Faces

I submitted this post for the RPCC Women's Ministry Blog, but thought it would be nice to post it in full:

Have you ever stopped to think about your face? The face of your child, your spouse, the stranger next door? No? Well I have. At least recently, that is.

This past weekend I traveled to Michigan to visit my mom’s side of the family and enjoy some much needed rest outside the city. Within minutes of sitting down at the kitchen table my aunt and I started chatting about our respective family history research finds. I had some new records to show her; she had some old photos to show me. Faces floated before my eyes. Some I recognized, others were unfamiliar, but distinctive features show up throughout all the generations.

As I sat there playing history detective, I was reminded of Psalm 139 where it says,

¹³ For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you
   when I was made in the secret place,
   when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
¹⁶ Your eyes saw my unformed body;
   all the days ordained for me were written in your book
   before one of them came to be.

On this earth, we are known by our faces. We recognize our friends because of their loving smiles. We remember historical figures by seeing their faces on money, stamps, and the sides of mountains. Celebrities, often airbrushed, are branded by their appearance. So much emphasis is placed on the captured image. Facebook, Flickr, Tumblr, Picasa—they are all there to share and promote our faces, to tell the world about who we are and who we want to become.

Recently I had the opportunity to see an exhibit of Yousuf Karsh’s photography. An immigrant from Syria, Karsh quickly gained standing as a photographer in the 1930s and ‘40s. In 1941 he took an awe-inspiring photography of Winston Churchill. Almost immediately his career as a photographer of “exhilarating people” was buoyed, marking Karsh as a celebrity himself.  He photographed thousands and thousands of famous people, yet what strikes me most is that he never tried to glamorize his subjects. His uniquely chiaroscuro style is indeed moving, but each portrait tells a story of the person’s character, struggles, and fame. While some thought this style too driven by propaganda, he defended his art, saying that he was trying to capture something truthful, not trying to change people’s minds.

Karsh’s photographs are a mesmerizing look at the human form and an insightful look at the human spirit, but thinking back at that afternoon in the gallery, an interesting thought popped into my head. Would Karsh have photographed Jesus if Jesus were still walking the earth? Even better, what would Jesus have looked like in Karsh’s photo? Not, what color eyes were his eyes and how long was his hair? But, really think about it. What does Jesus look like? How do we see Him?

In his letter to the Philippians, Paul paints a picture, so to speak. Explaining Christ’s humility, he says,

Christ Jesus:  ⁶Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; ⁷rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.  ⁸And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death— even death on a cross!

For Jesus, taking on humanity wasn’t about getting a nice body, but humbling himself before the Father’s will.

I’m sure Jesus had bad hair days, maybe a pimple or two. Perhaps he had Mary’s eyes and smile. 

When I look at old family photos, I look for familiar traits—characteristics to identify age and relation. We don’t have baby pictures of Jesus that some shepherd-turned-artist painted in Bethlehem, or an Instagram of Jesus’ first miracle. But even better, we have Scripture that has captured His very nature and character. When we think of Jesus, a blue-eyed, blond-haired portrait from dusty Sunday School walls may come to mind, but what we really see is Himself—love incarnate, redemption embodied, and peace made complete.

So many places in Scripture speak of God’s face. Us seeking, Him shining, us seeing, Him hiding. There is one such passage that everyone knows, but whose context not many consider: 1 Corinthians 13:1-13. 

 ¹ If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, 

I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.  

² If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, 

and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.  

³ If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,  

but do not have love, I gain nothing.

 ⁴ Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 

⁵ It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  

⁶ Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  

⁷ It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

 ⁸ Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; 

where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.  

⁹ For we know in part and we prophesy in part,  

¹⁰ but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.  

¹¹ When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. 

When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.  

¹² For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. 

Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.  

¹³ And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 

Paul is speaking of Christ’s body, the church, and how we should act. For now, he says, “we see only a reflection” (a photograph if you will), but when completeness comes, “we shall see face to face.”

Can you imagine? Face to face with Jesus! Way better than even the most pristine portrait or fuzzy digital snapshot.

Spend some time today thinking about what Jesus looks like—and pray that He shows you (more and more) who He really is.

Storms and Waves

Here is this week's post for the Rogers Park Community Church Women's Ministry Blog. Hope you enjoy!
Storms and Waves

"Parallel Lines and Waiting": A reflection for RPCC Women

This post is actually located on another blog. My friend Laura asked me if I would contribute to the Rogers Park Community Church Women's Ministry Blog.
Check out what I wrote this week.

Not your traditional reflection about end of Harry Potter

You know that feeling when emotions are running high and you can feel your spirit being tugged in multiple directions at the same time? Joy, sorrow, anticipation, fear, and awe—all mixed into one.  Color. Truth. Death. Life. Stories. Birth. Opportunities. Fruit. Plants. Trash. Songs. Words. Prayer . . . I’m trying to hash it out. To see where it leads; to see what lessons I’ll learn. 

This is oddly placed, but all these jumbled thoughts coincide (providentially?) with the end of Harry Potter, so I think this might help: It’s a quote from a Relevant magazine, speaking about the end of a fictional story (Harry Potter) that had the power to tug heart-strings and captivate fans,

". . . But his [Harry's] death [and life] does what any great Christian art ought to: Using a profound story, it provides a singular glimpse into the Christian story that can both deepen and widen our experience of faith."

I, for sure, have questions that yearn for answers; physical needs that need to be met; ideas and thoughts and dreams that I don’t want to see quenched. I desire immediacy! But at the same time relish the Story. Oh the frustration of conundrums! 

On Monday night some friends and I went to go see Harry Potter 7.2. The film was successfully dramatic; the score, breath-taking; the suspense, immense. But when it was over I felt a little bare, maybe empty is the right word. It is similar to the feeling I get when I accidentally leave my ring on the kitchen counter instead of on my finger, where it belongs. I spent all of today at work trying to figure this feeling out. 

And I think it can be boiled down to the same reason I enjoy/must/feel obligated to sit through the entire credits at the end of a film. My friends often think I’m crazy. And I am sure I can see the theater cleaners out of the corner of my eye with their brooms at the ready. But you see, I take joy in seeing the hearts, hands and minds behind the scenes. The art that I just watched didn’t appear out of thin air. Big dreams, deep concentration, and long, hard hours were poured into its creation. Pieces had to be fit together, teams forged, trust and sight balanced until the work was completed. 

The credits of a film are not glamorous; they do not often exhibit special effects nor  the stars’ shining faces. But they do tell a story. And on days like today, it feels like that story is more fulfilling than the one they worked so hard to create. I find joy in the process. The act of creating—shaping characters, building places, forming themes, revealing secrets, offering promises. 

The process. That is what I find so compelling. It is precisely why everyone loves a good story. The beginning might be haunting; the ending, heroic, but what is in the middle is what counts. It teaches us to have faith/patience/trust. Anticipation runs like a fever, but the story can only be told as quickly as it is created, as each page is turned and each new chapter begun.

Some of my favorite writers encourage the living of a “better story.” Such wise advice! But so often we are only concerned with the starts and the finishes. No one hopes for or expects “40 years in the desert,” yet those are often the times we glean from the most. So next time you finish a good book or thrilling film, take a second to step back and think about the process—the brilliance of creative wisdom, but most importantly the loving mercy of our Creator who gave us a True Story against which all others will be measured.

Thinking Back . . .

This is a re-post from the 4th of July weekend two summers ago when I took part in Jews for Jesus' Summer Witnessing Campaign. This year's Campaign is going on right now in New York, and I can't help but think back to my experience and reflections:

 

In C.S. Lewis' The Silver Chair, Jill Pole and Eustace Scrubb are sent on a quest by Aslan the Great Lion. They are given four signs to guide them. They see the third sign outside the remains of a giant city: the giant words carved into the stone, "UNDER ME." 

 

This past week, we have spent countless hours handing out thousands of gospel tracks in New York City's subway system. Dank and dirty, these underground tunnels corral the people of New York from point A to point B, from train to train, from entrance to exit. Marching along in their daily monotony, most of these people do not expect to encounter Jesus, much less anything that would get in their way. But there we are, dressed in t-shirts proclaiming "Jews for Jesus," anxiously awaiting a willing hand to accept our message of Truth. 

 

As much as I these underground excursions are not my favorite, I am reminded of Jill and Eustace's adventure. To complete their task and find the truth, they had to journey under the ruined city. Likewise, we venture from "top side" to "bottom side" to meet those who need Jesus. We go down to the darkness to bring people the Light.

 

In Isaiah 9:2 the prophet said, "The people who walk in darkness will see a great light; those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them." Some years later, Jesus taught by the Sea of Galilee, saying, "The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned." (Matthew 4:16)

 

I am not in New York this summer. Nor Israel, India or Ontario. I have family and friends serving in all those places. I'm at home, still hoping for my dream job, juggling two part time jobs and looking down every alley for furniture to recreate. At first I was a little sad to be missing out on fun adventures, but as the summer has progressed, I have realized the joy of being able to pray for my friends in their far-flung locations. Having done Campaign; having served at Camp for so long, I know the challenges that arise and the blessings that flow. So I will continue to lift my friends to the Lord, placing them in His capable Hands, trusting in His immeasurable strength and wisdom.

The Grass is Greener Over There

Jealousy. Not a pretty word. Not something to be proud of. But this “the-grass-is-greener-over-there” mentality has been plaguing my soul. 

It usually starts out as a dull ache somewhere between my stomach and heart—a desire for something more than just an arm’s length away. At times it is just plain old Cain and Abel jealousy.  Yet more than once I’ve wondered if God were not trying to get my attention by planting a desire in my heart.  

This past Mother’s Day I volunteered at the Evanston History Center annual House Walk. Every few Saturdays I walk past these beautiful homes on my way to the History Center, but the house walk is a special occasion to get a peek inside. My favorites are always the Prairie style homes. Frank Lloyd Wright and his friends really knew how to make my heart happy (if that sort of retrospective knowledge is possible). I have an honest appreciate for these homes as beautiful works of architecture; it would be a pleasure just to walk past them every couple weeks. But the ugly green monster rears its head and I find myself pushed to despair. “Who am I to desire such things? I could never afford such a beautiful house . . . I can’t even afford my tangible dreams.” 

Gorgeous houses in Evanston, friends graduating with amazing prospects for jobs and travel, relationships that do not exist—it’s all the same. The list could go on and on. But I don’t want to be dissatisfied. It’s not a pretty feeling. And as much as I try, it is not pushing me to do better at what I have. Instead I find myself holding chocolate-sponsored pity parties and screaming inaudible prayers. 

 

But as always, the Lord is merciful. 

Back in December a friend of mine recommended I read a few books by Elisabeth Elliot, the wife of the late Jim Elliot, missionary to Ecuador. I thanked her for the suggestion and mentally filed it way for a time when I needed something to read.  Needless to say, life got in the way. Silly little things like favorite TV shows and my endless task of job-searching. But a few weeks ago I felt prompted to read her works over the summer.  I hauled them home from the library and placed them in a neat stack near my bed. They sat there for about a week while I completed the more important task of finishing “Jane Eyre” (a must-read if you haven’t already!). Once fortified, I now had the concentration for some works of non-fiction. Boy was I blown away. Such wisdom she has to impart!

In “Keep a Quiet Heart” Elliot recalls various passages she has written to her friends and ministry supporters through the years.  Near the beginning of her chronicles she says,

All of the past, I believe, is a part of God’s story of each child of His—a mystery of love and sovereignty, written before the foundation of the world, never a hindrance to the task He has designed for us, but rather they very preparation suited to our particular personality’s need.(Elliot, 24)

Later in the passage (And this is really what my heart needed to hear!), she goes on to say,

            Life is likely to continue to hold many forms of torture and dismay for that unhappy  

            person and for all who refuse to receive with thanksgiving instead of complaint the 

            place in life God has chosen for them. The torture is self-inflicted, for God has not 

            rejected their prayers. He knows better than any of us do that furthers our salvation.    

           Our true happiness is to be realized precisely through his refusals, which are always 

           mercies. His choice is flawlessly contrived to give the deepest kind of joy as soon as it 

           is embraced. (Elliot, 50)

I am becoming better acquainted with the nature of my problem. Pastor and author Matt Chandler hit the nail right on the head in his recent sermon at Chicago’s’ Christ and the City conference: I am a shallow rejoicer. I rejoice (or the opposite of rejoice, covet after--) creation, rather than the Creator. When I wallow in self-pity and wish beautiful houses, well-paying jobs and relationships upon myself, I am not rejoicing in what the Lord has done. I am not allowing Him to stir up a desire in my heart for His mercy. My prayers are all too often for my own desires and worries to be fulfilled. 

But there is hope, dear soul. Chandler encourages, “Remembering rightly redeems our rejoicing.” The Lord’s commands are not to rob us of joy but to lead us into joy. And as Elliot reminisced, some of God’s greatest mercies are His refusals.”Whenever I have yielded, I have found joy.” (Elliot, 33).

Waiting: A reflection for Easter and Passover

Waiting is hard. Jump in a time machine and any Israelite living in Egypt about 4000 years ago could tell you that. 

But God does listen; He does hear; He does respond. Not according to our demands, however. He is not one to be swayed by our offenses. He hears our “hosannas” (read Psalm 118 or any Triumphal Entry passage) and acts according to His loving mercy. 

A tough pill to swallow.

This year Easter and Passover gracefully coincide. I am so happy when this happens. First because it means my family gatherings can be two-part. And secondly, that’s just the way it should be. The Resurrection makes so more sense in light of the Exodus and the Lord’s redemption.

Lately, I have been listening to a lot of sermons online. I’m a huge Mark Driscoll fan, but recently I’ve added Tim Keller to my playlist. This stems partly from my desire to hear both of them at the Gospel Coalition convention held here in Chicago last week (I didn’t go, but I wanted to). Anyway, on the first evening, Keller gave a sermon entitled, “Getting Out.” It was all about the Exodus and the Gospel. And it got me thinking—mostly about the power of redemption. 

Keller begins by saying, “There is no more basic word in the Bible than ‘redemption.’” In the simplest of terms it means “release from bondage”—to be let go, to be freed. But he argues that redemption has many layers. We can be freed from bondage objectively, but the subjective freeing is the one that really matters. This salvation comes only through grace. Crossing over, as Keller describes it.

In the story of the Exodus, God provides a way for the Israelites to escape out of Egypt. After hundreds of years in bondage to Pharaoh, they are free. They follow the Lord’s instructions to the T (Read Exodus 12:3-11). And the Lord says,  “Eat it in haste, for this is my Passover.” They hightail it out of Egypt with matzo drying on their backs. Life is good. But then they make it to the Red Sea. You can just imagine the panicked faces as the people began to realize their dilemma. How will they crossover?

This is the action scene in the Exodus story. God performs a monstrous miracle. He parts the Red Sea--two walls of water with a dry path in between.  Keller makes a keen observation about this scene. The Israelites had two choices: they could marvel at the Lord’s redemption or fear the walls of water. The same is true today. We can either praise God for His provision and steadfastness, or we can faint at the idea of following Him in faith. I guess it’s a good thing we are saved by the object of our faith and not the quality of it.

The celebration of Passover tells the story of God leading His people to freedom. First they are led from their oppressors in Egypt, and then (more literally), through the torrents of a wild sea.  It is here, on the other side of that crossing over, that the Lord gives His people the law. It is here that the Gospel is most evident. For you see, God did not give the law and then free the Israelites from bondage based on their obedience to it. On the contrary, He first freed the people and then mercifully gave them the law—a clear path to follow, in order that they could be holy.

Henri Nouwen, in his book Finding my Way Home says, “Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be.” The Israelites could totally relate to that (and unfortunately for them, the Exodus was just the beginning of their desert experience). I have been seeing this season creep up a lot lately in my own life. I don’t like it. But I’m sure that’s not the point. In another of Nouwen’s works he writes, 

A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us. . . Impatient people are always expecting the real thing to happen somewhere else and therefore want to go elsewhere. The moment is empty. But patient people dare to stay where they are. Patient living means to live actively in the present and wait there. Waiting, then, is not passive. It involves nurturing the moment . . . [being] alert, attentive to the voice that [speaks], “Don’t be afraid. Something is happening to you. Pay attention.”

I am not alone. The Scriptures are full of stories about people waiting for God. Joseph, Naomi, Hannah, David—they had hopes and fears much like ours.  But at this point in history, I am thankful to have the assurance of a Savior. My waiting is reduced to petty human imperfections and trials. Pale excuses in the face of Jesus’ whole and lasting redemption, don’t you think? 

First on my Easter/Passover checklist:  To remember that redemption is the full reflection of God’s mercy and grace. All I have to do is be still and wait.

And Moses said to the people, "Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will work for you today. For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again.  The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to be silent." - Exodus 14:13-14

History, photography and the human condition

Humans are fallible. Mankind has fault.
And yet art is beautiful.
It is not always pretty, comfortable or tame, but art holds beauty. It speaks of life, death, redemption and grace. It evokes, inspires, awes.  
A conundrum.

This past Thursday I took advantage of the Art Institute's free extended evening hours. I will be the first to admit that I'm thrifty and frugal--but more to the point, I believe visiting the museum on a free day makes the experience all the more enjoyable. One is not required /expected to view two hundred pieces of art in two hours at a rate of $.06 a pop. Rather, I was able to take my time, visit my favorite friends, take photos of things, places and people that caught my eye. And I even ventured into uncharted spaces--galleries I had never paid attention to before.

But the most memorable this time around, was the new photography exhibit. Located in the basement, across from the paper weights and adjacent to both the Thorne Rooms and the bathrooms, the photography gallery changes exhibits every couple months. It's pure genius. For while I love knowing that Monet's Haystacks will always be in the Impressionist gallery on the second floor, there is something wonderful about discovering new pieces of art. This particular exhibit was entitled "American Modern: Abbott, Evans & Bourke-White." Not really a majestic title, nor one that caught my eye when I first walked in. But what did catch my eye were the photographs themselves. And then, being trained in the art of label appreciation, I went back and read what the curator wanted to tell me, the viewer. (Read: It really is a fascinating relationship, that between the creator and audience).

Anyways . . . The photographs! They were stunning! Stunning in the way that 1930's, Depression-era, photo-journalism-style photographs ought to be stunning. And as I walked through the gallery, taking in picture after picture of the city and the country, the lowly and the down-trodden, I couldn't help but think how timely--historically speaking--exhibits like these are.

Sponsored by an alphabet soup of Depression-era Federal programs and administrations, Berenice Abbott, Walker Evans and Margaret Bourke-White captured the 1930's experience with brilliant incite and imagination-- the dust bowl, the grime and routine of industry; skyscrapers, bridges; beggars and laborers. They were storytellers, really. Their tools: shadows and light. And yet, the styles and techniques they created and enhanced became trademarks for photographers to come. The final label of the exhibit read, "By the end of the decade, the values of authenticity, accuracy and balance that Abbott, Bourke-White and Evans all sought through their subjects . . . had become commonly associate with photography itself."

In a time when there was little hope, and more struggles and torment than satisfaction and joy, the techniques of photography and photo-journalism were being used to evoke an image of Modern America. They were simple and direct images of daily life. Nothing glamorous or ornate, yet they evoke both emotion and understanding. I walked away from the gallery invigorated and inspired, feeling oddly apart of something grand.  For, to share in the history of any time period--that is an honor. But to examine visual representations of that time, transmitted from one feeble human to another--that is priceless.

Humans are fallible, indeed. Capturing that need for redemption--perhaps that is what makes art so beautiful.