Asking New Questions: What is God Up To?

Written by Jonathan Bowell

Some people hate when a song gets stuck in their head. I rather enjoy it. I’ll sing it over and over again, trying my layman’s best for a harmony until my throat aches or my wife yells at me to leave her alone. What good are killer harmonies unless someone else hears them? Sticky songs become a sort of soundtrack for my day, as if I was a character in a movie.

I feel the same way about Bible verses. Sometimes a verse will get stuck in my head, or perhaps my heart, and give shape to everything else I think about. It happened recently with Psalm 111, which says in verses 2-4:

“Great are the works of the Lord,
    studied by all who delight in them.
Full of splendor and majesty is his work,
    And his righteousness endures forever.
He has caused his wondrous works to be remembered;
    The Lord is gracious and merciful.”

The Psalmist states that those who delight in God study his works. That is, when they read the Bible they don’t ask first and foremost, “What does this passage contribute to my broader theological framework?” or, “What does this passage tell me about how I am supposed to live?”  Rather, they ask, “What is God up to?”  And not only is that a helpful question to ask when reading scripture, but also when reading our lives. 

Paul Tripp says, “Human beings do not live based on the facts but based on their interpretation of the facts. You don’t actually respond to what’s going on around you, you respond to the sense you have made of what is going on around you – always carrying around an interpretative grid to make sense of your life.” What if our interpretative grid for this season of coronavirus and quarantine was the simple question asked with hopeful curiosity: “What is God up to?” Not because we think we can understand every detail of God’s plan or because we want to explain away our pain, but because God is working his grace into our lives and he wants us to sense it and sync up with it. That is what Psalm 111 is all about. This sort of “interpretative grid” allows us to look at churned up soil and, instead of seeing a destroyed earth, see the perfect conditions for growth beneath the surface. 

Allow me to apply this to our church plant. Just a few months ago, our church plant was beginning to gain momentum. We had just launched our third community group, welcomed in our second wave of new members, and were two weeks away from moving our Sunday gathering into a local elementary school when the chaos broke loose. It has taken time, but we have begun to ask, with hopeful curiosity, “What is God up to?” As a result, our vision is coming into focus on the three ways He is cultivating growth in our church.  

1.  A renewed focus on prayer. Through both an increase in needs and an increase in time, God is cultivating a spirit of prayer in our body. We may have less face-to-face conversations with our brothers and sisters and the people we are seeking to reach, but we can now have more face-to-face conversation with God on their behalf. He is making us into a truly praying church--something that, if it depended on my leadership, would not have happened otherwise.  

2.  A renewed appreciation for our friendships. It is easy in a church planting context to grow tired of the same old people you see every week and become burdened by all the work that goes into hosting a Sunday gathering.  But this season of physical distance is reminding us of the great blessing of being together, and our excitement is growing to create stronger rhythms of "life together". In fact, God is already strengthening our bonds through more prayer for one another and our weekly connection via social media. 

3.  A renewed commitment to micro-mission.  By "micro-mission" I mean those small acts of love for the people closest to us. Dreaming about how to bring Gospel transformation to the city is good, but it's important we remember it always starts "close to home.” As our centers of gravity have shifted, our people are intentionally reaching out to, serving, and building stronger relationships with neighbors, close friends, and their immediate family members. God is giving us opportunities to move towards those we normally take for granted. My intent in sharing these examples with you is not to promote cheap positive thinking. The pain is real and if we move too quickly past it we will miss the God who is at work in the midst of it. But there is more going on than meets the eye at first glance. God is up to something beneath the surface. “Great are the works of the Lord, studied by all who delight in them.” May the lyrics of Psalm 111 be to you an interpretative magnifying glass through which you investigate your suffering for signs of grace. May they be a louder and stickier soundtrack than your doubts and fears. 

Trading Fear for Freedom

Written by Holly Paulette
[This piece was originally posted on RelevantMagazine.com.]

We chalked up my childhood anxiety to an irrational, somewhat-fleeting, crazy-child phase. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, convinced that my nightmare wasn’t actually a dream, or my stomach ache was because of a huge tumor growing within me, or that an intruder was on the other side of the door about to kill me. Staring for minutes that seemed like hours at glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, I'd think, “This is it. This is the rest of my life. I’ll never sleep again.” 

I’d stumble, sobbing and incoherent, to my parents' bedside, and they’d be up with me for hours in a futile attempt to soothe me out of yet another panic attack.

Fortunately for my parents’ sanity, the phase passed, and I went about 10 years without an attack.

Then I met Jesus. Life got really good, in that fall-in-love, find-great-friends, everything-is-perfect kind of way. And that childhood anxiety? Back and more overwhelming than before. 

I had this irrational fear that God kept inventory of all the blessings He gave me, and once it reached the quota, He’d strike me down. Whenever I received a blessing, I refused to believe that it would last, and, the longer it lasted, the more anxious I’d be that it was nearing it’s inevitable end. 

When life is going well, we don't want to relinquish control, but, as circumstances spiral, we're reminded that we actually never had control in the first place. That's when fears kick in, and we're given the decision to either pretend they're not there or trust God with our chaos.

Matt Chandler said, “The worst thing you can do with fear and anxiety is to pretend you’re too strong to have them. The best thing you can do is just to let Him be in charge of them. Because He’s in charge anyway. And in Him, you’re in His peace.”

We run from believing that God will comfort and run to whatever we think will dissolve the anxiety for the time being. Inevitably, though, what we think will heal us--distractions, addictions, idolatry--will simply harm us more. And in that moment, God begs us to trust His goodness and hand our fears over. 

In the dictionary, the word "freedom" is listed as an antonym for "control," so believing the promise that He is in charge leads us to trust in the One who lavishly provides freedom from our fears.

When we stop running from Him and choose to trust Him, three things happen.

1. We become brave enough to hear God's answer to our scariest prayers.

Praying that prayer—telling God, “I’m so fearful that something bad is going to happen,”—is threatening to the anxious soul because God has every right to respond, “So what if it does?”

Ignoring the question doesn't change God's mind. It's not a heavenly game of hide-and-go-seek. When we run from anxiety and pretend it isn't there, God sees straight through us, but His will doesn't shift. 

But when we stop hiding from His answer, we recognize that He responds that way because of His sovereignty. Even better, when He proclaims His sovereignty, we learn that our fear is smaller than His grace. In His goodness, "So what if something bad happens?" means, "If it does, I'm still King, and you're still Mine."

 2. Anxiety becomes less terrifying.

A panic attack always becomes worse when the sufferer starts to panic about the panic attack. 

Jesus tells us that we will struggle and fear and fail. He also says to take heart, because He's overcome the world. When Jesus proclaims that He has the victory, He didn't mean that He has control over everything except our anxiety. 

He didn't say, "Run from me, and we can pretend your fears don't exist." He said, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." In His grace, God strips the fear out of our worst nightmares because He knows what happens at the end of our story. His rest is our peace.

3. Joy becomes natural.

When we stare fear in the face, our natural instinct is often to flee. But, if we shift our focus away from the fear and onto the Lord, we choose to fight. And our strongest weapon and sharpest sword is joy. 

As we resist ignoring our anxieties and begin to hand them over to God, our instincts change. We choose to fight back with hope-infused joy. The hope that the Creator of it all has it all--even our fears--in His mighty hands leads us straight to the foot of the cross, where anxious thoughts lose their power and where inexplicable joy and peace is found. 

[Note from Holly: Anxiety is not always primarily or completely a spiritual issue. While this article references my personal experience with fear, please know that there is anxiety and panic that necessitate professional and/or medical help.]

Quarantine Corner: Curated content for life on lockdown - Week 4

Written by Michael Worrall

Why do we listen, read and watch? 

We’ve talked about being choosy eaters but we haven’t talked about the appetite that brings us to the table. What hunger leads us to stories of brokenness and redemption? What craving draws us to music that moves us? Why do we find our souls stirred by works of art?

Maybe it is because we are meaning-makers and our appetite is for significance.
Maybe it is because we are creatures and our appetite is for our Creator.
Maybe it is both.

In The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis calls the appetite “longing.” He says,

“The books or the music in which we thought the beauty (or meaning, or Creator) was located will betray us if we trust them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” 

What if the stories and songs we love awaken in us a longing for meaning and home? 
What if they awaken our heart’s hunger for shalom - the flourishing, abundant life for which we were created? 

Listen: (I am) Origami, Pt. 2 - Every Power Wide Awake by John Van Deusen
(Available on bandcamp or Spotify)

John Van Deusen calls Every Power Wide Awake “a record of prayers” and that is a fitting description. The album starts with “All Shall Be Well” and finishes with “I Will Praise Your Name, Yahweh” and in between explores the hills and valleys of the life of faith. I’d recommend you listen to the whole record straight through, but if you want to dip your toes first listen to: “None Other” and “No Limit to Your Love”  

Read: ‘Til We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis

There aren’t many stories that leave lasting images in your mind and heart, but ‘Til We Have Faces is one of them. Lewis retells the myth of Cupid and Psyche and explores the nature of love, faith, pride, longing, and more. You will get to the end and feel some combination of wonder and gut-punch - as if the wind has been knocked out of you. You will be tempted to retrace the story to try to make sense of it, but let me encourage you to sit and wonder and then reread it in a year or two. 

Watch: Lion (for rent on Amazon)

I can barely write about this movie without *tearing up. Lion is about longing for home. It tells the story of an Indian boy, Saroo Brierly, who gets lost as a young child, placed in an orphanage, and eventually adopted by an Australian family. As he grows so does his memory of and longing for his mother and brother in India. The movie follows Saroo as he tries to find his family and find home. *Seriously, keep tissues handy, my wife and I wept for 10 minutes straight after it ended.

If you want to read more about the idea in the introduction here is a great interview with Mike Cosper about why we love stories.

Choosing Hope on Saturday

Written by Holly Paulette

I received an orchid as a gift soon after delivering our daughter back in December. I have killed exactly 100-percent of the plants entrusted to my care, so, understandably, my husband had little faith in my ability to keep this beautiful orchid alive. After a few weeks of staring at what looked to be a drooping, dead stem poking up from dry dirt, he gave up on me and threw the orchid in the trash can. Appalled, I dug it out and put it right back where it belonged on my windowsill. I shoved an ice cube in its little pot once a week and hoped for the best--mostly to prove my husband wrong, but also because I needed something tactile to hang onto. 

Outside my windowsill, we had just shifted from distant empathy to too-close-for-comfort in the Coronavirus pandemic. The green buds slowly emerging on that stand-alone stem were a hope in the midst of crisis, and I was waiting expectantly for the flowers.

Weeks passed, and one morning, against all odds, I noticed a little white flower had bloomed. Though it felt impossible in the midst of its circumstances (namely having me as its plant mom), life sprung from what was once assumed dead. Of course I was very humble about it all and definitely didn’t immediately wave its success in my husband’s face.

It’s been a weird Holy Week in my little world and, if I had to guess, in the world as a whole. My Kroger ClickList order failed me, so we’ll probably fill Easter eggs with semi-sweet chocolate chips and raisins found in my pantry rather than candy (sorry, kids). Families won’t travel to celebrate, local egg hunts will be cancelled, bunny costumes may stay in storage til next year. Most of all, our church family won’t gather. There will be no corporate “He is risen, indeed.” I hate to admit it, but Holy Week hasn’t felt quite so holy. 

There’s a heaviness in our present day that has overpowered the holy sorrow leading up to our Savior’s death. I’m so much more consumed with mourning this pandemic than mourning my King with a crown of thorns. And it’s understandable--death tolls keep rising. In our quirky little town, the southern charm of friendly smiles is hidden beneath masks. And in our homes, we’re getting weary. Our kids no longer consider this an “extended spring break.” Everyone is getting on everyone’s nerves. 

I feel that same anxious pang in my soul--a much more magnified version of what I felt looking at my poor orchid. My faith in the Creator of the universe has not wavered, but it has changed from its typical Holy Week reverence to a desperate cry for mercy.

He already has saved us from all this earthly pain--but we still have to wait for the fulfillment of that rescue. I’ve been thinking a lot about that Saturday--the day following the crucifixion, the day preceding the empty tomb. Those who loved Him, who walked with Him mere hours before, were faced with a choice: would they lose hope or choose hope? 

Many have pointed out how every day feels like a Monday right now (and that’s true enough), but it might be more true that every day is like the Saturday of waiting. We know Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore, but bless it--today is hard. The Saturday waiting threatens to steal our hope.

Jesus took on our suffering. He’s not only aware of what we’re experiencing today--it’s exactly the thing He willingly walked into and willingly died to redeem. This is not God’s good garden. This is not His promised Revelation 21 new heaven and new earth. This is the messy middle, the result of the fall, the essence of all we’re preparing to celebrate on Easter morning. This is the Saturday, and I’m choosing hope. This Holy Week has been a far cry from normal, but maybe, if we lean into it, it could be more meaningful than we imagined.

Bob Goff once wrote, “Darkness fell, His friends scattered, hope seemed lost. But heaven just started counting to three.”

May we be a people who count to three, hopeful and anticipating the rescue that we know we’re bound for. And may we see signs of hope, like my resilient orchid, and remember John 16:20, when Jesus is speaking to his disciples during the Last Supper--“You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy.” 

May we remember that Sunday is coming. 

Missing Community: Bonhoeffer on Facing Loneliness

Written by Vince Oliveri

Last week I wrote an article on discovering community during this crisis. This week I want to offer a few thoughts about facing the absence of community—and I want to draw these thoughts from one of the most formative books in my life, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together. While this little book is a practical and theological primer on how to live in community, it also offers some rich insights into facing loneliness. Bonhoeffer reminds us that loneliness can lead us into greater fellowship with Christ, shatter our unrealistic and idealistic expectations of community, and teach us how to better cultivate our spiritual life.

Sharing in the Loneliness of Christ

Bonhoeffer begins Life Together with the reminder that community is a grace that we shouldn’t expect or take for granted. We are people who belong to and follow Jesus Christ, who lived in the midst of enemies, was betrayed and abandoned by his closest friends, and faced the pain and terror of the cross in sheer, utter loneliness. As the people of Christ in the world, Christians should expect loneliness.

When we encounter isolation and loneliness, as we likely are during this Covid-19 pandemic, we can remember that Christ has not only gone before us in bearing the greatest loneliness imaginable on the cross, but we can take heart knowing that our great High Priest shares in our exile and bears our loneliness with us. Indeed, the present loneliness of Christians can be seen as a participation in the cruciform divine life of Christ, who was abandoned and cast out so that we might experience his kindness toward us and presence with us.


Shattering our Wish Dreams

Our loneliness can be profitable in many ways. Not only can we better know and experience the presence and work of Christ in our lives, but loneliness can also teach us how to return to community with gratitude and realism. God can use our loneliness to teach us that community found in and through Jesus Christ is a gift of grace that we don’t deserve: “It is grace, nothing but grace, that we are allowed to live in community with fellow Christians.”

God can also use our loneliness to shatter our wish dreams about Christian community. It is easy for us to construct idealistic wish dreams about how our communities should look and operate, and it is easy for us to then hold our actual communities to these unrealistic standards and expectations. Yet these very wish dreams rarely help and often hinder our experience of the actual Christian community God has given us. 

So, it is good news that God can graciously use our time of separation and loneliness to teach us to love and long for our real Christian communities of real people with real struggles—rather than desiring figments of our own broken imaginations. 

Discovering the Goodness of the Day Alone

Redeeming our loneliness can show us how to better be with Christ and others, and it can lead us into a better way of being alone. In the third chapter of Life Together, Bonhoeffer shows why spending time alone plays an essential role in our spiritual formation. Of the many spiritual habits we can practice alone to grow in Christ, Bonhoeffer identifies three in particular: “Scripture meditation, prayer, and intercession.” 

First is Scripture meditation. Bonhoeffer writes, “The time of meditation does not let us down into the void and abyss of loneliness; it lets us be alone with the Word. And in doing so it gives us solid ground on which to stand and clear directions as to the steps we must take… we read God’s Word as God’s Word for us.” According to Bonhoeffer, in meditation we spend time each day alone before a single, short passage of Scripture, actively waiting for God to reveal by his Spirit how the treasures of the gospel revealed in that passage might address us that day. For Bonhoeffer, this doesn’t need to feel special or extraordinary, but our time should be marked by simplicity and fidelity before God.

Second is prayer. Out of our meditation on Scripture, we should offer prayers guided by the words of the Scriptures: “In this way we shall not become the victims of our own emptiness.” Like a child learns to speak by mimicking the words of her parents, so we learn to pray by reciting God’s words back to him. We know that our prayers will be heard because they are a response to and are rooted in the promise of God’s Word, the gospel.

Third is intercession. Out of our praying of Scripture, we pray for one another, though we are apart, because, “a Christian fellowship lives and exists by the intercession of its members for one another, or it collapses.” Intercession for one another, rooted in the Word, must not be vague or abstract, but concrete: “a matter of definite persons and definite difficulties and therefore definite petitions.” 

In our loneliness, through meditation, prayer, and intercession, we receive the grace of God, we experience union with others through faith, and we grow in Christ-likeness.

We weren’t ultimately made for exile or isolation, but as the people of Christ in a broken world, we will likely experience loneliness. And when we do, as many of us are in this season, may we take to heart this encouragement from Bonhoeffer to share in the loneliness of Christ, long for the grace of fellowship, and embrace the formative goodness of the day alone.