the Story, Pt. 3 - Here&#039;s the Script; Have Fun! by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/OTW_S3-E25-Heres-the-Script-Have-Fun.mp3   We live in a world that has lost its story. We&#8217;ve been trained since the Enlightenment Movement beginning in the 1700s to see the world as merely material without any real participation in a transcendent reality (namely, the Life of the Trinity). God was thrown out, and the world was seen as having no embedded meaning from its Creator.   In Episode 3 of Season Two of this podcast, I talked in a little more detail about this saying,  What I’m trying to get across is that the idea that there is no God and the idea that life has no story is a very recent historical phenomenon. The vast majority of humans up until just a few hundred years ago automatically thought of themselves as being a part of a meaningful cosmic storyline. But, guess what: there’s an anti-story story. There is a story that says there is no story. That’s the story our world believes today. Do you understand? Unbelief is itself a belief in a particular story that says there is no story.  In general, the Enlightenment’s anti-story-story has enslaved our culture’s imagination, draining the world of its God-given significance. Significance has to do with signs that signal a Signature, and a signature is the personal handwriting of a Living Person with a Name. That Signature has effectively been erased for most folks, and so the world has no storyline &#8211; no creator from whom it came, and no redeemer to whom it is moving in hope and promise.   But Christianity has always taught that Jesus himself is the One through and for whom the Cosmos was created. He is the Word, the Logos, the basis of its reality; you could say, the meaning of the world is Jesus, and the ongoing dramatic enactment of the World’s story is the work of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the world&#8217;s Creation, Redemption, and Re-making.  But here’s the thing, we have a place in that Great Story. We’ve been invited into it as God’s collaborators. If we’re talking about how to find our place in the story, how do we learn to play along? If the Lamb’s Book of Life is not a ledger sheet but a Grand Storybook endlessly unfolding, how do we join in its telling with our very lives? Well, how about a few analogies to help us think about it?    The Play Analogy I’ll start with one that encouraged me lately, Hans Urs von Balthasar’s play analogy. Balthasar says the Father has laid out a script (which is His Will), sent the Principal Actor onto the stage (Jesus), and presently the Holy Spirit is acting as the plays director, overseeing the action, even inviting the audience up onto the stage to participate in the enactment of the drama. So again, The Father is the Playwright, the Son is the Principle Actor, and the Holy Spirit is the Director.    Get to know the Script.  What’s the first thing an actor has to do if she’s going to be in a play? She had better put in the time to memorize the script. The Script is God’s will, the Script is the Scriptures. There’s no clever gimmick here, if you want to get the story of God’s will into your bones, read the Bible everyday.  Now, as an aside, I grew up feeling very confused about the subject of God’s Will, mainly due to a problematic little phrase put this way, “You want to be in the center of God’s Will.” The implication was that to be in the “Center of God’s Will” was to be standing on one foot, on a certain rock, in a certain field, in a certain town, at precisely the right time of day, and you better be holding your mouth just right with your shirt tucked in. And when you asked where the rock, the field and town were, you were told that it was a mystery and if you didn’t know you probably weren’t praying hard enough.  This made me feel like God was just messing with me. He had some secret will for my life that I had no way of discerning. Like there was some story, but God had the script in a vault somewhere.  It was quite a process for me to learn that God’s Will is just the story God is telling, which has been made known through the Creation, The Scriptures, and Jesus Christ. That’s why Paul prays in Colossians 1:9 that his friends might be “filled with the knowledge of his will.”  Because the Story God is Telling has been made available, we can avail ourselves of this resource. God’s will is not a certain rock in a certain field in a certain town where you must stand on one foot &#8211; rather, it is a vast realm of righteousness where God is working out a particular drama in his Cosmos through the One in whom the Cosmos subsists, Jesus.  That is the narrative arch of all existence. What is the story God is telling? If you can get that story down, you’ll be seeing where the world came from and where it’s all going, and this whole world will be situated in a context that will allow you to understand its meaning so that you can live according to God’s intentions for it. Because you are being invited out of the audience and onto the stage to enact the Father’s Script, getting your cues from the Principal Actor, Jesus, while following the directions of the Holy Spirit.    Now here’s something I think is fascinating and wonderful. The more and more deeply familiar you become with the Script of the play (Bible reading), the stronger your rapport with the Principal Actor becomes (prayer), and the more attentive you become to the Director’s instructions (prayer and obedience) the freer you become to play within the play &#8211; in other words, to improvise.  Improvisation is a species of wisdom that enables the actor to respond to all kinds of circumstances in a way that stays true to the script. It’s based on character. Righteousness is God’s character and he never breaks character. As we are conformed to Jesus’ likeness, we are dressing up as Christ, we are “putting on” God’s storyline, getting into costume, getting into character. But the irony with this particular play is that when you dress up and make believe you may feel dishonest, but you’re actually becoming more and more true, more real, more yourself. The reason is that sin has worked an anti-story story into this world, and made us all, in traditional greek dramatic terms, mask-wearers, false-selves, hypocrites. However, to follow Jesus is to learn to live truthfully again on the stage of reality.   The joy and the fun of improvisation is that the Script takes on a life of its own through each actor’s unique gifts and personality. That’s why you can see the wonderful vitality, abundance, and variation of faithful Christianity around the world through improvisations on praise music, dance, instrumentation, architecture, food, and dress. You can see endless iterations of Christ’s actions across the centuries as faithful followers have lived, served, and died in wildly creative ways.  The play is not scripted in a meticulous, deterministic sense. You’ve got the Script &#8211; get it into your bones, keep your eyes on the lead actor, listen for directions, and from there just riff on the themes, improvise. Have fun.  Which brings me to a last analogy I love as a musician, and that’s musical improvisation. And it works the same way. Any jazz musician’s goal is improvisation, but it takes years of learning scales, absorbing a traditional repertoire of tunes, learning to follow a conductor, and so on. But all that work to familiarize themselves with that tradition means that at any moment the band leader might call them up onto the stage to jam and they can respond instantly. Duke Ellington can randomly point to his trumpeter Cootie Williams and say, “Take a solo” and Cootie steps right into the long stream of Jazz’s storyline and adds to the music. He speaks the language as naturally and freely as the wind blows.   And it’s like that for us. Maybe we can’t relate to the play analogy or imagine ourselves playing jazz, but surely almost everyone can relate to speaking to someone in a conversation? There was a time when you couldn’t talk, remember? You spent years learning the language, picking up phrases, idioms, reading books, practicing within the tradition of your mother tongue until you could &#8211; get this &#8211; improvise. Unless you are literally reading off a page, you are improvising speech almost constantly. And the fact that you can have a conversation that is intelligible to another human means that you are improvising in a way that is true to the storyline of that linguistic tradition, which is serving as a kind of script or song that speakers improvise within. Dear friends, this world is about something. It has a storyline. It has a Storyteller who is calling us up onto the stage to become active in this unfolding drama, to play a trumpet solo on the instrument of our very lives within the song God is singing over us. Or, finally, to join in a conversation among a trinity of friends as we learn to speak their beautiful language of faith, hope, love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control to a world that has lost its story, and forgotten the voice of its Storyteller. Closing Prayer Our Father, you have revealed your character and will first through the Creation, then through the Scriptures, and finally through your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Jesus you have perfectly enacted your Father’s will, fulfilling and expounding a tale of goodness beyond our wildest imaginations. And now, Lord, you have poured out the Holy Spirit upon us to assure us that you will end this story beautifully as you have promised. Holy Spirit, you ‘lead us into all truth’ as you direct and incorporate each of us into this ongoing drama. Give us wisdom to respond to every moment with creative faithfulness to the Story you are telling, with imaginations brimming with hope in your promise-keeping, and patient compassion toward those for whom life is storyless, without a song, and to whom your words, God, have become garbled gibberish. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.  The post S3:E25 &#8211; Your Place in the Story, Pt. 3 &#8211; Here&#8217;s the Script; Have Fun! appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Your Place in the Story, Pt. 2 - A Beautiful New Name by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/OTW_S3-E24-Your-Place-in-the-Story-A-Beautiful-New-Name.mp3   Last week, I talked about how everybody does liturgies &#8211; in and outside the church. If we think broadly of a liturgy as any shared practice or discipline that situates us within a particular narrative, a narrative that gives our life context and meaning. Liturgies provide language, images, events, and storyline. They work that stuff down into our bones, until whatever story we’re practicing becomes the measure for everything.  But we lose the story very easily don’t we? And constantly there are other stories sneaking into our consciousness. We are entangled in a wide variety of secular liturgies that get into our marrow and train us toward hopelessness. For instance, often Hollywood trains us to think we have only one category for working out our human desire for love, namely, sex. That’s a particular narrative with a particular conclusion, isn’t it? And we are so deeply trained by Hollywood’s teaching and by rehearsing its liturgies, that it can be quite difficult to even begin to imagine other options. However, the late Marva Dawn pointed out that Christianity has always taught that the human desire for love can be expressed and fulfilled in many ways &#8211; through friendship, celibacy, marriage, family membership, and so on. Christian worship and teaching can supply those options, by providing language, events, real-life examples, and stories.   Personally, I write almost no love songs, because romantic love and sex comprise almost nothing of my lived experience. I write mostly about friendship, family, and the beauty of Jesus, because that’s the shape of my love-life, and I’m not unhappy about it. But that’s an underrepresented option I want to make available to people through the things I make.     Speaking of underrepresented options, some friends recently went to pray in front of a local abortion clinic. My friend Annie has spent a lot of time making herself available as a sidewalk counselor to those who approach the clinic. Many of them are in despair; they feel this is their only choice. They don’t realize they have options. Beyond the scope of their vision, are various resources set up to help them work out a variety of possibilities for their truly desperate situation. But, in many cases, my friend Annie tells me, these other possibilities have been intentionally obscured. This creates a particular narrative that systematically narrows the choices available to these women, until only one desperately sad choice remains. They walk towards abortion, because they often see no other possible destination. There is no joy set before them.  What cultural liturgies have worked that wicked yeast all through the dough? What practices, what phrases repeated, have so established this ruling narrative of death in the marrow for these women? Honestly, I’m not equipped to answer that, other than saying that you don’t arrive at that conclusion by accident. The souls of these women and children have enemies, human and otherwise, sowing stories that are not true.     Part of the Christianity’s work in the world has always been to make hitherto unknown possibilities newly available. The Gospel is news in the most basic sense, because it’s new information about a new possibility for a different kind of life that we’d never dreamed of having access to. And the news has always been contrarian. Not contrarian because it really goes against the grain of reality, because in fact it is the grain of reality, but because it contradicts all the systems and stories humanity has invented to cope in a state of rebellion against reality. The thing about those coping mechanisms like all coping mechanisms is that we wouldn’t keep using them if there wasn’t something about them that we rather liked. We do all kinds of things that hurt us and those around us, as long as the benefit outweighs the cost. We lie as long as we don’t get caught. Blame makes us feel better, until it doesn’t. Escaping into substances and pleasure kind of works, until it doesn’t. The gospels are not naive about the fact that even religious fanaticism can become a coping mechanism that opposes the very grain of reality, since to cut down Jesus was to hack away at the tree on which you yourself are a branch.    So, we are always being offered a variety of stories within which to locate ourselves, a variety of dramas inviting us onto some stage to act out. For instance, Joseph E. Davis says,  “Freedom of choice [is a phrase that] means a lot more than it does [just] in the context of the abortion controversy. It’s a market language. Choice is a market term &#8211; [it’s the idea that] we are truly free when we have this world of unlimited choices. Of course, the assumption is that we somehow on our own, disconnected from our past and from our present, can somehow freely make these choices. I think that’s an illusion.”  What Davis is pointing out is that consumerism is one more of the ruling narratives whose liturgies provide us with language, images, events, and storyline. Consumerism contextualizes human life within market terms; which trains the imagination and the affections away from conceiving of anything having long term value worthy of serious commitment or anything like faithful love. In Consumerism, everything and everyone is disposable. So, Davis goes on to say, that in the story of consumerism, “Ideally, nothing should be embraced by a consumer firmly, nothing should command a commitment forever, and no needs should be seen as fully satisfied, no desires considered ultimate. There ought to be a proviso ‘until further notice’ attached to any oath of loyalty and any commitment.” Davis then points out that the market cycle of unlimited choices that dissolves any imagination for longterm love, tricks us into an ironic false sense of power about our choices, saying, “This cycle of desire is a compulsion, a must, for the fully fledged, mature consumer; yet that [compulsion], that internalized pressure, that impossibility of living one’s life in any other way, is seen as the free exercise of one’s will.”   This is all just a long way of pointing out that we’re constantly being pulled off into other storylines, and that those storylines include practices and liturgies that shape our desires, our sense of what is possible, even the terms or names by which we understand ourselves in relation to the world. Try on these names&#8230; Am I a citizen? A consumer? Am I a product for consumption? A piece of hardware? A thing? A person? Am I a family-member? A beloved son or daughter? A Temple of the Holy Spirit? Am I just a pretty face or a beach bod?  It’s worth asking this question, “Who is naming me?”  Now, the nature of naming, generally, is that names are gifts bestowed upon us by trusted family members while we ourselves are vulnerable. We need help seeing the truth about ourselves, don’t we? For instance, a baby doesn’t have the capacity to name itself, so God sets it within a family, and that family’s holy work is to nurse this vulnerable member on the milk of God’s lovingkindness, to cultivate a habitat of song, story, images, practices, liturgies and events &#8211; in short a culture of beauty, goodness, and truth &#8211; that open up the vistas of a God-breathed imagination for life lived as God’s image bearer and beloved within the eternal realm of the life of the Trinity. Our naming embeds us in a storyline, and every story attempts to name us. Becoming aware of those stories, and realizing we must be deliberate about which ones we practice is very important.    I once read about a ministry in Southeast Asia that rescued women from the sex-trade. These women had been named and embedded in that story, many of them for the majority of their lives. They were objects, merely products for consumption and discard, according to the liturgies they had been made to practice.  Once rescued, they were moved to a new location safe from their oppressors, where they’d spend months or years unlearning those names in a group home. When they were ready, the ministry held what they called a ‘Naming Ceremony’. Someone had brought into their darkness, Good News of a life they’d never imagined could be possible for them. Someone in a position of power redeemed a vulnerable one from the hands of oppressors too strong for them. And now, they were learning a new story, in a new family, and discovering a whole realm of righteous possibility really did stand open before them in Christ. And having passed through a kind of baptismal death, they emerged like a newborn welcomed by a room of loving onlookers to receive a new name: Beloved, Beautiful, child of God, brought into this world for endless embrace and everlasting joy.    Closing Prayer Lord Jesus, you brought us hitherto unimaginably good news about our real Father and his shocking love for us. You, through your death and resurrection, have yourself become for us an open door into a new household, promising that we can truly be born again into a new family &#8211; one unlike any we’ve ever known before. This new house, new family, and new life are where we discover the truth of our own astonishing belovedness, our dignity and, indeed, the very reason we exist. There is no rags to riches story, no Cinderella tale we could possibly more desperately wish were true &#8211; and it is true! And for that we praise you. Fill us with your Holy Spirit, so that we may be ever more deeply enfolded in the truth and named by your God and Father, who now is our God and our good Father, too. Amen. The post S3:E24 &#8211; Your Place in the Story, Pt. 2 &#8211; A Beautiful New Name appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Your Place in the Story, Pt. 1 - *or Anybody Want a Peanut? by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/OTW_S3-E23-Anybody-want-a-peanut.mp3 Can you finish this movie quote for me?    If I say, “Stop rhyming, I mean it!” What do you say? “Anybody want a peanut?”    Or how about this one:    If I say, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya.” And you say, “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”   If you knew what to say, how did you know? Because you’ve participated in a specific cultural liturgy called watching The Princess Bride. But what if you haven’t seen this movie? You didn’t get the joke, did you? You’re thinking, “Ok, there’s some story all these other people know, that I don’t know.” So the reference was lost on you. It meant nothing. Everybody who has seen The Princess Bride shares a common narrative that unites a variety of people by supplying shared language, images, events, storyline.    Those who’ve spent years practicing this liturgy of watching Westly and Buttercup’s love story (who knows how many times) can recognize one another; they both move within the same established narrative. So, I can imagine a woman ordering a sandwich at a cafe and the waiter replies with “As you wish”, and they both knowingly smile. “Oh here’s someone like me, we’re living in the same story,” they both say to themselves.    The early Christians, under severe persecution, would meet someone in the dusty road and casually draw a simple fish-shape called an Ichthus in the dirt with their foot. If the other person noticed and repeated the action, they knew they were both living in the same story. “This is a brother. This is a sister in Christ,” they’d say to themselves and knowingly smile.    Some of you listening may be able to finish this quote: “The Lord be with you…” And you say, “And also with you” or “and with your spirit.”     But how? How did you know what to say? Because you’ve participated &#8211; not in a secular liturgy like watching The Princess Bride &#8211; but in a specifically Christian liturgy. Practicing that liturgy over time has worked this specific narrative into your bones. Christian worship unites a variety of people by supplying shared language, images, events, and storyline. It cultivates a definite culture.    Liturgies are cultural artifacts. They are concrete things that exist in this world that we can actually do with our bodies and minds that help us get the story into our marrow. They’re not magic, they don’t in themselves affect atonement, but they are storytelling devices that work the yeast of the kingdom all through the dough. Rich Mullins has a lyric,    Did they tell you stories about the Saints of old  Stories about their faith?   They say stories like that make a boy grow bold  Stories like that make a man walk straight.   Worship, liturgies, the preaching of the Word, good songs, excellent artwork all, along with the Sacraments, prepare and transform us for acts of faithful obedience in the world. We don’t go to church, we go to worship in order to be the church in the world. We go to worship to get our bearings in a disorienting world; remember who God is, and who we are in light of his mighty acts through Jesus Christ; we go to be supernaturally transformed and equipped for Kingdom life. From there, we leave to be Christ’s Body in the world. I’m thinking of a line from the Eucharistic liturgy I hear every Sunday in the post-communion prayer:    Almighty and everliving God, we thank you for feeding us with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ; and for assuring us in these holy mysteries that we are living members of the Body of your Son, and heirs of your eternal kingdom. And now, Father, send us out to do the work you have given us to do, to love and serve you as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord. To him, to you, and to the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen.   This Sacrament has assured us of our true identity in Christ, “we are living members of the Body of your Son and heirs of your eternal Kingdom.” That is the truth about us. Then, knowing where we came from and where we are going, we are sent out, little-Christs that we are, with a towel around our waist to “love and serve [God] as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord.”  It also serves to supernaturally anoint us.    Anointing is just another way of talking about how God supplies the means to meet his own demands. For instance, if God asks David to be King, David will say, “But I’m young and poor, I don’t have what it takes to the King.” And God says, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what it takes to do what I’ve asked you to do.” That’s anointing. If God asks you to do something, you can count on him to supply the resources.    To take another instance from the Christian life, God has demanded absolute sinlessness of us. We say, “But God, I don’t have what it takes to be sinless!” And God says, “Don’t worry, I’ll supply the necessary resources for you to be able to meet my demands. I’ll give my Son, Jesus. And then the Holy Spirit will supply new birth.” That’s anointing. But, we don’t live into that anointing all the time do we? Don’t worry, God provides for those us who just maybe have happened to sin after having been saved, saying “if we do sin we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the Righteous… if we confess our sin he is faithful and just to forgive us and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” To be sure, God makes impossible demands of us, but he himself makes the meeting of those demands possible by supplying the means through Jesus. He’s covered all the bases, he’s thought of everything. Each week, we go again to his table to eat a meal that makes the impossible possible, through Christ.    So, the practices and Sacraments of Worship have located me in a particular storyline. This storyline gives my existence an origin and a destination &#8211; both in God; the origin is beautiful and so is the destination. I’m swaddled in this story. Life is suddenly flushed with meaning and purpose; I came from somewhere, and I know where I’m going. I came from the loving heart of my Creator, and I am returning to Him to rejoice in the light of his beautiful, loving face.    “Without vision, the people perish,” says Proverbs (29:18). But I don’t have to grope in the darkness anymore; my life has been contextualized. I have a vision and a joy set before me. I can see the pages turning, I can see the movement on the stage of existence, and I’m beginning to pick up on the references that had always escaped me; I can finish the quotes that used to fall flat and meaningless upon my ears.    When someone says to me, “Behold, the Lamb of God!” I think to myself, “I know this story, this is my story!” And I reply, “Who takes away the sins of the world.” And when the world says to me, “You are not enough.” I finish the quote with, “Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world.” When my sad heart says, “I am too poor,” the Story in my bones pipes up with the proper reply, “You who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.” When I make the mistake of despairing and I say, “everything is lost, everything is worthless” the Holy Spirit makes available to me the mind of Christ, saying, “Behold, I make all things new.”  Closing Prayer Lord Jesus, lead us more deeply into the story you are telling. Give us eyes to see that you are not merely telling one story among many equal stories, but that you are the Root of Reality itself, and the story revealed in and through you is the only true context that makes sense of our hearts, our lives, and indeed, all things, since in you “all things hold together”. Amen. The post S3-E23 &#8211; Your Place in the Story, Pt. 1 &#8211; *or Anybody Want a Peanut? appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Peter and His Person Record Swim Time by Nicole Kelley | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/OTW_S3-E22-Nicole-Kelley-Peter.mp3 Nicole Kelley www.nicolekelleymusic.com I like to describe Nicole&#8217;s music as a mix between Rich Mullins and Lori McKenna.  There&#8217;s also definitely a bit of Sara Groves in there.  Nicole is married to Scott and they have four kids that they, and I quote, “not only love to pieces, but also really really like!” And, burglars beware, they’re house is guarded by 9 whole majestical furious pounds of Pom-Chi named Petey.  Nicole&#8217;s newly released album &#8220;Canyon Wide&#8221; is a beautiful collection of original songs that explore the faithfulness of Jesus across life&#8217;s many failures, griefs, and joys. Nicole&#8217;s thoughtful, carefully crafted lyrics are delivered in a most human and disarming way.  Through these songs, Nicole proves to be both a wise mentor and a good friend.   Instagram: @nicolekelleymusic  Find Nicole&#8217;s Music on iTunes and Spotify  To order a physical copy, email her: info@nicolekelleymusic &nbsp; &nbsp; Peter and His Personal Record Swim Time by Nicole Kelley   I feel like there are a lot of stories in the Bible that are often repeated, easily preached.  We all have our favorites.  What are some of yours?  We hear about Daniel in the lions’ den or Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace.  We see Jesus healing the leper, raising Lazarus, talking with Nicodemus about being born again.  We speak of Paul on his road to Damascus…the list goes on. And then there are the exploits of our 100% all-in apostle Peter.  We see him fishing; we see him chopping off a guy’s ear with his sword.  We hear him speaking in Acts, bravely testifying of the Word he has seen, the one he says is the only name under heaven by which we must be saved.  Brave words in the polytheistic culture of the Romans, as well as in the “how-can-Jesus-be-God-when-Israel-only-has-one-God” culture.  Those words are equally brave today. It’s interesting to me that these aren’t really the stories that Peter is most known for, am I right?  It seems like Peter is most famous for two things: almost sinking while walking on the water (let’s be honest; isn’t that the part we usually talk about?), and denying Jesus three times. I wonder if one reason we preach and talk so much about Peter’s denial of Jesus is that it seems like the one thing about Peter that we can best relate to.  We can find ourselves in his story so easily because, well…we see how our behavior continually falls short of what someone like Jesus would deserve, if we could serve him the way he deserves to be served.  Wait.  Or is it, “if we could serve Him the way we think he wants us to serve him.”  There is a difference.  One that keeps us continually disappointed not just in our behavior, but in ourselves.  And because we are disappointed in ourselves, that must mean that He is too. What does Jesus really want, anyway?  Whatever it is, we “know” we don’t have it to give, and yet it feels somehow he expects it.  But how does Jesus feel? Let’s fast forward to the scene in John 21, which is without a doubt my favorite scene in the entire Bible.  It’s the one where Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathaniel, Zebedee’s sons and two other disciples were together at the Sea of Tiberius. Peter decides he’s going fishing.  The others say, “We’re coming with you.”  They fish all night and catch nothing.  This is the story of their lives it seems, but I suppose their good fishing trips weren’t particularly noteworthy, so why write them down in the Bible, right?  Let’s continue… When daybreak comes, Jesus is standing on the shore, but the disciples don’t know it is Jesus.  He calls to them, “Children, have you no fish?”  They say no.  He tells them to cast to the right side of the boat and they will find some.  So they do, and they can’t haul the nets in because of the large number of fish. And so John…the one Jesus loved…says to Peter, “It is the Lord!”  Let’s stop right there and notice how John describes himself.  He doesn’t say, “the one who loved Jesus.”  He doesn’t say, “the one who never quite loved Jesus the way he should.”  He doesn’t say, “the disciple, the one who tried so hard to never mess anything up.”  Nope.  He does not identify himself by anything having to do with his doing-ness.  He is simply, “the one that Jesus loved.” Why would he say such a thing?  Was it because that’s what he knew he should say?  No.  He said it because he knew it firsthand.  His experience of Jesus from hanging out with him for a few years was, “this is Jesus, and he loves me.”  Jesus loves me.  This I know.  And this love from his Teacher defined him.  It RE-defined him.  It displaced every other way he might use to identify himself throughout all of his books and letters to the early church.  He is simply “the disciple Jesus loved.”  And he passes that love down to all the “little children” he writes to in his letters.  We are those “little children.” So back to Peter:  John says, “Hey Pete!  It’s the Lord!”  And dear, amazing, color-outside-the-lines Peter, what does he do?  He ties on his outer garment that he had taken off for fishing, and in true Peter fashion he throws himself into the sea.  No paddling with an oar, no thought for the boat, his friends, the fish that would be their income for that day.  He is focused on one thing, and one thing only: the Lord is there.  Anything between him and Jesus, watch out. What kind of heart does that?  And what sort of things would make a person jump out of a boat and leave everything just to get to your best friend and hero on the shore? Whatever it is, does it look like there is any shame in him?  I don’t see any.  I see excitement, confidence, and reckless abandon, and this from the man who swore he would never deny Jesus then turned around and did it three times in a row.  Immediately after that, we see him weeping bitterly.  But now he’s throwing himself into the water, because the boat is just too darn slow. What happened between Jesus and Peter to bring him to this moment?  SOMETHING HAPPENED.  Jesus happened. Maybe it’s our culture, or maybe it’s just human nature, but I feel like it’s more popular to preach on Peter’s denial of Jesus than it is to watch Peter swimming like crazy for the shore.  Why is that? I wonder if it’s easier for us to relate to the shame and disappointment of Peter, as he tries his hardest to live out loyalty from a weak flesh, but in his words and actions he denies the Lord.  Repeatedly.  And then he leaves weeping bitterly—and some of us add, “beating himself with a stick.”  I wonder if some of us get stuck at that place in the story, because we feel like we live there.  We build a summer home in shame and despair, and we might even feel that “Failure” is essentially who we are. If we were to hear a modern sermon preached on John 21, I feel like it might go something like, “God commands us to throw ourselves into the lake and swim.  We are commanded to glorify him by fishing all night if we have to, and never settle for just riding in a boat.  Train hard, swim hard for God.”  That’s an exaggeration, but am I right that this kind of viewpoint is pretty common in our culture?  Here’s the thing:  Peter didn’t do that because he was commanded to do it.  I think he did it because he wanted to be close to Jesus.  Jumping in and swimming was the expression of his heart in the presence of Jesus.  I think that speaks more to the weightiness of who Jesus is, reflected by a heart who has experienced his friendship, his care, his love…his pleasure to give his kingdom to his “little children.” Whatever happened after that horrible night of denial, whatever Jesus said to Peter after his resurrection, it took that shame and embarrassment away.  Permanently.  John 21 is a scene of contradiction to any narrative that would say otherwise.  What happened with Jesus?  Could it be that Jesus helped Peter to see that “you are not what you do,” and called him a man after God’s own heart?  Maybe he simply said, “I love you.  You are mine, and your sins are forgiven.  I am not ashamed of you, and you can’t mess that up.”  What do we need to hear from him?  What would help us let go of our own shame or discouragement?  What might cause us to throw ourselves into the lake and swim like crazy just to be near him?   My friend, you are near him, because he is near to you.  What do you need to hear from Jesus today?  If you are his, then you are God’s “little child.”  You are the disciple that Jesus loves.  And that is all you ever need be.  And if you find him on the shore cooking fish and inviting you to breakfast…he is most glad to see you! The post S3:E22 &#8211; Nicole Kelley, &#8220;Peter and His Personal Record Swim Time&#8221; appeared first on Matthew Clark.

God&#039;s Friends Getting Stuff Done by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/OTW_S3-E21-Gods-Friends-Getting-Stuff-Done.mp3   Did I ever tell you about the time I was stranded in the middle of Kansas with two flat tires? If I have, it’s a story worth retelling. It was in the middle of my yearly Fall House Concert tour, and I had enjoyed several days with friends in the Kansas City area, sharing songs and stories. Now, I was headed across the pancake plains of Kansas toward Denver to pick up the tour again in Colorado for a few weeks. There’s something beautifully calming about those vast treeless vistas and I was driving along quite contentedly, enjoying the journey, when several dash lights began to flash.  I’d never seen these particular hieroglyphs appear, and I had no idea what they were warning me about. But their frantic flashing yellow quickly convinced me to pull over and have a look around my van. Once I’d parked on the graveled shoulder of the road, I saw the problem. The rear double tires on the passenger side of Vandalf, my touring van, were goners. The outside tire was flimsy as a deflated balloon. Losing the outer tire had transferred all the weight of that side of the van onto the remaining inner tire, which caused it to almost instantly wear down. The tread was completely stripped, and it was bald as it could be. Had I ignored the dash warnings, that tire surely would have blown within another mile or two down the road and that entire side of the van would have collapsed on the rims, causing some serious damage and likely a dangerous accident.    Let me stop here and say that one way God provides for people is through incomprehensibly complex networks of decision-making that are embedded into everyday life over time. Some engineers detected the realities of force, momentum, friction, and the properties of rubber, asphalt, whatever the heck brakes are made out of and designed systems based on the interactions of those things to create safety mechanisms. That’s human attentiveness to the logic embedded into Creation by Jesus being used wisely for good, whether those doing that work were Christians or not.  Because God created a world in which potential (untapped potency) and rationale (intelligible inner workings)  could be combined through wisdom (decision-making based on God’s Logos) to realize plans, we have everything from ceiling fans to stop lights, penicillin to parking brakes, orchards to apple pies. This whole cosmos was thoughtfully crafted through Jesus, the Logos; and one of its characteristics is that wise participation in this cosmos is possible; because the patterns of right relationship among all things is available and discernible. This is one way God preemptively answers our prayer for safety as we pull out of the driveway toward a day of driving across Kansas.   Maybe you could call this something like residual provision; it’s just built into the cosmos. Or maybe it falls into the category of prevenient grace, which means grace that pre-vents. Do you hear the word ventilate in there? The embeddedness of the Logos in Creation, pre-ventilates &#8211; it is God’s before-breathing of graceful provision into the very stuff of created reality.     But let’s go back to my flat tire situation, and I’ll show you another more direct kind of provision that I experienced.   So, there I was on the side of the road with two flat tires in the middle of nowhere. Maybe to assuage my anxiety, I made a silly little video of the flat tires and posted it online. I didn’t explicitly ask for help, but within a few minutes I got a message from a thousand miles away asking if I was okay, saying some friends were praying for me, and to update them.  I got a tow truck, made into town, got the tires replaced and, by the end of a long day, I was back on the road. I updated my praying friends, who had asked about the cost of the whole ordeal. I told them around $600 I hadn’t planned on parting with. Within a couple of hours, I saw a notification on my phone that they’d sent me the full amount.    Let’s stop here and note another way in which God provides through prayer, even if that prayer lamely took the form of an instagram appeal to work out my own worry. Imagine with me for a minute, God, who sees me stranded on the roadside, saying to whichever of his friends may be listening around planet earth, “Can anybody help my son, Matthew? He’s stuck in Kansas with two flat tires.” Now imagine the ears of some listening child of God pricking up, as they hear God’s question. And they respond, “Sure, how can I help?” And then the Lord says, “Be creative, do what you can.” It seems to me that something like that actually took place that day. And it seems to me this is constantly taking place. God is paying attention to folk’s lives and prayers, and he is inviting us to join him in his work of care and provision for people. The Lord has a big network to say the least, and for those who are tuned in, he often broadcasts opportunities for us to jump onboard in some little way with the work of realizing his Kingdom here on earth. That’s really all obedience is; choosing to live God’s life with him.  Of course, those impressive stories don’t happen every day. On a basic level we are called by God to be wise. I can’t lay back, do nothing, call it faith, and expect bags of cash to show up. Sure, God can provide through miraculous generosity, but our baseline call is to wise, personal responsibility, through which God will provide the normative fruit of right-living.  But, since we are made in the image of Three-Personed God, our provision will follow that rationale, in other words, life is fundamentally collaborative. It is not good for a human to be alone, and God gets things done in this world by deliberately involving us in his work.   Just this morning I was noticing how Luke’s gospel got written. Of course, I don’t know how it happened exactly, but just imagine Luke’s context for a minute. It’s been 30 or so years since Jesus ascended, the Gospel has spread, the church has grown, but the generation that had direct contact with Jesus while he was on earth is aging. Generally, the believers are further out from the original events both geographically and time-wise. Some folks are beginning to wonder whether the story they’ve committed themselves to is reliable. They could use some help to maintain confidence in Christ, and Luke sees an opportunity and has an idea: What if someone put together a detailed historical account from the birth of Christ up to that moment? That could be helpful. The community around him agrees it’s a good idea for a project, and they begin brainstorming how to pull it off.   Well, someone who doesn’t mind traveling, is organized and good with people, and possibly has a few years to dedicate to it could get it done. They’d need to go find all the eyewitnesses. It’d be a lot of work to gather, compile, and edit all the relevant research, and assemble it. Luke says, “I’ll go, but, if I’m going to dedicate myself fully to the task, I need help.”   Voices mingle as the various needs are discussed. There’ll be travel, lodging, meals, and so forth. The cost will be substantial. The concerns are made known, and someone stands up in the assembly, one called Theophilus. Theophilus, likely a Roman convert, says, “I can’t go, but I can help. I’ll foot the bill. This is a good project, Luke’s a good man for the job, and I’d be happy to finance it.”  Maybe a few others follow suit and things get rolling; Luke sets out and now we have the Gospel of Luke and the Book of Acts, which are really one continuous narrative. Why? Because some listening praying folks picked up on a need and figured out how to pull it off by supporting each other with their gifts. God invited them into his project of redemption; they were tuned in, and they responded.    Interestingly, it has been suggested that Theophilus could be a nickname for someone who I could imagine was too humble to have his real name published. “Theo-Philus” is a name that literally means “Lover of God” or “God-Friend”. What is one of the main ways God gets things done in this world? Through his friends. When we are listening and responsive, picking up on needs and creatively engaging, God makes a place for us in his most beautiful, eternal redemptive work.    Broadcasting Lord, is there a song to hear  Seeping to the roots  And threading here beneath the beating  Noise Floor of our boots?  Beneath the stomping heartbeat  A silence made for prayer? A quietness like untilled earth,   A music buried there?    Lord, is there a frequency  A rhythmic arm swung free  Antennaed above a listening field  Broadcasting little seeds,  Each a note of potency   Awaiting soil’s reception  Bending to the hidden song  Attuned to Love’s inflection?     Tongues may plow the marrow  Prayers may fold the furrow down  To lightly burden the rusty barrow And wheel it into town.  To make some phrase the quiet sang  Break husk and set the table,  Where someone hungry looked for rain  And found the heavens able. The post S3:E21 &#8211; God&#8217;s Friends Getting Stuff Done appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Dear Friend, A Letter by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/OTW_S3-E20-Dear-Friend-A-Letter.mp3 Dear Friend, &nbsp; I’m writing this to you from the blue chair by the bookcase in my room in Mississippi. I can hear the soft hush of the A/C unit and it’s reminding me to breathe in and breath out. The last time I heard from you, you mentioned that you were having such a hard time sleeping a lot of nights lately. Everybody’s mind is racing right now. I’ve been having anxious dreams at night myself. Sometimes I’m hugging a cliff a mile off the ground, clenching my eyes, hands sweating, trying not to slide off the edge. Other nights, the parking brake on my big van snaps and I roll backwards, helplessly, down a hill into a lake; and I’m racing to scramble out of the window while the whole thing sinks. There are more, but you get the gist. And that’s after I’ve finally gotten to sleep.  I am sorry you’re not sleeping. “In the morning counsels are best, and night changes many thoughts”. That’s something I remember from Tolkien. There is something about nighttime that affects feelings and thoughts. Or maybe it’s just that when we lay down and get still, all that was held back by the day – by our busyness – floods in. It takes a while for the waters to stop swirling. I pray for you. I pray the Spirit of God would hover over that dark whirlpool and smooth out the ripples and wrinkles “like brushing cloth”.   That reminds me, when I was little, my Grandmother used to always have us make the bed when we’d visit. She’d bring out just-cleaned sheets, and whatever bed was mine, we’d make it together. I remember specifically her beautiful, old Grandmother hands carefully and slowly smoothing the wrinkles out of the bedspread. It was so perfect, like still waters. Even better than all that though, were her back-rubs. Grandmother used to lay her palm flat across our little kid backs and press down and roll-up, then the next palm, and the next – that was an elephant walking across. Then she’d tiptoe little tickly finger-tips all over the place – that was the mice scurrying. I wanted it to never end. &nbsp; Surely, there can’t be something good in humanity that doesn’t exist in some way in God. Laughter, affection, the kind of warm, silly touch we used to get as little kids at Grandmother’s house. If God is love, then the love Grandmother showed me was made out of God’s love, right down to every little mouse-paw-print on my back at bedtime. All that to say, I’m praying you can feel the Lord’s affection and calm tonight when you lay in bed, trying to sleep.   Just a little while ago, my brother and I aired up the tires on our bikes and pedaled around the neighborhood. I haven’t left the house in seven or eight days. I stuck my arm out the door to feel the temperature one morning, and I’ve checked the mail a couple of times. One evening I did sit and watch the sun setting while Venus rose, bright and clear a little Southwest.  The trees around the neighborhood are all tipped in bright new green. The white azalea shrubs look like popcorn balls. Someone was just finishing mowing their yard as we glided by; I wanted to endlessly inhale the millions of tiny exhalations from every tender cut blade. Have you ever seen beekeepers harvest honey? When they slice off the wax that seals the honey in the comb and it’s freed to flow? I think that lawnmower did that for that grass, and we sucked up the sweetness as we passed by. It’s been too wet to mow our lawn. Well, the truth is we kind of prefer it a little wild. It becomes like a meadow covered in tiny white flowers every one about the size of your pinky nail. Each bloom has six white pointed petals and a little gathering of egg-yolk-yellow stamen glittering in the middle. I don’t know what they are. I may have to wait till the Kingdom comes to really know. Do you remember The Dawn Treader? “In our world,” said Eustace, “a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.” And Ramandu says, “Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of.” Who knows what these little meadow-stars really are? Actually, Meadow Stars seems like a nice name for them. Let’s call them that, how about it?    Well, dear friend, I’ve moved from the blue chair out to where the meadow stars grow. As I write this letter to you, a big cloud is lumbering by overhead. It’s a dark cloud, but it’s moving on. Behind it, the sky is pale and smooth as Grandmother’s bedspread. I’m asking the Lord for something good to say to you. Something that’ll help. Do you remember talking about how hard it can be to get what’s inside out into words? I worry about saying the right thing, the best thing, the perfect thing. That’s paralyzing. I end up saying nothing. Maybe it’s worth trying to say something clever. I know it’s worth trying to say something true beautifully. I think about Jesus coming to live here. He’s something good God wanted to say. A Word that would help us. I know that’s too simple a way to say it. Jesus is a Word that we’ll never get finished hearing. And he’s just what Our Father meant to say; no gap between inside meaning and outside expression into words. “If you’ve seen me, Philip, you have seen the Father.” I think that’s one of the hardest things about how things are right now. It feels like the words are garbled, or that we’re waiting to hear a word and the mailbox is empty day after day. I miss being able to give you a big hug on Sundays. Singing beside you – your voice mingling with mine and a hundred others. I miss long talks at the coffeeshop without having to worry. I want a cure, some immunity against all this helplessness. I do miss you. And I love you. Don’t forget that this is just as true as it ever was, while we’re apart.   Well, this letter has gotten long and gangly. Thanks for hanging with me. That’s always encouraged me more than any clever thing, just that you’d give me a place with you. A place where I could fiddle around with what I’m thinking and feeling and trying to say to you. Someone said, “The hardest thing to do is say what you mean.” Like I’ve already brought up, I think God is the only one who’s ever managed it, and can you imagine anyone who knows better than Jesus what it’s like to feel that no one understands what you’re trying to say? Communion and communication are very closely related words – each rooted in the other. &nbsp; &nbsp; The evening is coming on and my bare feet are a little chilly. The music the frogs and crickets make – blissful in their ignorance of the world’s woes – is too sweet to leave too quickly.  Oh, Venus has just peeped out, bright and steady. The brightness is softened by the air in a sort of halo. That planet shines like some faraway, barely audible Word. I almost feel like I’m on the wrong world – that bright one there is where I belong, everything here is so brittle and crazy. Especially right now. I know you are feeling it, everyone is.   Still, some word is making it through to us, I think. Some mouth is taking shape like a warm halo around words. It’s hard to hear them or understand the language right now. The conversation feels like it might as well be taking place on Venus somedays. But, then again, when I think of you, dear friend, that speech feels like it’s right up against my ear, brushing my cheek. The words have some blood in them – a kind of tenderness that I would have missed if I weren’t leaning in so hard, starved for them.   If you’re reading this at bedtime, God bless you and keep you. I pray his powerful affection will surround whatever is surrounding you right now. That you’d hear him breathe out over those violent waters his Word, “Peace”.   Until I see you again, all my love. M. &#8220;Dear Friend&#8221; was originally published in the Spring 2020 Issue of The Cultivating Project The post S3:E20 &#8211; Dear Friend, A Letter appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Easter: Secret Strength &amp; Deeper Magic by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/OTW_S2-E22-Easter-Secret-Strength-Deeper-Magic.mp3 The following is a version edited for length of the full length article, &#8220;Easter in the Liturgical Year&#8221; by the late Fr. Alexander Schmemann. In the center of our liturgical life, in the very center of that time which we measure as year, we find the feast of Christ’s Resurrection. What is Resurrection? Resurrection is the appearance in this world, completely dominated by time and therefore by death, of a life that will have no end. The one who rose again from the dead does not die anymore. In this world of ours, not somewhere else, not in a world that we do not know at all, but in our world, there appeared one morning Someone who is beyond death and yet in our time. This meaning of Christ’s Resurrection, this great joy, is the central theme of Christianity&#8230;  The center, the day, that gives meaning to all days and therefore to all time, is that yearly commemoration of Christ’s Resurrection at Easter. This is always the end and the beginning. We are always living after Easter, and we are always going toward Easter. Easter is the earliest Christian feast. The whole tone and meaning of the liturgical life of the Church is contained in Easter, together with the subsequent fifty-day period, which culminates in the feast of the Pentecost, the coming down of Holy Spirit upon the Apostles. This unique Easter celebration is reflected every week in the Christian Sunday… every Sunday we have a little Easter. St. Paul says: &#8220;If Christ is not risen, then your faith is in vain.&#8221; There is nothing else to believe. This is the real center, and it is only in reference to Easter as the end of all natural time and the beginning of the new time in which we as Christians have to live that we can understand the whole liturgical year.  We are no longer people who are living in time as [if it were] a meaningless process, which makes us first old and then ends in our disappearance. We are given not only a new meaning in life, but even death itself has acquired a new significance. In the Troparion at Easter we say, &#8220;He trampled down death by death.&#8221; We do not say that He trampled down death by the Resurrection, but by death. A Christian still faces death as a decomposition of the body, as an end; yet in Christ, in the Church, because of Easter, because of Pentecost, death is no longer just the end but it is the beginning also. It is not something meaningless which therefore gives a meaningless taste to all of life. Death means entering into the Easter of the Lord. Christianity is, first of all, the proclamation in this world of Christ’s Resurrection.    We often use the term &#8220;grace.&#8221; But what is grace? Charisma in Greek means not only grace but also joy. &#8220;And I will give you the joy that no one will take away from you&#8230;&#8221; If I stress this point so much, it is because I am sure that, if we have a message to our own people, it is that message of Easter joy which finds its climax on Easter night. When we stand at the door of the church and the priest has said, &#8220;Christ Is Risen,&#8221; then the night becomes, in the terms of St. Gregory of Nyssa, &#8220;lighter than the day.&#8221; This is the secret strength, the real root of Christian experience. Only within the framework of this joy can we understand everything else. Special Thanks to Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson for reading our Narnia passage this week. Please visit her website: http://kirstinjeffreyjohnson.com/ Kirstin has a wonderful Instagram account I bet you&#8217;d love: @mythopoeic_life Kirstin, among many other scholarly works, has written and edited some great material on The Inklings and George Macdonald that you should definitely check out. She&#8217;s also featured in the documentary &#8220;The Fantasy Makers &#8211; Tolkien, Lewis, and MacDonald&#8221; on Amazon Prime.  Here&#8217;s the trailer for that:  The post S3:E19 &#8211; Easter: Secret Strength and Deeper Magic appeared first on Matthew Clark.

Holy Week: Easter Sunday by Matthew Clark &amp; Friends | One Thousand Words https://www.matthewclark.net/mcwordpress/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/OTW_S2-E21-Holy-Week-Easter-Sunday.mp3 John 20:11-18   But Mary stood outside the tomb weeping. As she wept, she bent down and looked into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white sitting where Jesus’ body had been lying, one at the head and one at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” Mary replied, “They have taken my Lord away, and I do not know where they have put him!” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?” Because she thought he was the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic, “Rabboni” (which means Teacher). Jesus replied, “Do not touch me, for I have not yet ascended to my Father. Go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene came and informed the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them what Jesus had said to her.   Imagine with me  &#8211; Amy Baik Lee, “In the space of a single word”   The women who had followed Jesus from Galilee stood at a distance watching Him breathe His last.  On the day of Preparation they followed Joseph of Arimathea and saw the tomb and Jesus’ body laid in it. The record in Luke says nothing of how they felt, or what they said amongst themselves, or how long they lingered in the last place they might see their Lord.  But their next act reminds me poignantly of a mother who once wrote about preparing for the death of her terminally ill daughter. All throughout the daughter’s young life she had packed her lunch for school, and snacks, clothes, and toys for family trips. But in those grief-weighted days at the end… what could she pack for her now? What could she give her for this long journey?  The women went back and prepared spices and ointments before the sun set and Sabbath began. This was, perhaps, the last loving thing they would be able to do for Jesus.  And none of it would be needed.  What happened to those spices? Did they fall to the ground with the women’s faces as the angels asked, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” Were they clutched in their arms as the women took to their feet, leaving a fragrant trail of haste and incredulity?  * In his gospel, John continues the account. Mary Magdalene stands weeping after the disciples have come and beheld the empty tomb and gone home. The spices are no longer present — but neither is the body they were intended for.  The two angels in the tomb ask her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him,” she replies. She turns to see a man, likely the gardener, who asks her the same question.  She does not know him until He says her name.  All the post-resurrection moments in which the eyes of Jesus’ followers open to recognize Him have something to tell us, I think; this one arrests my heart. After all the earth-shattering events whose import and magnitude could be sensed, even if not fully comprehended; after the piercing agony of watching from a distance, and wondering what will become of her and the women with her; after wishing to catch one last sight of His body, at the very least, and yearning to hear His voice just one more time — here He is, and all He says is a single word. Not His own name, as He told Moses and the Israelites with equal succinctness so long ago — but hers. “Mary.” In the space of that word, I remember that the Chief Shepherd calls each of His sheep by name. The Captain of the Fishers of Men is, astonishingly, not in the business of pulling up anonymous crowds in a net; we are each line-caught, as it were.  In the tidal rush of world events and catastrophes, we are not forgotten. It is a truth that the Sons of Korah knew ages ago: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea…” (Ps. 46:1-2) — and it is a truth reiterated straightaway by the resurrected presence of Christ. He is here, with me, with you, not vaguely, not abstractly, not merely on the level of nations, but right here.  * Today we were to host an Easter egg hunt. How I miss the sound of children laughing in the spring slant of sunlight across the garden. There ought to be bunting fluttering overhead here, and merry shouts of discovery, and the silent rejoicing of emerging tulips to trumpet Christ’s resurrection with color and vim.  But white snow blankets the ground instead, as heavy as the drift of this spring’s headlines. In place of putting up the banded banners, we’ve covered the strawberry crowns.  Make no mistake: we will rise to the joy of the occasion nonetheless; we will tuck a few eggs into bookshelves and hidden corners, and gather around the table with clasped hands and hearts full of wonder at the decisiveness of the Lord’s victory. We will still make way for “foolish and crucially beautiful things,” as Matthew mentioned on Wednesday, especially in this time of grief and limitation. But perhaps the best commemoration I can make — the act most resonant with that new and holy morning so many years ago — is to come with confidence before the throne of grace, and look full in the face of His love. This Love who was not satisfied to die for mankind in one indistinguishable mass, but who stooped to look the desperate invalid in the eye, who raised His head to call directly to the single outcast in the sycamore tree. This Love who knows my face, and who calls me by my own name.  And so it is that we may turn from the ever-present specter of death with the gladness of Mary hearing the voice from beyond the grave. In place of spices to mask the decay of shrouded hope, here is, instead, the fragrance of life coming upon the wind of the Spirit — deep strength and purpose and joy in the face of an ageless Gardener as He prepares a place for us.    Alleluia; He is risen indeed.    Poem: Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson; John Updike &#8211; “Seven Stanzas at Easter”  &nbsp; Make no mistake: if he rose at all It was as His body; If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit, The amino acids rekindle, The Church will fall.   It was not as the flowers, Each soft spring recurrent; It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the Eleven apostles; It was as His flesh; ours.   The same hinged thumbs and toes The same valved heart That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered Out of enduring Might New strength to enclose.   Let us not mock God with metaphor, Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence, Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded Credulity of earlier ages: Let us walk through the door.   The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache, Not a stone in a story, But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of Time will eclipse for each of us The wide light of day.   And if we have an angel at the tomb, Make it a real angel, Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in The dawn light, robed in real linen Spun on a definite loom.   Let us not seek to make it less monstrous, For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty, Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed By the miracle, And crushed by remonstrance.   Song: Son of Laughter (Chris Slaten), “The Gardener”    Amid the morning mist the gardener sings  To infant stems he bends almost whisperings  Their young unopened fists are softening  Their lily heads shall spread open offerings    I am learning how to see  Oh what is not as it shall be  And he is still singing over me    You found me by the riverside  So sick of my old ways I cried  I try, I try but I see no change in me    And you told me, Love change can be slow  Just look how long this river goes  To sketch its steep canyon deep calligraphies   I am learning how to see  Oh what is not as it shall be  And he is still singing over me And that rivers’s still washing over me    So I was so confused the day we buried you  Searching in vain for a reply  I kissed the lines along your eyes  If we’re the work of thousands of days  Well, who could throw such work away?     Amid the morning mist the gardener sings  To infant stems he bends almost whisperings  And I stand alone in his periphery  Where this cemetery carries many scattered seeds    And I am learning how to see  Oh, what is not as it shall be  Yes, all that I’ve loved and all that I’ve known  Will one day be laid in this valley of bones  And with a song the Gardener  Will call all we are not as if we were  And will come springing from the earth   Prayer: Brian Brown, The Collect for Easter Sunday    O God, who for our redemption gave your only-begotten Son to the death of the cross, and by his glorious resurrection delivered us from the power of our enemy: Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his resurrection; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. *The artwork featured above was created by Shannon Sigler. The post S3:E18: Holy Week: Easter Sunday appeared first on Matthew Clark.