GLOBAL MISSIONS

Expectations, expectations.

In the days before Christmas, I was part of several conversations about expectations. Expectations for family and gatherings. Expectations for gift giving and using the proper recipe for cranberry sauce. Expectations of growing old with friends, kids finding their way, people being reasonable. And, of course, the expectation and anticipation of the Christ child.

Author, poet, and theologian Madeleine L’Engle writes:

This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war & hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out & the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honor & truth were trampled to scorn –
Yet here did the Savior make His home.

When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn –
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Do you have a plan to vote? Ted, Sam, and I had a plan to go to the Washington County Government Center to vote and then go out for breakfast—making an event of it and celebrating the liberty of exercising this powerful right as citizens and duty as people of faith. Covid recovery kept us from breakfast, but we kept our date to vote and proudly wore our “I Voted” stickers!

And yet, it seems like every election cycle we must revisit the question of the intersection of church and state. Folks have STRONG opinions about this and different visions for what it should or should not look like.

It is possible that we are an imago dei people?!

Jesus was good at many things but perhaps the most astonishing thing he did during his ministry was to see, acknowledge, affirm, heal, and welcome all who had been rejected by the religious leaders, by the community, by cultural norms. Rejected because of their heritage, gender, physical characteristics or infirmities, religion, birthplace, and more.

Jesus saw each one as someone worth seeing. He touched them with healing. He lifted them from their pallet or the dirt where they begged. He fed them. He asked them what they wanted. He complimented their persistence and their faithfulness. He saw them with compassion and love.

When my sister Liz was little, she dreamed of growing up to be Big Liz. As the middle of a tightly-spaced threesome of girls (less than three and a half years between us!), she fought for her identity, being described variously as one of “the big girls” when coupled with me, or one of “the little girls” when coupled with our baby sister, Paula. She would strike a pose and announce: “I am the greatest one!” It didn’t apply to anything in particular. Just an assertion of her personhood.

Now that she is finally Big Liz, she is a warm, giving person who prefers the title Nana!

While we all want to be heard, there is an inclination afoot in the larger culture to be the greatest one. Through the wonder of social media, more and more people have found ways to be “influencers,” bloggers, podcasters, self-published writers, and more. Carefully curated Facebook and Instagram feeds can make an ordinary life look extraordinary, even enviable—leaving mere mortals to wonder what they are doing wrong.