dream smashing

I've been ruminating on Ezekiel for a month now as we approach the half-way mark in this 1189 journey; and so some thoughts on Ezekiel and Jeremiah, smashing dreams and visions of dramatic restoration...

After earthy Jeremiah, Ezekiel seems so other-worldly, so out of touch.

Jeremiah is among survivors in the land holding on to forlorn hope and dreams that their nation could still make it somehow – just one more political maneuver, just one more alliance; after all, God wouldn’t allow his own house to be torn down, would he? Ezekiel is among an early batch of exiled Israeli captives in Babylon, who are holding on to pipe dreams of their own of a last minute turn-around, the ultimate come-from-behind win that would soon have them all home. Both prophets essentially engage in a prophetic ministry of dream-smashing. False dreams, that is. And each goes about it in their own unique way.

Jeremiah takes the elders of the people to the potter’s house where he literally smashes an earthen pot beyond all hope of reassembly or restoration. God takes Ezekiel on something of a magic carpet ride as he is repeatedly caught up into celestial visions often involving a portable divine throne, a holy dais of sorts, borne about by four creatures with multiple faces, covered with eyes, possessing two sets of wings, and then there’s that whole “wheel within a wheel” thing – all of this being not the literal person and throne of God but “the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.” This is a glory that comes to him in captivity; a glory that is dynamic and mobile, not static; a glory that he witnesses departing, step by step, from the Jerusalem temple – explaining its ensuing destruction by the Babylonians. Some five centuries later,that glory would descend once again into a rebuilt temple (another false dream that would be smashed) in the ultimate likeness and appearance of God in the face of Jesus.

Dream smashing.

What an odd (and uncomfortable for most) way to begin the process of restoration in a society. For restoration is the ultimate work and vision of Jeremiah and Ezekiel – and of Christ followers today. It’s where this whole story of creation and fall and redemption and restoration is headed. Gabe Lyons in his book The Next Christians highlights this four beat story and observes that to a large degree Christianity has myopically focused on the middle two notes of “fall and redemption” as if the story were simply about being saved from sin and then ultimately getting out of here. But fall and redemption are only half the story – and his thesis is that the “next Christians” are those who embrace the whole story with all four glorious notes. Lyons describes Christians as “restorers” or restorationists who engage culture as opposed to isolationists who withdraw or collaborators who blend in. He says that such restorationists have a natural reflex to respond to brokenness “as if they see right through the moment and into a future that bears a mystical resemblance to the pristine state of the past. Then they work to create that future. Their unique vision enables them to face some of the greatest problems in our world without even a flinch.”

And here’s the thing. To see right through the moment into a future that bears a mystical resemblance to the pristine state of the past (let’s call this the kingdom of God) requires us to challenge and, yes, smash the false dreams of the present rather than coddling those dreams or showing people how they can incorporate God into those dreams (or worse, as the false prophets of Jeremiah’s and Ezekiel’s day, to claim those false dreams as being from God himself to begin with). Do I really need to spell out the implications of this for Christians today when we come to the “American Dream”?

To wake up and see what was and thus to engage our current scene not as mere critics but as partners, co-creators with God of what could be, of what is and will be (the kingdom of God!), means the dream we're currently buying into needs to collapse (yes, we need a major "kick"!). And so Jeremiah comes with a commission to “pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow,” and only then “to build and to plant.” He tried to awaken a slumbering generation with the sound of a breaking pot.

And while Jeremiah smashes the pot and is lifted out of the miry pit, Ezekiel in all of his antics is quite literally flying high as he tries to rouse an exiled generation with the dream that should have owned and shaped them from the beginning.

to be continued...

a successful life

So Johanan the son of Kareah and all the commanders of the forces and all the people did not obey the voice of the LORD, to remain in the land of Judah. But Johanan the son of Kareah and all the commanders of the forces took all the remnant of Judah who had returned to live in the land of Judah from all the nations to which they had been driven— the men, the women, the children, the princesses, and every person whom Nebuzaradan the captain of the guard had left with Gedaliah the son of Ahikam, son of Shaphan; also Jeremiah the prophet and Baruch the son of Neriah. And they came into the land of Egypt, for they did not obey the voice of the LORD. And they arrived at Tahpanhes. (Jeremiah 43:4-7 ESV)

What kind of an ending is that?

The hapless prophet is carried off against his wishes and counsel into another Egyptian bondage. More stern words of coming judgment, of the relentless pursuit of the Babylonian sword after a faithless and fickle people.

We would instinctively write a happier ending. We crave resolution. We demand the tying up of loose ends. But this is like a bad movie, the camera panning out as Jeremiah wails in Tahpanhes and then the screen darkens and the credits roll. Or wait, there are no credits. There’s not even a dramatic THE END. Jeremiah just fades, leaving us hanging, wondering...

I’ve always been struck by the seemingly utterly fruitless and unsuccessful nature of Jeremiah’s ministry.

He didn’t build anything.

He didn’t end up with a faithful band of followers around him. (Though he did have Baruch, for whom Jeremiah’s final word is “Do you seek great things? Seek them not.” What a timeless word for ministry!)

Flaccid kings never took his counsel.

Everyone judged his motives.

No one listened to him.

He was a prophet to the nations…but he never travelled anywhere…except to Egypt at the end of his life against his will.

The first edition of his book was cut up piece by piece and thrown into the fire.

No further copies were sought – though he made one anyway.

The stains from the muddy pit that was Jeremiah’s life ultimately left indelibly upon him the marks of a true saint; his muddied footprints the outline of a truly successful life.

Oh to one day be worthy of carrying those sandals…

letter to the Exiles

This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: "Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper."  Yes, this is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Israel, says: "Do not let the prophets and diviners among you deceive you. Do not listen to the dreams you encourage them to have. They are prophesying lies to you in my name. I have not sent them," declares the LORD. (Jeremiah 29:4-9 ESV)

The only place you have to be human is where you are right now.
Eugene Peterson

Jeremiah continues taking me to some deep places.

Not necessarily deep as in somber or sad, but just deep, earthy places.

I see the reflection of my religious self too readily in the faces of men such as Pashhur and the other false prophets (how I would love to just see the faces of others in that profile!). So much of what passes for what should be the radical message of Christianity is an exercise in sanctified escapism. Cordoned off from the world behind cathedral walls we "heal our wounds slightly" while telling ourselves not to get too comfortable here in this world that we are so quickly passing through. Protracted denial. Holy avoidance. Desperate prayers of deliverance from present realities meant to be encountered not escaped. What contrasting fare is found in Jeremiah's letter to the exiles already in Babylon. This is the setting of one of our favorite verses to quote: "I know the plans I have for you - plans to prosper you, and not to harm you; plans to give you a future and a hope." These were plans and a future and a hope that would only mature into reality as they settled in where they were. In exile. Dig deep into Babylonian soil. Get your hands dirty with it. Pray for it. Get used to it. So much of our religion of whatever color or stripe is an effort to escape from where we are, trading in present exiled tediums or terrors for that future and a hope somewhere over the rainbow of our dreams. And in so doing we miss the face of God to be seen and embraced and kissed right here in these exiled places of even our greatest pain, debilitating disappointments and oppressive doldrums.

Peterson's Run With the Horses once again resecures its place on my shelf with its timely and poignant reminder:

Jeremiah's letter is a rebuke and a challenge: "Quit sitting around feeling sorry for yourselves. The aim of the person of faith is not to be as comfortable as possible but to live as deeply and thoroughly as possible - to deal with the reality of life, discover truth, create beauty, act out love. You didn't do it when you were in Jerusalem. Why don't you try doing it here, in Babylon? Don't listen to the lying prophets who make an irresponsible living by selling you false hopes. You are in Babylon for a long time. You better make the best of it. Don't just get along, waiting for some miraculous intervention. Build houses, plant gardens, marry husbands, marry wives, have children, pray for the wholeness of Babylon, and do everything you can to develop that wholeness. The only place you have to be human is where you are right now. The only opportunity you will ever have to live by faith is in the circumstances you are provided this very day: this house you live in, this family your find yourself in, this job you have been given (or not), the weather conditions that prevail at this moment." 

Exile (being where we don't want to be with people we don't want to be with) forces a decision: Will I focus my attention on what is wrong with the world and feel sorry for myself? Or will I focus my energies on how I can live at my best in this place I find myself? It is always easier to complain about problems than to engage in careers of virtue. George Eliot in her novel Felix Holt has a brilliantly appropriate comment on this quesiton: "Everything's wrong says he. That's a big text. But does he want to make everything right? Not he. He'd lose his text."

Oh may my fingers be ruddy and red with the Babylonian soil of my exile as true hope dawns and beckons me on...and to cease from escapist fantasies.

reworked

The word that came to Jeremiah from the LORD: “Arise, and go down to the potter's house, and there I will let you hear my words.” So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel. And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to do. (Jeremiah 18:1-4 ESV)


The potter’s house fascinates me.

I love how the Lord can turn our eyes into ears, placing before us common objects and occupations that become sacraments – earthy intersections of divine truths undergirding all of life.

I see the potter sitting at his wheel as it spins and spins. The clay literally rises, seemingly taking on a life of its own as his muddy hands shape and press. I watch his hand reach inside the object, this pot, this vessel that will become a unique combination of beauty and utility. It rises, it broadens, it narrows, all according to the movement of his hands. What will it be? What will be its final form? My anticipation rises. Expectation soars. I hold my breath waiting for the culmination of the potter and his spinning wheel.

And then it happens.

It is undone.

The work of beauty collapses upon itself in a heap.

Seeming failure.

A mere unformed lump.

Without form and void.

I look to the potter. Is he crushed? Is he in anguish over his collapsed work? Does he kick over the wheel and pound the clay with an angry fist? Does he throw up his hands in despair or bow his head in shame? No. With a knowing and playful smile he gathers up the clay.

And he reworks it.

He reworks it into another vessel “as it seemed good to the potter to do.”

I’m not sure which version of me we’re up to at this point. Is it Mike 2.0, 3.0, 4.0? I don’t know. But no doubt about it: I have been reworked. Multiple times. Yet no matter what the reworking might entail or into what type of vessel I might be shaped this time or next time or the time after that, the clay that is me retains a continuity, a consistency. Thankfully I remain clay! May the wheel never turn to reveal me as cement quickly hardening and set. And the thought now occurs to me: Is it not in our departure from this world that we are finally “fired”? Is it not then and only then that we reach our completed form, the final shape of beauty marked by his hands?

How happy at the time I thought I was with Mike 1.0. How at the time I wished to be “fired” and set right then for the rest of my days. But then with watery hands, he reworked me. Mike 2.0. This version of me pleases me less. I feel marred and spoiled, but still the wheel spins, still his hands shape. Why does he keep going? Why does he make me thus? I despair and cry and languish on the wheel and surrender hope in being other than what and where and how I am. But then down I come. Reworked yet again. The wheel turns again. Behold the reworking which is becoming Mike 3.0.

Onward spins the wheel.

Revolution.

Change.

Reshaping.

Reworked yet again, the latest version of me.

Have I finally learned to be clay in his hands?

Have I learned, as much as clay can learn?

Have I stopped trying to trade spots with the potter?

Have I given up trying to be the potter for others?

Am I willing to be reworked again?

And then yet again?

And onward spins the wheel…

put away the knife

It was the ninth month, and the king was sitting in the winter house, and there was a fire burning in the fire pot before him. As Jehudi read three or four columns, the king would cut them off with a knife and throw them into the fire in the fire pot, until the entire scroll was consumed in the fire that was in the fire pot. (Jeremiah 36:22-23 ESV)

Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good. Abstain from every form of evil. (1 Thessalonians 5:19-22 ESV)

Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, but to weigh and consider.
Sir Francis Bacon


I am running ahead a bit in Jeremiah. He makes it hard not too.

What a compelling picture!

A king sitting by a burning fire pot, literally cutting into pieces and burning these words brought by Blessing (Baruch).

How easy to cut up words from viewpoints off our grid rather than really hearing and seeing what is in them.

Reading the newly released book Republocrat: Confessions of a Liberal Conservative by Carl Trueman managed to put me square into Jehoiakim’s chair – or at least to wonder just how well, in fact, I fit there far too often still. Trueman’s “confessions” deal with both politics and religion, and so what he "confesses" as to one realm very nicely (and uncomfortably) applies to the other. Here are some excerpts from his chapter entitled “Not-So-Fantastic Mr. Fox” under a section entitled “Let’s Use Our God-Given Critical Faculties.” Put away your knife, step away from the fire, and consider:

When it comes to listening to the news, Christians should be eclectic in their approach and not depend merely on those pundits who simply confirm their view of the world while self-evidently using terminology, logic, and standard rules of evidence and argumentation in sloppy, tendentious, and sometimes frankly dishonest ways, such as Mr. Beck and his “welfare means totalitarianism” claims. There is a sense in which we are dependent for our view of the wider world on those media that give us access to the world, so surely it is incumbent on us to make sure that we expose ourselves to a variety of viewpoints on the great issues of the day….

Either human beings are critical creatures, provided with brains that allow them to think for themselves, or they are mere sponge-like receptors who believe whatever they are told by a third party. Biblically speaking, it would seem like the former is the case. Luke, for example, constructed his history by talking with eyewitnesses, and we can presume he used only those sources that he found reliable while discounting the rest. When the Bereans heard the gospel, they searched the Scriptures to see whether the things they heard were so. Critical faculties were engaged in both instances.

When Christianity was starting to penetrate the Roman Empire in the second century, there were a number of thinkers, called by scholars the Greek Apologists, who took it on themselves to argue the case for Christianity in the public square. One of their most powerful arguments was that Christians, far from subverting public order (and that, of course, was, at the time, a profoundly unChristian public order), actually make the very best citizens in terms of hard work, loyalty, and civil obedience. Later, Calvin made essentially the same point in the prefatory letter to his Institutes of the Christian Religion. Today, our obligation is no different: we are called to be good citizens in this world, and in a democratic society, that involves having as many well-thought-out and informed opinions on the things that really matter as time allows. It is incumbent on us not to surround ourselves with things that confirm our prejudices but seek to listen to a variety of viewpoints. The listening is not an end in itself, as so many postmodern conversationalists would have it; the purpose is to become more informed and to have better-grounded and better-argued opinions. But that can happen only when watching the news becomes more than just having our gut convictions continually confirmed.

This is the essence of true Word havering.

He that hath ears…put away the knife and truly hear some different perspectives. You just might learn something. And while you're at it, you just might enjoy picking up Trueman's book.

Bon appetit.

how long before I see well?

And the word of the LORD came to me, saying, “Jeremiah, what do you see?” And I said, “I see an almond branch.” Then the LORD said to me, “You have seen well, for I am watching over my word to perform it.” The word of the LORD came to me a second time, saying, “What do you see?” And I said, “I see a boiling pot, facing away from the north.” Then the LORD said to me, “Out of the north disaster shall be let loose upon all the inhabitants of the land.” (Jeremiah 1:11-14 ESV)


"The two visions, the blossoming almond branch and the pot of boiling water, were Jeremiah’s Harvard and Yale. The single-image visions burned themselves deep into the retina of his faith. By means of these visions he kept his balance and sanity and passion in the theater of God’s glory and through the holocaust of human sin."
Peterson, Run with the Horses

“What do you see, Jeremiah?”

Reading this opening chapter of Jeremiah through the years, I generally found myself shrugging my shoulders at the sight before Jeremiah. An almond branch. A boilling pot. So what? And so I would move on. Actually, that was my initial response to a whole lot of what I was reading – and often still is. The fact is, I think the greatest personal challenge I face is the challenge to really see. I feel I have a ways to go before hearing the Lord’s response to Jeremiah: “You have seen well.”

But as Peterson points out quite effectively, this twin vision was what transformed insecure prophet into an immovable rock in his generation. In fact “insecure” really isn’t strong enough – no more than our tepid translation that would put the words, “Ah, Lord” in Jeremiah’s mouth. “Ah” would really need to be something along the lines of “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” (slow motion, deep gutteral pain and disbelief – set before your eyes the greatest tragedy you have ever witnessed and then hear the painful exclamation that would escape your lips; that’s “Ah”).

Jeremiah was terrified.

And into his gloom and terror, yes, God spoke the assurance that he was with him, that he was putting his words in his mouth, that he had set him as a prophet to the nations. But he didn’t just tell him, he showed him. He gave him these two life-defining and sustaining visions. Budding hope and expectation in God’s faithfulness, and defined and limited calamity over which God is sovereign, both forever connected in Jeremiah’s consciousness every time he saw the early blossoming of the almond trees in Israel – blossoms forming while everything else around was still grey and dead – and every time he saw a pot of boiling water.

“I am watching over my word to perform it.”

Blossoming hope and expectation before the prospect of unavoidable, scalding pain – pain that would be poured out.

It takes me back to Habakkuk’s concluding song: “Though the fig tree does not blossom…yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” Jeremiah faced the crisis not just of a generation, but of the ages, one that simply could not and would not be avoided. No deep stashes of food would sustain anyone; no futures of gold and silver would tide them over through it. All would be swept away – including, it would seem, Jeremiah. But even in Egyptian exile he would see the almond branch blossom after the boiling pot had been fully poured out. Hope would remain.

Looking at that almond branch today, vividly brought home the question: how well do I see?

How easily do I teeter when exposed to whispered or headlined terrors and threats?

Why do I so naturally default to the negative, the cynical, the pessimistic, the suspicious?

How long will I allow fears to pull me inward, to isolate and divide and insulate within myself and between myself and others as I play cloak and dagger games in my own mind like some pathetic, second rate MacBeth?

How long will I cave in to the madness of society, of swirling politics and religion and human posturing and pontificating?

How long before I see well?

Why is it so hard to see the almond branch blooming?

named

The words of Jeremiah, the son of Hilkiah, one of the priests who were in Anathoth in the land of Benjamin, to whom the word of the LORD came in the days of Josiah the son of Amon, king of Judah, in the thirteenth year of his reign. It came also in the days of Jehoiakim the son of Josiah, king of Judah, and until the end of the eleventh year of Zedekiah, the son of Josiah, king of Judah, until the captivity of Jerusalem in the fifth month. (Jeremiah 1:1-3 ESV)


Oh the bittersweetness of Jeremiah.

Each time through the Bible it’s like another family reunion. It’s like I see faces across the room and then when they are before me, there’s that sudden lightning bolt of recognition, followed by the warm embrace, shared memories, laughter and tears.

There’s a sweeping grandeur to Isaiah that is unparalleled in the rest of the book. But if Isaiah soars to sublime heights, wafting on wings of servant songs and majestic dirges of doom, Jeremiah swoons and sweeps low in rich and earthy hues.

If Isaiah inspires me, Jeremiah feeds me.

Accompanying me on this journey as something of a guide and companion is Eugene Peterson in his book Running with the Horses. What a blessed excuse indeed to take this journey again, Peterson in hand! And so, to start, an excerpt early on as he observes the litany of personal names with which Jeremiah begins…

At our birth we are named, not numbered. The name is that part of speech by which we are recognized as a person. We are not classified as a species of animal. We are not labeled as a compound of chemicals. We are not assessed for our economic potential and given a cash value. We are named. What we are named is not as significant as that we are named.

Jeremiah’s impressive stature as a human being – Ewald calls him the “most human prophet” – and the developing vitality of that humanness for sixty years have their source in his naming, along with the centered seriousness with which he took his name and the names of others. “To be called by his true name is part of any listener’s process of becoming his true self. We have to receive a name by others; this is part of the process of being fully born.” Jeremiah was named and immersed in names. He was never reduced to a role or absorbed into a sociological trend or catapulted into a historical crisis. His identity and significance developed from the event of naming and his response to naming. The world of Jeremiah does not open with a description of the scenery or a sketch of the culture but with eight personal names.

Anytime we move from personal names to abstract labels or graphs or statistics, we are less in touch with reality and diminished in our capacity to deal with what is best and at the center of life. Yet we are encouraged on every side to do just that. In many areas of life the accurate transmission of our social-security number is more important than the integrity with which we live. In many sectors of the economy the title that we hold is more important than our ability to do certain work. In many situations the public image that people have of us is more important than the personal relations that we develop with them. Every time that we go along with this movement from the personal to the impersonal, from the immediate to the remote, from the concrete to the abstract, we are diminished, we are less. Resistance is required if we will retain our humanity.

The call of Jeremiah is a call to just such resistance.

How easily do we reduce Jeremiah’s own words to statistics – so many chapters and verses and words and letters; word dissected and then graphed on Pritchard’s scale. But it is his voice, his heart that must be heard and felt and sensed. Pathos and pulse and passion.

Do we dare diminish him?

Do we dare diminish others, joining with the sweep of our culture’s impersonal hand leaving behind mere stats and files and summaries like so much ash in a jar?

Do we dare allow ourselves to be so diminished?

Cancer and the Kingdom: Embracing Exile, a Future and a Hope

Came across this article I wrote back in 2006 about Hannah in the immediate aftermath of her brain surgery. With her graduating this past week and the fourth anniversary of her surgery coming up in just a few weeks, this just seems timely...

The essential meaning of exile is that we are where we don’t want to be. We are separated from home. We are not permitted to reside in the place we comprehend and appreciate our surroundings. We are forced to be away from that which is most congenial to us. It is an experience of dislocation – everything is out of joint; nothing fits together. The thousand details that have been built up through the years that give a sense of at-homeness – gestures, customs, rituals, phrases – are all gone. Life is ripped out of the familiar soil...and dropped unceremoniously into some unfamiliar spot of earth. The place of exile may boast a higher standard of living. It may be more pleasant in its weather. That doesn’t matter. It isn’t home.  Eugene Peterson, Run with the Horses

She lay unresponsive on the bed, eyes open but vacant, paralyzed. An MRI had been scheduled to hopefully find some answers to the ongoing headaches that doctors only wanted to medicate, the increasing difficulty in movement, the steady weight loss and nausea.  I carried her to the car and rushed her to the emergency room – little realizing that she would not return home for another sixty-six days. Scans were performed, tests were run, a large, malignant brain tumor was found; surgery was scheduled within the hour. New vocabulary for our family: medulla blastoma. It was Tuesday, June 27th, and we thought it fortunate that we had the fourth of July weekend coming up – hopefully she’d be ready to come home soon afterwards. All uncharted territory, filled with uncertainties, fears, doubts. No grid, no maps, no prospectus, no words.

That is how our journey started with Hannah’s cancer ordeal. Now, some seventy days later, she is just about through with her radiation treatments and her first cycle of chemotherapy. And she is home. The hospital staff uses words like “amazing” and “miraculous” to describe her – grace and fortitude evident in and upon her physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Initially we looked for a crack in some exterior façade of cheerfulness, but gave that up long ago. The girl just beams as she carries a load that we imagine would cripple us. It’s coming from something planted deep within. Divine life emerging, breaking through like green growth through cracks in steamrolled asphalt. The outlook for Hannah, we are told, is excellent – no further signs of cancer having spread anywhere; an 85% cure rate with no further recurrence; a cancer highly treatable and susceptible to radiation and chemotherapy. But, although home now, it will be a long haul with ongoing rehabilitation and chemotherapy. As it was put to Hannah rather directly as she was holding out for winter camp come February: “Your life will be on hold for at least a year.” With that same smile, she says what all of her RNs and CNAs have grown accustomed to hearing: “Okey dokey.” Her eyes show not resignation, but almost a playful, “We’ll see about that.”

As the numbness wore off, as a dad observing and experiencing all this with his fifteen-year-old daughter, I struggled for words – for the map, the grid, terra firma on which to stand, footing from which to move through the mire of cancer. The first word was given to me while with her on her first day pass. She chose to go see the new Pirates movie (obsessed Johnny Depp fan that she is). As Jack Sparrow faced off with the sea beast with its massive tentacles and gaping jaws, he said defiantly, “Hello, beastie!” and then pitched into it, allowing himself to be consumed by it, but with sword in hand. A divine image, framed even, just for me. “You can do that!” I heard in my heart. I have found myself saying, “Hello, beastie” many times since. In his faithfulness and mercy, God does give us footing, he gives us vocabulary for whatever it is that we are facing.

“Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile.” Throw yourselves into the place in which you find yourself, but not on its terms, on God’s terms. Pray. Search for that center in which God’s will is being worked out and work from that center…The aim of the person of faith is not be as comfortable as possible but to live as deeply and thoroughly as possible – to deal with the reality of life, discover truth, create beauty, act out love…You are in Babylon for a long time. You better make the best of it. Don’t just get along, waiting for some miraculous intervention. Build houses, plant gardens, marry husbands, marry wives, have children, pray for the wholeness of Babylon, and do everything you can to develop that wholeness. The only place you have to be human is where you are right now. The only opportunity you will ever have to live by faith is in the circumstances you are provided this very day: this house you live in, this family you find yourself in, this job you have been given, the weather conditions that prevail at this moment. Eugene Peterson, Run with the Horses

The second word came a few weeks later. “Exile.” Not a very cheery word. But a very apt word for what we were in the midst of. It was towards the end of Run with the Horses – Eugene Peterson’s ruminations on the life of the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah. “Exile,” he said, “is being where you would rather not be.” It is the experience of dislocation, disjointedness. Much of Israel had just entered into exile in Babylon. They were confused, lost, uprooted, adrift on a sea of hopelessness. Prophets appeared with good news: “Don’t unpack your bags. God promises your best life now! You’re going home soon! Deliverance is at hand!” The prophet Jeremiah, still in Israel, sent a message to the captives: “Don’t be deceived by smooth talking prophets promising you the world. Settle down where you are. Dig in. Build houses and live in them. Plant vineyards and eat their fruit. Marry, have children. Seek shalom in the place where the Lord has exiled you – for the peace of that place is your peace. And when seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will bring you back home. For I know the plans that I have for you, plans to prosper you, to give you a future and a hope.” Many times we quote Jeremiah 29:11 with its “prosper” and “future” and “hope” – and it’s a good verse. I had just never appreciated the context of the promise as I did at that moment.

I would pull into the hospital parking lot muttering “I hate this place.” I would walk its halls murmuring, “One day we’ll be out of here.” The Lord stopped me in my tracks with Jeremiah. It was as if the Lord had penned a personal note to me, reading “Seek my shalom, my restful, wholesome peace here. Settle in these halls. Kiss the ground of this parking lot. Embrace exile here. For it is in the context of embracing exile here that a future and a hope is ultimately received and trust for it nurtured. It certainly isn’t natural. It doesn’t get much more upside down. It seems more logical to assume that kingdom theology means release from thorns, from tumors, from hospital beds and bedside commodes. And, I suppose, ultimately, it is such release. The kingdom of God is the radical breaking in of the effective reign of God in the midst of a fallen, corrupt and groaning creation. The form of such breaking in can be reversal and restoration of what is broken – cancers are healed, thorns removed, tumors dissolved, bodies restored whether by event or by process or by combination of both. The kingdom also comes, perhaps less dramatically in our estimation, in bestowing divine grace that is sufficient for us, even in “exile.”

Exile is the worst that reveals the best. “It’s hard believing,” says Faulkner, “but disaster seems to be good for people.” When the superfluous is stripped away, we find the essential – and the essential is God. Normal life is full of distractions and irrelevancies. Then catastrophe: Dislocation. Exile. Illness. Accident. Job loss. Divorce. Death. The reality of our lives is rearranged without anyone consulting us or waiting for our permission. We are no longer at home. All of us are given moments, days, months, years of exile. What will we do with them? Wish we were someplace else? Complain? Escape into fantasies? Drug ourselves into oblivion? Or build and plant and marry and seek the shalom of the place we inhabit and the people we are with? Exile reveals what really matters, which is to seek the Lord with all our hearts.” Eugene Peterson, Run with the Horses