Viral Learnings, Part Seven: What Hope Looks Like

Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash

 Right now, I'm really loving an online daily devotional app called Lectio365. For those of you familiar with Lectio Divina (Latin for Divine Reading), the app loosely mirrors this spiritual practice of listening to scripture and meditating on in in small chunks, allowing one's heart and spirit to hear what the Spirit is saying to you. If you are looking for a really easy, engaging way to start your day and find some peace, I highly recommend it.

Today’s reading focused on John 12, when, six days before the Passover, the start of Holy Week, Jesus chooses to spend time in the home of one of his best friend Lazarus, and his sisters Mary and Martha. 

Why Lazarus? Presbyterian pastor and author Fredrick Buechner calls Lazarus, "The friend with whom Jesus didn't feel he had to be the Messiah." What a gift to have friends like that. 

And maybe that was it. Maybe he just wanted a nice night with close friends whom he didn't have to play a role for. Maybe it was just wanting a homecooked meal, or a safe place to lay his head. Maybe it was just easier than finding the ancient version of a Motel 6 to house himself and his disciples.

But as the podcast continued, the writers suggested another reason why Jesus spent time with his friend Lazarus facing the final week.

"Jesus prepares himself to die by spending time with a man who has come back to life. His friend Lazarus was a promise, a portent; a profound reassurance that death is not the end." 

I've never thought about that before, but how true it is. 

Only one chapter before, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43). What comfort it must have provided Jesus so close to his own death, to be reminded in his friend what resurrection actually looks like. If Jesus was fully human (as we believe he was), it makes sense that he needed some comfort, a visible reminder that death does not get the final word. 

And he found that in the presence of his friend and confidant, Lazarus.

How true is that for us today in the midst of this pandemic.

That is why we crave stories of those who have survived, isn't it? The stories of "good news" that come at the end of every newscast. It's why magazines like Guidepost are still in existence. Why we hang on so tightly to people who have gone through the dark night of the soul and came out the other end. Why when we are in the midst of dark valleys with our kids or loved ones ,we reach out to friends who have walked the path before us--We need to see and hear what hope looks like.

At the end of the podcast, the authors ask a great question, "Who is there in my life whose very existence brings me hope and reassurance in difficult times?" Whoever it is, maybe consider coming close to them by writing them a letter or giving them a call this week. 

And then the other side is also true--What moments of resurrection have I seen God exhibit in my life, and who needs to be the recipient of that hope today? Because when we come alongside those who need hope in the midst of the dark, like Lazarus, we may find ourselves ministering to Jesus himself (cf. Matthew 25: 40). 

Jesus sought out that reassurance in his time of trial. As we go through this global trial, we are invited to do the same.

Viral Learnings, Part Six: What We Leave Behind

Photo by Macau Photo Agency on Unsplash

Today I did something I never thought I'd do. 

I went to Costco in a mask. 

It was a little weird and a bit eerie, wondering who was around, how close they were getting, and what might be the outcome (pro-tip: the self-checkout is NOT made for a cart full of supplies). I'm used to coming out of Costco with things not on my original list (a vacuum happened today). But I never thought that what I was most worried about was leaving one thing behind--An invisible virus during a worldwide pandemic.

It takes decision and discipline to leave certain things behind.

"If any of you want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it." 

These are Jesus' words to his disciples in Matthew 16. When we look at this passage, we tend to focus on the cross that Jesus invites his disciples to take up. The cross is undoubtedly the signature of Jesus (as Brennan Manning put it), and is somehow meant to be the signature of our lives, too. 

And that should take our breath away (it certainly did for the disciples). Crosses represent sacrificial love, solidarity with the downcast, and often the adoption of a life or a calling that may be a challenge for us, but are ultimately good for others. As I think about health care providers right now, it's hard not to see their calling right now as a cross they bear on behalf of all of us.

But what is often missed is what surrounds the "cross" in this passage; what we leave behind. First, Jesus says we deny ourselves--Our own pursuits, plans, designs, whims, and comforts that make up a good part of our existence. And second, we follow him wherever he might go--Leaving our control and giving it up to the One we follow. Crosses are hard to pick up. But what may be equally as hard is to leave behind the things that make up comfort and control.

But here is the thing that I'm learning--When one picks up one's cross, what is left behind becomes less and less important.

I've been emailing this week with Drs. Aaron and Stacy (Harms) Zabriski, medical missionaries in Zimbabwe that our church supports.

When I think about their lives and ministry, raising a toddler and an infant in a part of the world with a pandemic of needs every day, my anxiety over needing to wear a mask to Costco feels a little embarrassing. But when asked about the "cross" they are bearing in their work (when it could be so much easier even now in the US), this was their reply...

Stacy: My journey to Zimbabwe involved a long road of suffering through medical school and training. I'm sure I wouldn't have finished had it not been for the Lord walking with me. At each turn when I wanted to quit, I thought, "Where else would I go? Lord, to whom shall we go?" Following Him was the only option. It was the same coming to Zimbabwe. For me, it wasn't as much feeling a burden to come, as feeling that was the only direction God was calling me. It was sort of like hearing Him saying, "I am working here. Come join me."

Aaron: For me, prior to visiting for the first time, I had some understanding of how hard life was for people in sub-Saharan Africa. But it wasn't until I saw this place for myself that I became truly convicted in my heart that I had to do something more to share these people's burdens. I think that during my first visit, every time I got tearful watching a child die of malnutrition or a hopeless HIV-infected single mother kill herself by drinking pesticides, it was God laying it on me. That feeling that I had to do something didn't dissipate when I returned to the USA. For myself, I felt burdened every day I was in the US, knowing that I could be doing more, and that God had laid it on me to do more, and that I was in a position to do more. It was almost a relief to finalize my return to Africa because then I knew I was following where God would have me go.

Wow. It turns out when one sees oneself as Jesus' disciple, the leaving becomes easier because the burden becomes a blessing. 

Isn't that the case in this challenge we are facing? When I remember the cross others are bearing to fight this virus, when I hear of those who are suffering from Covid-19, or are in the vulnerable population whose bodies are less capable of fighting it, or think of people like the Zabriski's who are willing to risk far more to bear the burdens of the sick and vulnerable than I ever will; what we've all sacrificed and left behind to care for others during this pandemic seems a lot less of a burden and more of a blessing. Staying home, wearing a mask to Costco, trying to lead our church virtually--these are small ways to shoulder the burdens of others. I'm not sure if I would really call them "crosses", but the small burdens become blessings when we consider what we've left behind.