Memory of a river

The Slave River, Fort Smith, Northwest Territories

And even in the dead of northwest winter, with a silver hush over all the world, the rapids murmur. There are waters that run so fast they never freeze, never succumb to winter’s sleep. In the silent nights, their voice is heard, the hopeful lullaby of December. Summer’s roar is a powerful whisper still, a testament to the faithfulness of living water. Perhaps it is their music which calls down the northern lights to dance wild rose above the white river. Perhaps it is their music which echoes in the ache of a distant island. Perhaps even these eastern waves and breakers can hear it, a dozen parallels away, singing over Canadian shield to this sandstone, you are not forgotten.

~lg 

New Article: At the Heart of Christmas

Click on over here to read my latest article in Testimony Magazine.

"The mystery of the Incarnation hovers over Christmas, whispering through the twinkling lights and beckoning in the silent nights. That “God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God; begotten, not made”  should come down from heaven and put on our tattered flesh—here is awe and wonder! Here is joy to the world and all the true magic of Christmas. Immanuel has come: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory …” (John 1:14).

But what a home we gave Him then. “No room at the inn,” the story goes. Bethlehem hospitality fell short that night in what could only be described as an epic fail. Now, eager to make amends, we sing, O come to my heart, Lord Jesus, There is room in my heart for Thee. We want to clear a space, sweep away the dung and stale hay, and prepare a proper bed for baby Jesus. If God is choosing to make His home in us, then we feel we need to have things just right on Christmas Day.

Yet, almost inevitably, the turkey burns or the cat throws up under the tree. Tensions surface between family members or we are stuffing our mess into a hall closet two minutes before company is due to arrive. It’s so hard to get it just right, so hard to make space in our cluttered souls. How many times do we lie awake the night before Christmas whispering, “I’m not ready”?

  

But what if Christmas is not so much about making room in our hearts for God as it is God making room in His heart for us?"

Read more here...


~lg

Run for Covenant

What I want to say is this: In the face of the bewildering nature of human interaction, there is nothing better than to throw oneself headlong into those relationships defined by covenant. When you want to run for cover, run for covenant. When restlessness calls like the mythical merfolk out beyond the sandbars, don’t waste your time splashing in the tidepools straining to hear more. Turn and run for the hills, to the Mount Zion of your relational landscape. Run to the shelter of timber and hearth before the storm surges up and sweeps you out to sea. Run to the fortress of covenant.

The only true freedom to be had is that of obedience, and the sacred bonds of spoken vows will only chafe unless you are close enough to run together. It is not restriction – it is the place of revelation. It is not limitation – it is the face of love, whose lines can only be traced, caressed, transfigured in the constant whispering of the covenant oath.

Here is grace.

Here is truth, when the tempter’s lies buffet.

Here is trust, when trials should come.

Our original response to original sin is a patchwork cover threaded with shame. And there are days when the old bruised heel still aches along the stony way of life. But even though the path back may be laced with thorns, the healing balm is held by the hands of covenant.

It is the covering for shame.

It is the context for sanctification.

It is the geography whose contours lead to the horizon of hope and whose ridges all rise in ascent to the holy city.

What I want to say is this: Run for the covenant. For Christ Himself will always be found in the relationships He institutes. He is present in the sacramental mystery as King of the mountain. He is its heart. So run for covenant. Run for love. Run for your lives. Run to Christ.

~lg

Terror, Love, and Living Free

And with all this "terror" round about us, what is the antidote to fear? Oddly enough, not courage, not even faith, but love. When the shots ring out and the doors lock down, we do not hold on to bravery, but to love.

"Perfect love casts out fear." (1 John 4:8)

Bravery alone steels itself for the onslaught to come. Love puts on the armour of God and sets out to do good. To be sure, this making vulnerable takes courage, but bravery must be put in service of this end if it hopes to be a virtue.

To put our hearts in lockdown - this is the true tyranny of terror. To hide our faces from the other, to stockpile hate, to execute hope - this is the victory of darkness. But hearts in love are free from fear, for love's end is always, eternally life. Hearts in love are free to give unconditionally and serve sacrificially, because they are secured in a reality stronger than death.

Love is the only thing which will loosen fear's grip. If we are afraid, the first thing we must do is find some way to love - love concretely, love generously, love in new and strange and difficult ways - because it's the only way we will ever face the last thing when it comes.

Love your child, love your neighbour, love your enemy's child. Make a cake, make a peace offering, make a friend. Say a prayer, send a letter, start a movement. Give your stuff, give up your seat, give your life. Where fear blows a hole, step in. What we need most now are love's boots on the ground.


~lg

Last words

At the end of some days there is nothing left to do but exhale. I have reached the limits of my capacity, used up all my oxygen. My voice is gone and I am turning blue.

My prayer is nothing more than a death rattle:

Holy Spirit, breathe.

I wait in the cold.

Then, the stirring of warmth, a breath against my cheek. Mouth-to-mouth, you give soul CPR, inflate what has collapsed till all my blood runs bright. It's your breath in my lungs and I could live another day if you stay near, if you teach me to breathe. I could sing another day, a thousand years to exhale your praise.


~lg

"The Armor of Worth"

~ Excerpt from The Mystery of Marriage, by Mike Mason

"It is not intimacy itself, therefore, which is so distasteful and intimidating to the world but rather the moral condemnation that comes with it. People crave closeness with one another, but are repelled by the sin that such closeness inevitably uncovers in themselves: the selfish motives that are unmasked, the pettiness that spills out, the monstrous new image of self that emerges as it struggles so pitifully to have its own way.

Of course, only God can give people the strange desire to know the whole truth about themselves, and the strength and courage to live wide-open, exposed lives before one another. And how does He do it? How does He slip us this bitter pill, coated with intense desire and determination? Fortunately, the pill is also lavishly coated with the mystery we call love, which is the only thing in heaven or on earth which can shield us from the horror of knowing what we are really like. That, in fact, is what God's love is: it is His armor, an armor of forgiveness and acceptance that we put on over our corruption, an armor of worth or worthiness that completely covers our own worthlessness. God's love is, in a sense, the courage to go on living in the face of our sin, in the full knowledge of who and what we are. This intolerable knowledge of self must, indeed, be exchanged for knowledge of the Lord, and supremely for the knowledge of His saving power through the love of His Son Jesus Christ. That is what it means to "put on" Christ: it is to assume His strength and purity and goodness, recognizing that we have none of our own. Such an actual transfusion of character is possible only in the depths of loving intimacy with God in Christ.

And so it is in marriage that when the Lord draws a man and a woman together in the most intimate of human associations, He does so by giving them His love, which is all that can shield them through the searing experience of self-revelation they are to undergo. This is an experience that all people both crave and fear, with a fear that is conquerable only by love. Only love can drive out the constant threat of condemnation and rejection that otherwise haunts and spoils all experiences of intimacy. People cannot seem to refrain from judging one another, and in the crucible of marriage the judgment can be so intense and oppressive that the only recourse is a loving forgiveness of the other's wrongs, and in turn a courageous willingness to see one's own sinfulness exposed, conquered, and actually replaced by the other's love. In such a relationship, a true transfusion and transformation of characters may take place as each puts on the good qualities of the other and forgives the bad. Each is armor to the other, each is the other's strength and worth."

Mortal Hope

We are frail. A puff of breath, too soon extinguished, a gathering of dust, too easily scattered. We wrestle with this mortality in the face of the invisible armies of disease, the ravenous wolves of cancer, the bottomless appetite of pain. We long for healing, for wholeness. We clamour for invincibility against the onslaught.

And yet, this mortality is also a gift.  Our broken bodies remind us that the facts and figures of our physicality are not the only reality. We are nomads in tents, desperately patching the rip and fray of our rubbing against the world,  and a hurricane could blow the covering right off, but sooner or later we will all pack it away, and where will be our home?

The tents may fray, but home may still be had even in the gale and gust. There is wholeness and peace that can enter into the center of it all, the perfect calm of spirit that comes from connection with the One who first breathed into dust and brought life. He promises life beyond pain and love beyond death and a home right now where soul healing can be found.

God our Healer has hands that hold us in all our frailty, and when the dust settles our names are still written on his palms, right beside the scars. Here is hope. 

~lg

Fools in love

Facedown, hands up, guts out singing with gusto, the swaying, shaking crazies who weep and shout and whisper in strange tongues, this is who we are. All these bodies and all these stories coming together, people with arms and tattoos and voices and histories, a mass of grateful people come to offer what they have to a living God – this is our lively worship. We are just people who were grabbed from the brink of hell and now can’t help but sing our thanks. Some worship with pure rhythm, and others with their offbeat, awkward offering, and it all ascends to heaven. To love God with heart, soul, mind and strength – yes, the greatest command, the greatest joy. We are all fools in love, and isn’t this what worship is?


~lg

What We Did.

I wrote about how I felt about Iraq on Friday. Responsible. Today I’d like to do something unusual for me and share what we did. Not because I think we are so great, but because I want to show that we can all do something, be it ever so small. We can help. Iraq is not the only tragedy in the world. I think I really would feel paralyzed if I had to act on every nightly news clip. But we can all leave our hearts open to love, and when love speaks, whispers, shouts, bangs on our doors breaking us bit by bit, it is our responsibility to act.

“We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?” (1 John 3:16-17)

We prayed. I prayed for the protection of the innocent as I watched mine running and playing in the yard. There were times I wanted to shut down, to ignore the little duties and delights of the day. I sat in our house and felt guilty, not for all our meaningless stuff, but for the peace and joy we experience within these walls. This is the prize, not the American Dream, this is the gift for which we give thanks. This carefree summer day is what every child needs, and God does not begrudge us this. I sat on the green, green grass and prayed that one day those suffering would find joy. I prayed that evil would be halted in its tracks. I prayed that love would prove victorious. We keep praying that our hearts would remain open, that our hands will find fitting expressions of help.

We gave. After looking at a few different options, we gave a one time gift to an organization on the ground in Iraq providing relief to those persecuted and fleeing, no matter their religion. Was it thousands of dollars? No, not even close. But it was what we had this month. And then, we committed to monthly support for a local family we know who work in Lebanon, providing services to refugees from the Middle Eastern conflicts. Again, it is not a large amount. I wish it could be more. Maybe one day it will be. But it is our commitment not to forget after the fuss dies down.

We ate beans and bread. Pizza Friday is a bit of a tradition in our house. We make pizza and celebrate the onset of the weekend. But this Friday I couldn't. Couldn't celebrate, couldn't pile on the extra cheese. So in our own way, we fasted. I set the table, lit a candle, put a picture of the family we wanted to support next to it. Then I opened a tin of beans. Cut a few slices of bread. Sat down and explained to the kids why we weren’t having pizza tonight. We talked, on a four year old level, about people who were sad and needed to be safe, and that we were going to try and help. “Maybe those people could come to our island and live in safe houses here,” my daughter suggested. Oh, the simplicity of childlike faith.

On Sunday in our church one of these children of faith showed a picture he had painted. Two people walking toward a big red sunset. He is painting pictures to raise money for his grandmother in Kenya, who feeds dozens of hungry children in her own home, daily. He sells the paintings here in the community and sends the money to her. His idea. He’s just a kid.

“Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth.” (1 John 3:18)

Perilous times call for particular acts of love. Change happens hand to hand, bean by bean. We can choose to love. We can choose to walk away from darkness, toward the sun.

~lg

Responsible

Something is horribly wrong. One of my children watches early morning kids tv while the other sleeps quiet upstairs.

Meanwhile, there are children starving on mountaintops and children being beheaded in a park. I put the kettle on for coffee, survey the happy mess of yesterday’s play. I put toast in the toaster and the birds whistle outside the window. How would I feel if it were my daughter, my son? It is. They are distant, but they are part of my own body.

I feel responsible. Not for the crimes, but for my brothers and sisters, and all the children distorted by suffering. I do not feel able, not in the least. What is my response?

Coffee’s ready and the sun stretches out lazily through our little valley, the same sun that burns angry over the brazen evil in another land. This evil, this is not new. Braver and better people face it every day, challenge it every day, in thousands of ways all over the world. But sometimes a heart can get whiplash, and mine is here aching for Mosul and Mount Sinjar.

I feel helpless. I have a few extra dollars, a few extra prayers. We try not to think too much on these things, lest our lives be soiled by their awful truths. But I cannot look away. I must not forget, when my children are screaming in laughter, that others are not. I don’t have answers, and only a small voice, but I will denounce this vomit of hell. I have a heart, and today I will let it be stained with the sorrows before me.

My children are safe. My toast is cold. My heart is broken. Perhaps, together somehow, our love can make a way even into this hate and horror?

*Part II - What We Did. 

~lg

The kiss of God

"You've come and burned me with a kiss."

What is the kiss of God if not a burning coal from his mouth? A live coal from the altar, the temple of His body. As love begins with a kiss, our union with God begins with this encounter. A being of unclean lips trembles before the Consuming Fire, and if we draw near, dare to do so, in desperate desire to touch Him or die, touch Him and die if necessary, then He does not spit us out of of His mouth but draws near with this burning kiss. It's a kiss of death to sin and its icy hold, to all the lies we've ever told, the kiss that purifies, unlocks our lips to sing "Holy, holy, holy" and ignites the soul blaze of true love. There can be no intimacy without it, for this is what brands us as His own.

"And my heart burns for You. . . "


*Psalm 18:8, Isaiah 6:1-7
lyrics ~ "Obsession" by Delirious 

~lg

Still.

Be still, oh beating heart.

I sidle close after this swirling mess of a day with its tears and tantrums and timeouts. Night has fallen, and with it a veil that softens the rough edges of glaring hours. I find your little body, a slight form under the blankets, and pull tight, hoping to grasp your heart somehow in all these layers. I’m pulling and praying and begging God to make this connection when I’ve gone and frayed all the edges. I fear the hypocrisy of my feeble words, so I put my hope into these breaths that rise and fall with yours, calming, slowing, till I feel this space between us tauten and still.

Still.

My soul, the Lord is on our side and he speaks peace to hurricanes, yes, even ours. One green eye peeks out from under the blanket hideaway, then a hand finds my face, and, oh, a multitude of sins are covered. Let the world somersault around us, I have found the one my soul loves, and we are anchored still.


~lg

Over the Cliff*

The day he died we all went right over the cliff. Hearts in our throats, lungs screaming noiselessly for air. How could he be taken? He, who carried all our hopes in hands of power – a grip now broken asunder. Now we are left powerless, helpless, without him. The world has been ripped out from under our feet, and this is a freefall of deepest grief and confusion. He is not here, and all is lost, we are lost and flailing.

After the fall, the silence. The silence of empty air, empty promises. We are simply scattered ashes in the vacuum of his absence. Waiting for we know not what.

Has it been three hours? Three days? Three years?

Then, the echo of distant matter. The rumble of some new reality. Is this the bottom of the chasm? Is this death come to swallow us up too?

But what our blinded eyes struggle to see, our faces and fingers begin to feel. Water. Falling with us. The spray becomes a stream, and we are soaked but not submerged. We are landing, if such a term could be used, in a river running downward.

And suddenly, rising up from below us, a figure emerges, as if from an underground spring. We thought we left him at the top, but here he comes, racing up from the depths with the glint of triumph in his eyes, grabbing hold of these trembling hands with the grip of life, and he has caught us. The river explodes around us and for the first time since we fell we can fill our lungs because he is alive and that is the only air we can breathe. He is alive and those are the only words that matter.

The river carries us all with a rushing buoyancy, and we know that this descent has somehow saved us, because it somehow killed us, but he has brought us back to life.

  

*for Calvary Church

~lg

Sweet Friday

Good Friday morning and the ground is still frozen. The sun is out but the earth is slow to wake. Three holes pierce our giant maple, and the sap is running. The season was slow in coming. We’d all wished for warmer weather by now. But this latest dive into frosty nights has meant a resurgence in sap flow. Today the tree gushes blood, clear and sweet, pouring out its spring offering.  We gather the miracle water in buckets, bring it in and boil it up, till the house hangs heavy with the scent of maple.

Not everything is as we wish. Some days are colder than the calendar reads, and some winters are longer than our hearts can bear. But come to the tree, put your arms around its old rugged trunk, and you’ll hear the life rising within. Three holes pierce and water is turned to wine. Taste and see that the blood is sweet. Yes, the earth will turn and the seasons will shift and flowers will blossom from twisted thorns. The tree knows.

The syrup is thick and golden on our tongues. We give thanks for these frozen nights, these dripping wounds. We give thanks for the lifeblood of creation that makes this Friday Good.

~lg

Cabin Fever!

Cabin fever has spiked. The winter roars outside. The bears have broken in, and they are my children. Wild things, stomping and raging and growling, upending the furniture and scattering the morning’s broken pieces all over the floor. Snow days and sick days have kept us inside for far too long, and the walls are pushing in. These shaggy-haired creatures are chasing me with whining, irrational demands for kids’ shows!  and softer toast!  and smaller pirates! If their evil plan is to turn mama into a grizzly, it’s working.

I want to roar. I want to toss them out into a snowbank. Or perhaps stuff and mount silent over the mantle?

But then, the littlest cub wanders over, blankie and teddy in hand. He is wearing flannel bear jammies.

“I need uppie.”

“I need a bear hug,” I tell him, scooping him up.

“Bear hug?”

“Yes.”

Somehow in the embrace, we feel human again.  Sticky paws turn to patting hands, the gnash of terrible teeth to a smile. This grizzly mama begins to melt. The fever breaks. Maybe, just maybe, I can see the end of winter after all.

~lg