Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

The God of Surprises

This holy week I’ve been thinking a lot about how God has this knack for surprising us. He gives us whispers about his coming, but he doesn’t usually spell out the itinerary for us, like the exact whens and wheres and hows.

This is tricky for planners like me. I want to know how it’s all going to play out. I like to pretend that’s so I can be prepared, but at some level, it’s because I like to think I have some measure of control.

The truth is, this habit of God’s to surprise us is precisely what I need. Because how do you build faith if you have the entire roadmap laid out for you? Besides, I’m pretty sure that if God gave me the whole picture in advance, I’d curl up in a fetal position and never get out of bed. I’m only brave enough for one step at a time.

On Palm Sunday, Jesus fulfilled those ancient whispers about his entry into Jerusalem. But he didn’t come the way the people expected. He didn’t come like a king, on a white horse. He didn’t come with a sword, surrounded by a fierce army. Instead, he came humbly, on a donkey.

Jesus comes. He always comes. But he doesn’t always come in the way we expect.

Shortly before his death, Jesus said he would rebuild the Temple in a mere three days. The people were incredulous—how could he do such a massive construction project in such a short time? But sure enough, three days after his crucifixion, the temple of his body was raised to life again.

Jesus comes. He always comes. But he doesn’t always come in the way we expect.

This Easter, I want to crack my heart open to God’s surprises. I want to follow the clues about his coming; I want to listen for the whispers. But I don’t want to be so stuck in the way I imagine his arrival that I miss him when he comes. I want to be ready for him, even when the way he comes is different from what I’d choose, what I’d expect, what I’d plan.

I don’t know what you’re facing right now, but I have a hunch that you, too, are longing for Jesus to come. Longing for him to show up in your pain and your doubt and your confusion. Longing for him to move your stone away. Longing for him to bring life out of death.

Jesus comes. He always comes. May we be ready for him, even when he doesn’t come in the way we expect.

Your Very Worst Day

gardenWe don’t like to go there, even in the realm of the hypothetical. But would you sit with me for a while in this brave, sacred space?

What’s your very worst day?

Maybe it’s already happened . . . a day permanently earmarked on the calendar of your heart. Every day of your life is now divided into before and after.

Or maybe it’s a day looming in the future . . . the day when the thing you dread most becomes reality.

On a week like this one, two thousand years ago, Jesus faced the worst possible 24 hours a human being could ever face.

He was stabbed in the back by someone close to him.
One of his best friends saved his own skin instead of sticking up for him.
Then, in his darkest hour, the rest of his friends deserted him.
His body was ravaged, and he was left to die.
He was rejected, despised, forsaken, betrayed. And utterly alone.

On that Holy Thursday, as he ate supper with his followers, he knew all of this lay ahead of him. He could see ahead to the horror of his very worst day. Yet as he headed to the Garden with his friends, he sang a hymn with them (Mark 14:26). It’s such a small line in the narrative, it’s easy to miss.

In the midst of all that had happened and all that was to come, he sang.

According to Jewish tradition, the Hallel was chanted during Passover, a collection of songs taken from Psalms 113-118. This means it’s likely that some of the last words on Jesus’ lips before he was arrested included these lines:

This is the Lord’s doing,
and it is wonderful to see.
This is the day the Lord has made.
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
—Psalm 118:23-24

As we sit with Jesus the Garden, it’s hard to escape the dichotomy. How could he find a way to praise amid the pain? How could he see the wonder in the anguish? How could he rejoice amid the drops of blood? How could he cling to the belief that on his very worst day, the Lord was doing something wonderful—something not just to endure but to be glad in?

And I wonder: Could I have sung that hymn on my very worst day? Or would I have choked on the words?

But Jesus sang, and that changes everything. Jesus’ worst day became the best day of all. And now we call it, without irony, Good Friday.

May the same be true for us. On our worst day, may we be found in the Garden singing, “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”

 

New Thursday

Perhaps no other week in the year is as full of dramatic turnarounds as this one.

Good Friday turns into Easter.
Winter melts into spring.
Sadness turns to joy.
Despair is trumped by hope.
Death is trounced by life.

Christianity is marked by those defining moments when everything changes: Creation. Exodus. Incarnation. And so it is with Maundy Thursday. On that night, the whole tilt of the earth shifted. On that night, Jesus made a proclamation that reframed all that was and all that will be:

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
—John 13:34

The English word Maundy comes from the Latin word mandatum (mandate or command), the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos” (“A new command I give you . . .”).

The Old Testament records some 600 laws and rules. Yet in that seismic shift the night before his death, Jesus installed just one new law that covered all the old ones. Love, he said. Love, love, and more love.

But before new could replace old, before life could replace death, before Easter morning could dawn in all its glory, there had to be that long, dark night between Good Friday and resurrection.

According to Watchman Nee, the same is true for us:

God must bring us to a point—I cannot tell you how it will be, but he will do it—where, through a deep and dark experience, our natural power is touched, and fundamentally weakened, so that we no longer dare trust ourselves. . . .

We would like to have death and resurrection put together within one hour of each other. We cannot face the thought that God will keep us aside for so long a time; we cannot bear to wait. . . . All is in darkness, but it is only for a night. It must indeed be a full night, but that is all. Afterwards you will find that everything is given back to you in glorious resurrection; and nothing can measure the difference between what was before and what now is!

—Watchman Nee

Do not fear that dark night. It must come to make space for new life. For Easter. For resurrection.

Sweet Sundays, Part 3

sweet_sundays_artworkFor the first time this Easter, it struck me just how many key events of the Christian faith are crammed in the span of a single week.

Holy Week starts with a bang on Palm Sunday, replete with a triumphal entry and jubilant hosannas. The next few days are filled with action—tables are turned, miracles are witnessed, final teachings are delivered.

Then comes Maundy Thursday in all its drama…a foot washing, a supper steeped in meaning, a wrenching betrayal, prayers of agony in a garden.

Close on its heels is Good Friday, with the dark march toward Golgotha, nails pounded into flesh, the rending of a curtain.

Then, after a whirlwind of a week, Saturday comes. And with it…silence.

At the close of Salvation Week, as with Creation Week, God rested.

It is finished.

No more striving.

No more scurrying.

No more trying.

It is finished.

Even in the busiest week of the church calendar, Jesus took a day of rest.

There was nothing more he could do to add to the completed work of grace on that silent Saturday. So I wonder…what kind of audacity leads me to think there’s more I must do?

Let us rest in the completeness of that perfect day of rest.

It is finished.

{For more on my Sabbath musings, see this post and this post.}