The Monotony of Worship

I was sipping coffee and reading a few chapters in my Bible Saturday morning when I came to Hebrews 10:11 (ESV), "And every priest stands daily at his service, offering repeatedly the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins."

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"How monotonous!" I thought. Can you imagine going through the same rituals day after day and wondering if they did any good?

Instead of beautiful moments of worship, this verse reminds me of the Greek myth of Sisyphus, forever struggling to roll a boulder up the hill only to watch it tumble back down. But maybe that's the point.

Maybe God wanted them to glimpse the pointlessness of it all, so they would understand none of their good works or rituals could make them right with Him. They needed something greater. They needed Someone greater, as the very next verse states, "But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God" (ESV).

So the next time I'm too tired to feel anything during a worship service, when my mind is a fog and my heart is numb, I'll accept the feeling as a gift. A reminder that it doesn't depend on me. God has done it all.

The God who Runs, the God who Walks

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My pastor preached a moving sermon last Sunday about the prodigal son. He dramatized the shame this son brought on his family when he demanded his inheritance early. "Dad, I wish you were dead," the son implied.

Then came the moment when the the inheritance was spent, and the son found himself feeding pigs, unclean animals both physically and ceremonially. The son finally felt his own shame.

But his father didn't hold back. In a culture based on honor and respect where men don't run, the father did just that. He abandoned it all and ran to meet his returning son.

We see this as the epitome of love and grace, yet I seldom feel the impact of the story because I can't see myself in the prodigal son. That's not my personality. I follow the rules.

The grace that touches me most comes at the end of the story when the father walks out to his older son, who was fussing, "You never threw a party for me."

What greater shame could the father bear? Having to walk out and beg his unrepentant son to come in?

But that is what God did for me. I will forever be grateful to the God who walked out to me and said, "Jenny, I love you. I'm throwing a party, and I want you to be part of it. Will you come in?"

Releasing My Dreams

After a hectic week directing and teaching at a music camp, I packed for vacation and set off for a week at the lake. Packing is an intricate process of choosing the best books to fill two tote bags, throwing a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, and calling it good.

My book selection this year was perfect. I relished moments rocking on a swing, listening to waves lap against the shore, and flipping pages in my chemistry book. Yes, chemistry.

How Chemistry Essentials for Dummies made it into my carefully packed book bag is a question I'll let you ponder. The why is not as important as the what that I discovered in chapter four. After agonizing through a chapter on electron configurations with their orbits and energy levels, I was surprised when chapter four touched my heart.

The opening paragraphs explained how every atom wants to be satisfied. It wants a full set of eight electrons in its outermost energy level. Atoms with seven electrons can gain one, and they're complete. Amazing satisfaction.

But what about those poor atoms with only one electron in their outermost level? Is it possible for them to be satisfied? The rules of chemistry say they can't gain more than three electrons.

Thankfully, there is a path to satisfaction if they're willing to lose an electron. If they release that lonely electron in their outermost energy level, the energy level disappears. Now an inner level that's already full with eight electrons is the farthest out. It's satisfied, and so is the atom.

Why am I so excited about a satisfied atom? Because I realized I can become satisfied the same way.

I have so many dreams spinning around, never coming to fruition. I structure my days and use every minute in a hopeless attempt to fulfill each vision. But sometimes I just have to release the electron, let go of the dream, and realize that underneath I'm already complete.

I'm not giving up. I'll still pursue my hobbies and give the dreams a chance to come true, but I don't need them. I'm satisfied.

Doing Easter First

The Resurrection of Christ
by Rembrandt

Although I've never attended a liturgical church, I find beauty in the church calendar. The solemnity of Holy Week paints in dark brush strokes the agony of our Lord and draws our eyes irresistibly toward Easter, toward the light, just like Rembrandt did in his famous painting The Resurrection of Christ. The impact of Easter fades if we refuse to walk the road to the cross.

But somehow the apostle Paul got this mixed up. Maybe he was chronologically challenged, but he blundered when stating his life's goal in Philippians 3:10, "that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death" (NKJV). Everyone knows you have to die before you can rise. Why switch it up like this?

The answer is in the meaning of the cross. If Good Friday were only about getting into heaven, Holy Week would make sense. I should spend that long contemplating the price Jesus paid for me before celebrating His resurrection. However, the cross is much more than payment for my ticket to a good place.

The cross is God's invitation to me to be His friend. He yearns for fellowship with me. He wants to be close, but friendship isn't just mushy feelings. When we're friends, we bear each others' burdens. We carry our friends' sufferings and weep their tears.

How can I be the friend of God? I'm already cracking under the weight of my little problems. How can I bear the burdens of God, who carries the weight of the world? Paul knew the answer. He didn't carry the cross first. He visited the empty tomb.

If I still smile when my heart is aching, if you see peace in my eyes when the storm is strong, I'll tell you the secret. I can face the darkness because God gave me the light. I can bear the pain because He gave me the power. I can walk through Good Friday because I did Easter first.

The Beautiful Humility of No

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A friend reminded me recently of the importance of saying no. She knows me too well. I rush here and rush there, trying to use every minute to the maximum, and yet I always feel like I haven't done enough.

"Whenever you say yes to one thing, you're saying no to something else," my friend shared, and she is right. We cannot avoid saying no, but we have two choices. We may choose when we say no and how we say the word.

No can communicate a lovely spirit of humility. I am admitting that I am not superwoman. I am not God. I am weak and frail, and I cannot do all the things that are close to my heart.

No is also a word of trust. The apostle Paul exemplified this aspect of no. When the church at Ephesus asked him to stay with them longer, he declined, but he left his companions Priscilla and Aquila at Ephesus. He trusted them do the job (Acts 18:18-21, 24-26).

To be honest, I'm not a wonderful example of humility and trust like Paul. Too often I say no with a touch of frustration. Don't people understand how busy I am? I work from breakfast to bedtime. I don't have fifteen minutes free. How do they think I can do one more thing?

But I have a choice to make, and I choose to be more like Paul. I'll say no more often, and I'll say it with a heart of love that recognizes the importance of the thing I was just asked to do and yet shares my weakness and vulnerability. I want my no to radiate trust in God and others around me—I can't, but someone can. That is the beautiful humility of no.

Traveling Home

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This week has been a whirlwind of rescheduling as we cleared our schedule for Grandma's funeral today, but I'm glad we could be there. The ceremony was sweet with memories shared by my uncle, and I cherished the time with my cousins during lunch.

On the trip home as our car bumped along the backroads of Wisconsin, I buried myself in a book. Ironically, I was reading about how Greek philosophers compared death to the journey home, an image that resonates with my soul.

When dusk fell and the words became blurry, I closed my book and gazed at the pink clouds wisping across the sky. I searched for words to sum up the day, but my wisdom falls far short of the great philosophers. I did decide what not to say. I'm not saying good-bye.

I'd rather whisper, "Welcome home, Grandma. Welcome home."

For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2 Corinthians 5:1 (ESV)

The Ugly Side of Christmas Lights

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As my friends are hanging their lights and wrapping gifts for under the tree, I'm usually sitting at the piano, clunking out the notes of accompaniments I'm learning for my violin students. I get well acquainted with Christmas songs this way. My students choose their favorite pieces for recital, and I'm obligated to learn the piano parts.

One of the projects this year was to master "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." I worked through the jazz chords, which don't exactly fit in this classical musician's brain, but my heart kept whispering, "It's not. It's not the most wonderful time of the year." Everything hurts more at Christmastime, maybe because Christmas reminds us of what life ought to be.

I'm tempted to shut my eyes to the problems and build a wall around my heart so I don't feel the pain. Can't I pretend for one day that the world is white and filled with love, joy, and peace?

But Christmas won't let me do that because Christmas is about Jesus, the Light of the World. Jesus didn't enter the world as a pretty strand of colored lights hung on a tree. He entered as a floodlight that shows us everything we ought to be. He is the perfect picture of love, joy, and peace, even greater than the Christmas movies we watch and the songs we sing of perfect Christmases long ago. He sheds light on all the ugliness around us.

So I prayed the strangest Christmas prayer last night. I prayed that God would open my eyes to see evil for what it is and feel the pain it brings. I choose courage this Christmas, the courage it takes to keep my eyes open, to keep the light on. Only then can I be the heart and hands of God reaching out to my hurting world.

Then Jesus spoke to them again, saying, "I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life." John 8:12 (NKJV)