Posterior Dei

It’s the second wettest winter in Portland in 75 years. 45.5 inches have fallen since Oct. 1. Of the days that have passed, 145 days have been wet. The gutter on the back of my house constantly makes noise. Before I sleep, in the middle of the night, and throughout the days, water drips loudly in the downspout. When I hit those light sleep stages at 3AM and hear that drip, my brain kicks in and I'm done resting for the night.

This morning I'm holding in tension "I want to be the kind of pastor who..." thoughts for a final paper in pastoral ministry class, with the reality that I have the absolute most difficult time even shepherding my own children. I mean really, how can I pastor others when my daughter has wandered from the fold, in part because of my less than stellar pastoring abilities?

The past few weeks have been difficult as we are leaning in and deciding what's next for the girl. The college investment is high for all of us, so what’s next for her has turned into a what’s next for us decision. We have visited the schools where she was accepted. We have turned over every stone that we possibly can to research the pros and cons for each institution. In hindsight, this stone turning should have happened last summer, before applications were sent. But alas, it didn't and we have found ourselves in a stalemate; the girl standing with heels dug firmly in for one school, and us on the other side, standing in a similar position, for another school. So we’ve prayed and fasted and prayed some more through the gray light of the rainy days and the wee hours of the dark nights, until we came to a decision that while not perfect, but would provide opportunities for growth and movement for the girl and measure of peace for us. The options presented to the girl basically place her (and us) in between a rock and a hard place: attend a school she doesn't want to attend because it's the best option at this time, and while there begin applying for different schools and transfer out in 2018; or hit the reset button, defer enrollment for a year, and stay home to work and reapply to other schools. As expected, she has been brokenhearted since hearing the options on Saturday. Layer that with upcoming AP exams, senioritis and me trying to finish this seminary semester, and well, that's a whole lot of not so lovely in the Hansen home.

But I keep coming back to one of Martin Luther's core Theology of the Cross principles, which he called Posterior Dei. In this God’s self-revelation is indirect, concealed, and mysterious. Though God is active on the cross, He is not recognizable. Often we recognize God’s presence only after He has passed by; we only see His back, Posterior Dei. This then leads me to think of Moses and his bold request to see God’s Glory. God agreed to the request and tucked Moses into a cleft. With his face turned to the dark space and his back guarded by God’s hand, Glory passed by. When Moses turned, he only saw God’s back.

So between the heavy, gray rain and the dark what’s next decision process, we stand in the cleft, faces turned into the dark space, waiting for Glory to pass by so we can turn and, like Moses, see Posterior Dei, or as I like to call it, a glimmer of Grace, a simple reminder of God’s constant Presence even in the hard places of life.

On Death and Dying: Reflections for Good Friday

In America, our view of aging and dying has shifted throughout the generations. Due to continuous medical advances and economic influences, individuals are living longer as medical interventions promote recovery from illness, even major illnesses, and slow the eventual decent to death. Care for the elderly has been relegated to hospitals and nursing homes as family systems have morphed over the years. Independence in aging is a goal to be achieved, but the weakness that comes with its gradual breakdown is an embarrassment to be managed.[1] This embarrassment flows over into death and burials, where Christian burial rituals have shifted from hands on care for their loved ones in their last days, and accompanying them with singing to their final resting place, to passing off the dead to funeral directors, removing the deceased from funeral services, and replacing the funeral ritual with a “disembodied, quasi-gnostic cluster of customs and ceremonies.” In short, since the late 19^th century, many Protestant Christians “lost their eschatological nerve and vibrant faith in the after life,”[2] and are failing to embrace the mysterious journey into the Eternal. This lack of eschatological nerve is also seen in our burial practices, as many Christian Americans are processed in funeral homes to ensure a “pleasant look” for friends and family to view, and as the deceased lie in a metal casket impervious to the elements, both in its initial structure and then furthermore in its burial structure within a cement vault. With such extreme measures taken to ensure one’s remains never touch the dirt, I can only wonder what are our core theological beliefs about death?[3]

Many Christians espouse belief in Jesus Incarnate. We celebrate His birth, emulate his life, and desire to love God and others the way he did. Our greatest hope lies in the victory because the tomb is empty. Celebrating the empty tomb is the pinnacle of Christian worship. It is the hope we cling to. It’s the theology most preached. While it is accurate the tomb is empty and death has been conquered, I wonder if we miss an integral part or God’s redemptive plan when we fail to embrace the mystery and beauty in Christ’s actual death? While I am still formulating the scriptural and theological details, I firmly believe Jesus redeemed even the physical act of death when he died on the cross.

Examining creation, it is evident that whether on land, sea, or air, life flows in a cycle: reproduction, birth, life, decay, and death. We see this cycle represented in plants, animals, and humans. It is the natural order of the created realm. Physical death did not simply enter the world through sin. Death was already present, but it did not have the spiritual separation component and the painful sting that accompanied the fall. Jesus life is evidence of this truth, in that he came, fully human and lived a perfect sinless life. That life included death. His redemptive work began in the womb and flowed through physical death into resurrection. Not only did he achieve victory over sin and spiritual death, he achieved redemption over physical death in and through his death on the cross. His submission to his Father’s numbering of his days is a model for us. His burial, carefully conducted by loved ones, is also a model for us.

Jesus showed us how to both live and how to die as human beings. If we begin to see his redemptive work through his complete willingness and trust in his Father’s plans, which includes death, maybe we can stop side stepping death by moving to the empty tomb, and begin acknowledging his redemptive reality for every aspect of our eternal humanity? Maybe we can begin embracing end of life deterioration as normal? Maybe we can once again embrace and care for our elderly, honoring them in life and death? Maybe we can embrace our dust origins and our eventual return to dust, in a more holistic way that avoids toxins, invasive medical procedures, and vacuum sealing of our dead so as to avoid deterioration into the earth? Maybe we can begin asking the challenging questions and engaging in taboo topics so as to more fully embrace a robust perspective of redemption? Maybe then, we can begin living the abundant life Jesus promises, while no longer fearing the deterioration and resting of our bodies as they await their resurrected state upon Christ’s return? I have to believe that as we begin to wrestle with these hard concepts, pastoral care in life, dying, and death will enable a richer and fuller experience of God’s abiding presence in the lives of Christ’s followers. 

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[1]           Atul Gwande. Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2014) 21, 22, 28.

[2]           Thomas G. Long. Accompany Them With Singing: The Christian Funeral (Louisville, KY: Westminster Press, 2013), 72.

[3]           Mark Harris. Grave Matters: A Journey Through The Modern Funeral Industry to a Natural Way of Burial (New York: Scribner, 2007), 7-47.

Remembering

A year ago Michael and I completed the Dopey Challenge at Disney. We trained 28 weeks so we could cover 48.6 miles over the course of 4 days. Initially, we signed up because this was a big goal of mine, and achieving it on my 45th birthday seemed like a good idea. Half way through our training, during long training runs, God gave us a dream to raise $16,000 for Olivia's Basket, to fund the building of two homes for families in need in Mexico. When the training days were hard, cold, and rainy, and the distances and time on the road increased, thinking of those families, the givers and the recipients, kept us going, motivating us to keep moving consistently in the forward direction.

I had read once about an ultra runner who had set a crazy big goal, and once she achieved the goal, she never ran again. Not because she couldn’t, but simply because she wasn’t able to see any goal higher than the one she had achieved. In her mind she had reached the pinnacle of all goals, and there was nothing left to reach for in her running world. Somewhere along the days of the past year, that has happened to me. I think I realized it one morning while trying to make myself train for the Star Wars run. I kept wondering why I was out there. Because really, as much as I love shiny Disney medals, they aren’t really worth all the effort and time needed to cross the finish line. And when I didn’t really train for the run, I realized they are worth even less.

While in the Dopey Challenge I found purpose and people to run for beside myself, I also lost myself along the way. Over the past year, that loosing of self escalated when I entered a season of intentional self-care in the area of mental/emotional health. Looking into the past has been hard. “Reliving the past” through various counseling techniques has been painful and more than unsettling. Over the past few months I have felt stuck, like I’m falling through a liminal space of darkness. Loneliness threatens to consume. My brain threatens to explode with all the analyzing and thinking and questioning and wondering that happen. All. The. Time. My heart has been laid wide open and has been encouraged to truly feel, to examine and allow hurts of past experiences be fully felt. What I’ve learned is the body keeps score. Traumas endured are tucked away into the memory of my cells, the very fibers of being. The extent of this tucking away is staggering. Science has shown it to be true. So these past hurts, while in the past, are actually always, always very present. They have shaped my survival skills and coping mechanisms, my habits and thoughts. They even shape the way my body systems function. Crazy, right?! Of course this has mostly happened on a subconscious level. Still, they dictate everything from the way I interact with others, how I manage stress, and what I think about myself, others, and God. They are the voices that echo in my ears telling me I’m not good enough, that if I work just a bit harder and do things just a bit better, someone, God, anyone, will notice and love me. Because its a messed up, convoluted ball of yuck shoved into deep pockets of brain and heart tissues, understanding the origin of those pains takes time and courage. Exploring those dark pockets of hurt has been divinely driven. Really, there is no other way I would have walked that path if it weren’t for God’s leading. I’ve discovered this is the true work of dying to my old self and allowing God to bring to fruition the new creation that is me, to give me a new heart and allow me to breathe holy. It’s a tomb of hard space where this resurrection happens.

So here’s the deal, between the lack of people and purpose to run for, and doing the hard work of digging deep and seeking Divine healing and wholeness, I’ve forgotten. I have forgotten why I run, who I am, and who I am called to be. I’ve forgotten the beauty of sweat rolling down my neck, a heart that beats fast, breath that slows even, and a mind that clears when I’m on the road. I’ve forgotten how the veil between heaven and earth pulls back to allow me to see heavenly things, true and good. I’ve forgotten the sound of my feet on the pavement and Jesus’ sweet voice whispering in my ear. I’ve forgotten how prayer turns into true conversation with the Spirit, words from me and words from Wonder, woven together to reveal beauty, truth, and direction. I’ve forgotten how good it is to be alone, to have space to both lay things down and pick things up from the asphalt surface. I’ve forgotten the gift of noticing the small song of a distant bird, a penny lost, and the smile of an oncoming runner. I’ve forgotten that I function at a healthier level when I faithfully strap on the shoes and make my way out the door to either the local streets or the treadmill. I’ve forgotten…

But here’s the rest of the deal, in that forgetting, I’ve learned, actually I’ve experienced, I’m way more than I thought I was, that I’m called to go places I never imagined, and I’ve been given a voice to speak the hard, good, and lovely, to those placed in my path. I’ve experienced unconditional love where I thought there was none. I’ve experienced God’s Presence in the dark and in the light. I’ve experienced the profound companionship of his silence. I’ve experienced God hurts when I hurt and rejoices when I rejoice. I’ve experienced God's never-ending patience, tenderness, and grace. I’ve experienced hope when I felt hopeless, help when I most needed it, and provision every step of the way. For that, and countless more, I’m grateful.

So today, I remember. I remember words God gave me 18 months ago, on 3 different occasions over the course of 2 weeks (When that happens, I take notice). I remember, “Its always darkest before the dawn.” The light is coming; it’s just under the horizon. So I will run and wait for it to emerge, simply because I can. 

A Riverbank Reflection Prayer

The Tualatin River

Warm sun shining down on the brownish green, gently flowing Tualatin waters, sand in between my flip-flop covered toes, and a damp patch of weedy grass beneath me; here in this space, I experience the embrace of God as the breeze blows gentle, the birds sing, and the sun reaches down from the heavens to kiss my winter white skin. Behind me is a tree. I am not in its shade, but I do sit on its roots, roots that run deep, looking for nutrients in the soil and water from the river and the sky. On the surface, I see a tangled mess of roots, exposed, worn from the harsh winter rains and flooding. Their covering is just thick enough to continue to maintain life. The life of the tree gives life to others, as birds build nests in the branches and squirrels scurry up and down looking for food and rest. The branches are covered in new growth, tender leaves which have emerged from the dark of dormancy. They give shade from the sun and shelter from the rain to those who walk through the park.

            I wonder, “What about me? Am I like that tree?”

God answers with a gentle whisper, “Indeed you are. Like the tree, you are awakening to the Light I provide. You have withstood the wind, rain, and floods these past months. Your strength lies in your grounding, in roots that grow deep into the rich soil of my Word, of my Creation. It also is evident in your newfound ability to be still, really still, and sit in my Presence. As you do this, you are nourished and refreshed with my Living Waters, as my Peace and Grace wash over you. In this space of stillness, your love for me grows, as does your love for others. New growth is emerging on the tips of your branches as you trust Me to lead you into the vast expanse of the sky, into new areas of ministry, into my Church. Others will find shelter under your canopy or a place to rest on your established branches.

            But you know, there are dead branches in there, too? Branches that no longer produce life must be pruned. This is not done by Me alone. You join me in this as we discern when to cut and when to leave the branch or the twig. The pruning process, while painful, is also strategic and purposeful. For if I just went in and started lopping off branches without a plan, you would go into shock and not do what you were created to do. You would be paralyzed, stuck. That is not my will. Instead, cuts will happen, because shame, pride, self-sufficiency and doubt must be removed. As these fall to the ground, your soul will mend as new bark and shoots emerge. Will you trust me to do this in My time and in My way? It is a partnership as we are woven together, Created and Creator, intricately One as you abide in Me. Will you trust and submit to My leadership, My Spirit’s flowing in and through you, to produce healing and life, not only for you but also for others?”

            “God, I have found you to be faithful over these past months (indeed, years), and I will trust and submit to Your plans of growing and pruning me to become that which You have created me to be. The gift you have given me to sit with others and provide space, shelter, and rest in spiritual direction is beyond comprehension. In this space, You work through me to quietly stir another’s spirit to a growing awareness of Your Presence in their life. Watching your Spirit flow through them as they sit silent, speak with tears, or draw with lines and color is a holy privilege. My heart overflows with gratitude. Thank you for the way you are equipping me through supervision to learn to step back and listen to another’s heart, to be increasingly aware of feelings that are stirring in me as they stir in a directee, and to sit with pain and hurt rather than try to “fix it.” Great freedom is emerging in me as I learn to release that illusion of control in life. But it’s a process, and I know I have yet to arrive at that place of complete abandon to your Spirit’s working in and through me. Keep moving me there, my sweet Jesus, keep moving me in that direction.

            God, I do not know what is ahead of me, but I trust you to light the way just enough that I can grow into that space of eternity, and to prune off the dead branches of my soul. A tension exists in abiding with You, my Creator, where wholeness comes only after dead places are removed, and space is made for new life to emerge. Help me to be content with the process, to rest in that tension, and to embrace the mystery of You. I pray when others sit in my presence, may they also experience Your Presence. May they also experience rest, shelter, and peace. When they sit under my branches and listen to the streams of Living Water flow gently by, may they be refreshed. May they hear Your tender words of love and feel Your warm embrace as the sun shines on their face. God of Grace, may we all be mindful and fully experience the goodness of You throughout the moments of our days, and when we do, may we lift or faces to the Light and praise your glorious Name. Amen”