Second birth

(John 3)

The first time I was born

into darkness,

a raggedy

grasping thing,

groping for life

and held by the shadow

of a love once known.

Fed by a craving

covetous world,

flesh fattened on falsehoods

dazzled by desires,

consumed by the noise

of my ambitions.

Here I lived

to die,

frenzied by the                                         

ever-hungry I,

plunging into earth

that didn’t want me

yet held me fast.

Here I built

to rise,

Pushed by a promise

and a lie,

the walls of my triumph

transformed to a tomb.

Here You came

for the second birth.

Here you lived

loved

labored

longed for the children

of your heart.

Opened wide Your arms

and screamed

into the wrecked world

Your love

Your agony

Your ransom

and delivered us.

Life in death

joy in sorrow

You mirror the pain

with purpose, You

breathe in my shuddered breaths

breathing out in me Your

song.

Here I die

to live,

held in the promise

that You give,

spirit yearning upward

in surrender

to your peace.

I cease.

I rest

to be raised

in Your truth.

I lose and find

myself in You.

Master of the feast

John 2:1-12

When the wine ran out, the servants must have panicked. Surely some of the blame would fall on them. The humiliated master of the feast would be looking for a scapegoat. When Mary comes to Jesus—was she a friend of the master?—He almost seems to be smiling when He says, “What does this have to do with Me?” But He can’t refuse His mother, and she trusts Him completely.

The disciples must have wondered what He was up to, this man they still barely knew. And what did the servants think as they labored to fill the heavy jars with water, hauling bucket after bucket of something they didn’t need? Why is He wasting our time? We should be out looking for more wine. Who is this man, anyway? Their work must have seemed futile. And yet they obeyed.

Were they frustrated? Resentful? Stressed and anxious? Merely curious? As Jesus watched them work, was he grinning at them? Were they compelled by His presence? Were they afraid? What was it about Him that compelled them to do this?

We see only that they did as they were asked to do, whether or not they obeyed willingly. And then, when He told them to take that water to the master of the feast? Did they tremble as they did so? Did they laugh at his lunacy? Did they sneak a sip along the way? (I would have.)

I imagine their knowing glances when the master tasted the wine, assuming it came from the bridegroom. I wonder if they looked back at Jesus and saw Him still grinning at them. Our little secret. He showed Himself that day to be the true Mater of the feast, though unseen.

And what that must have done for them, His making them a part of His miracle. Suddenly they were no longer servants but confidants in a wonderful plan, a joke almost, of the biggest blessing.

His disciples saw all. I wonder what they remembered later, maybe feeling sometimes that their labors were futile, as they obeyed feeling like not enough, like water poured out, and then the Master, unseen, turned all their effort into the richest wine.

A voice in the wilderness

From John 1

He stood in the river, vast sky stretching above him, the water tugging at his knees. A wild man in the wilderness holding out hope. The people came to him because here, at last, was a message; here, at last, was a voice.

Sometimes the wilderness is desolate, the parched tangle of the world crying out for what it has lost. Sometimes it is beauty, the upward yearning of creation expanding our own souls. Most often it is both. And in the wilderness we find space and silence. We find room for our lament.

In the wilderness a man spoke, and the people came. Walked from the noise and distraction of their lives into the space where the message found a voice. Crowded the riverbanks, stood at the edge of their suffering and met hope. Here is where they began to make room for God, and here is where God found them.

Jesus came to that wilderness, walked right into that river, past the judges who hovered with arms crossed. He didn’t give a sermon or wow everyone with a miracle. He simply waded in to be with his people, went down into the water, opened Himself to receive God. He paved the way.

That’s what He does. He comes to us. He finds us in the wilderness. In the stark, thirsty places; in the still, lovely places. Sometimes He blazes up in the darkness from a burning bush and turns our lives upside down. Sometimes He simply wades in, holds out His hand, and calls us to join Him.

Sometimes you are forced into the wilderness. Sometimes you flee there. Sometimes you simply go there because there is nowhere left to go. And sometimes you live there for a while. You receive a message and you become a voice calling, and the people come and find what they were looking for.

But first you have to find it for yourself.

Ash Wednesday: The Beginning

Once upon a time there was a broken woman. The lament had overtaken her soul and locked her in silence. Weariness lived thick in her heart. She felt cold in the shadows of the raging world.

A light in the dark. Warm, real, alive. A light to hold; an up-close light that heals even as it sees. He came into her darkness, sat with her. Touched her pain. Cupped her face with His hands and whispered, “I’m listening.”