bone-chilling precipice

I won’t sugarcoat this: Standing on the precipice of the wilderness is bone-chilling. Because belonging is so primal, so necessary, the threat of losing your tribe or going alone feels so terrifying as to keep most of us distanced from the wilderness our whole lives. Human approval is one of our most treasured idols, and the offering we must lay at its hungry feet is keeping others comfortable. I’m convinced that discomfort is the great deterrent of our generation. Protecting the status quo against our internal convictions is obviously a luxury of the privileged, because the underdogs and outliers and marginalized have no choice but to experience the daily wilderness. But choosing the wily outpost over the security of the city gates takes a true act of courage. That first step will take your breath away.

Speaking against power structures that keep some inside and others outside has a cost, and the currency most often drafted from my account is belonging. Consequently, the wilderness sometimes feels very lonely and punishing, which is a powerful disincentive. But I’ve discovered something beautiful; the loneliest steps are the ones between the city walls and the heart of the wilderness, where safety is in the rearview mirror, new territory remains to be seen, and the path into the unknown seems empty. But put one foot in front of the other enough times, stay the course long enough to actually tunnel into the wilderness, and you’ll be shocked how many people already live out there – thriving, dancing, creating, celebrating, belonging. It is not a barren wasteland. It is not unprotected territory. It is not void of human flourishing. The wilderness is where all creatives and prophets and system-buckers and risk-takers have always lived, and it is stunningly vibrant. The walk out there is hard, but the authenticity out there is life.

– Jen Hatmaker, quoted in Brene Brown’s Braving the Wilderness

questions of life

[A passage from a soon-to-be-released book appealing for a newly invigorated role for theology in helping us live a good life:]

The most theological thing I have ever done was to plant a church—a community in which Bible scholars, ethicists, philosophers, and, yes, a stray “theologian” proper, have done theology as we have lived theologically. A community in which graphic designers, poets, musicians, sociologists, and even lawyers and medical doctors have become “accidental theologians.” It began almost imperceptibly and quite by accident. We should have known something theological was afoot when we found ourselves spending evenings on a back porch listening to a friend—a Christian Nietzsche scholar perched, with not a hint of ironic self-consciousness, on a stump in the backyard—call us to live lives that amounted to more than a never-ending quest for ever-greater degrees of comfort. I remember waking up at 3:30 a.m. to walk with that friend three miles across town to the train station—simply because walking was more life-giving than driving and the conversation along the way was worth the effort. Summer evenings were spent poring over Karl Barth, Søren Kierkegaard, C. S. Lewis, Kwame Bediako, Marilynne Robinson, and, yes, Nietzsche, with the visceral sense that our lives depended on the words on the pages. The questions of life were theological because theology was the question of life. Where to live—and with whom—was a theological question. We bought houses together; we shared cars. How and whether to own at all was a theological question. Rhythms of work and rest were a matter of deep theological reflection. Art and beauty were perhaps among the most theological questions of all. Theology was a question about the nature of the life we were living together.

building community

I have learned that when plants put roots into the soil, their roots do not simply suck water and nutrients out. They share. They build community. They put out sugars, proteins and carbohydrates—“cakes and cookies”—
that gather and feed a communion of microfauna, whose activities hold and return nutrients that the plants themselves cannot make, at just the rate and amount that they require. The most important thing in good soil is
not nutrition, but biology. Or, to say the same thing: the richness known to plants is not an abundance of stuff, but an abundance of relationship.

– Marcus Peter Rempel, Life at the End of Us Vs. Them: Cross Culture Stories

celebrating difference

Working for an inclusive community of love and justice doesn’t mean throwing all of us with our various beliefs into a big blender so that our believing and belonging become homogenized. It means being able to celebrate difference and argue for our point of view without wanting to imprison or kill those who differ from us.

  • Alan Jones, Reimagining Christianity

psalm 42 retold

[SSU ministry student, Jessica Williams, recently shared this personal re-telling of Psalm 42]:

As a newborn babe cries out for the milk of her mother, so I cry out for you, O God.

I thirst for God, the living God.

As an orphaned child longs to be held by the arms of their parents, I have longed to be held by You.

When can I go and stand before the One who made me?

Day in and day out I taste these tears that fall upon my lips,

And evil endures in ways that confound me, saying

“Where is this God of yours?”

My heart is breaking inside my chest,

It wasn’t always like this.

I can remember a time when the church felt like a safe shelter,

I walked in freely and we worshiped together.

There was space for me and we sang with joy in our hearts, giving thanks in celebration.

So how did I get here?

Why has this pain come now?

I am sick with sadness, it reaches to my core.

Put your hope in God, I say. And I will. I will hope in God.

I will hope in Goodness. I will hope in Love. I will hope in Beauty and in the power of the Human Spirit. I will hope in Compassion and in Mercy and in Justice. I will hope in unruly children and in rebellious youth and in persistent women and in kind men who are willing to change their minds.

I will hope in God.

And I will find a way to praise You again.

But, right now, I am deeply discouraged.

Still, I remember You.

Even from the far-away place of my youth. The Cascade Mountains, the source of the Deschutes River and the land surrounding Cougar Mountain. That is where I knew you first.

But the deepest places in me keep calling out to the deepest places.

I hear the tumult of the raging seas as wave after soul crushing wave sweeps over me.

The tide pulls me out again.

I cannot catch my breath.

And yet, every day of my life, You’ve poured out your unfailing love upon me.

And even through the darkest nights your songs were on my lips.

I have found that I can only pray to the God who gives me life.

O God, You’re the only thing that’s stable here, but still I cry,

“Where are you? Have you really forgotten me?”

Why am I still wandering around in grief? I’m unable to see a path and the darkness laughs, saying, “Where is this God of yours?”

I am so discouraged.

My heart is sick with sadness.

But I will bury my hope down deep into God.

And one day, I will praise You again.