Readings:
Jeremiah 15:15-21
Psalm 26:1-8
Romans 12:9-21
Matthew 16:21-28
Devotional:
I wonder if I’m growing
I wonder if I’m growing
My mom says yes I’m growing,
But it’s hard for me to see.
-Raffi
Perhaps you also have a version of this core memory: standing up extra straight, with your heels pushed against the wall or doorframe, chin lifted a little too much, and your eyebrows pushing your hair up hopefully a half inch higher as your parent marked a line to track your growth. You could see where you were last year, where your older siblings were at the same age. Maybe if your family had one of those walls at your grandparents’ house, you could see your parents at the same age, too. But if you came back the next day, you wouldn’t see any change. And the waiting to finally reach that one height — where you were tall enough to ride a roller coaster or officially taller than your dad — just seemed to take forever. Even then, you were growing, as children’s singer-songwriter Raffi says, but it was hard for you to see.
A friend and I were lamenting this reality this week. That growth, not just height, seems to be an uncontrollable function of time. Lasting growth is rarely rushed. Gardeners know this. Rushed growth often produces insufficient roots. And so it really feels like a lament: couldn’t we just be there already? Couldn’t we jump up a few flights instead of taking these small fractional steps? It seems like we could eventually form a habit in 2 days rather than the average 66 (or worse, the broad and unknown range of 18-254) days for something to feel second-nature.
I think it’s no wonder then that the majority of the Psalms are laments, the anguished poems of suffering, grief, and despair. From deep wounds and tangible losses to the feelings of waiting prolonged, hope suspended, or the anxious measuring of growth, the laments capture the candid distress and human ache of wanting to see the other side. We want to plead our case and claim the ending we hope is deemed rightfully ours, with God on our side.
You can hear it in David’s lament in Psalm 26: “Vindicate me, for I have walked with integrity. I have trusted in the Lord without slipping.” This is the feeling when you know that you are where you are supposed to be, you’ve checked the correct boxes, you’ve made every effort, and you really don’t want to be let down. You want the results to work out in your favor, and further, you want the assurance and certainty of that outcome.
And poor Jeremiah. We get the luxury of feeling retrospective pity for him, because in his entire service as a prophet, he doesn’t see a single convert. Jeremiah’s lament is that, though he follows God’s words, he endures reproach. “Why has my pain been perpetual?”
“Why” is such a tricky word. In leadership development, we tell people to know their why and to explain the why so that others will come along with them or that they can imagine the same future. Answering why before it’s asked, for yourself or for those you lead, can build confidence and trust. But often, if you ask someone else why, it can seem to demand a justification. “Why does this process work like that?” suggests that someone needs to prove if it’s worthwhile. “Why has my pain been perpetual?” demands Jeremiah, seeking the gratification that speaks to his comfort and security. We’ve all been there, craving an answer that satisfies the conditions we are experiencing, or the acknowledgement that our conditions should be changed.
The business leadership model would tell you to ask “how” instead of “why” so that you signal curiosity and openness rather than risk a perceived attack. But the laments model an interesting turn after these honest statements of feeling pain, abandonment or trial. In the middle of a bunch of whys, or even of a long list of proofs for their cause, the authors seem to reset their attention to petition for God’s help or mercy. Then, somewhat abruptly even, they resolve with a confession of trust, confidence, and faith.
It’s like our story of Elijah a few weeks ago, depressed and hangry, in need of the restful comfort of God. The laments show us that the answer might not be in the well-crafted argument or proof, but in adjusting our focus.
Look at God’s response to Jeremiah.
Therefore, thus says the Lord,
“If you return, then I will restore you—
Before Me you will stand;
And if you extract the precious from the worthless,
You will become My spokesman."
Return to God. This is actually Elijah all over again. Come before Him. Behold Him. Turn your face. In other words, what are you looking at? Where is your focus? Has your gaze drifted? Return to Him, and “extract the precious from the worthless.”
Oh, how much of our despair and lament is hanging on the idea of our effort and energy being worthless or forgotten? We fear it’s a waste, or it won’t be fulfilled, or we will have lost out on something by over-investing. We fear being misunderstood, feeling regret, missing what was. What if we committed to the wrong thing? What if it isn’t going to work out how we thought?
“God forbid it!” laments Peter, the efforts of his invested time and following being confronted with the thought of Jesus dying. “This shall never happen!” You can hear his fear in that moment. After all, the Father has revealed who Jesus is to Peter. He’s finally seen a glimpse of all the growing, and now he might lose it?! You better believe that in that moment, we would be with Peter in protesting the thought. Why would He die? Why would that be the way? Why would He do that and risk all of the time they had spent together? Why would He waste it all or let it become something worthless? Why would He leave the disciples now? The demand for justification is hanging in between the lines.
Jesus answers with a sentence I’ve heard many times before, “Get behind me, Satan. You are a stumbling block to Me; for you are not setting your mind on God’s interests, but man’s.”
Perhaps you know that feeling of reading the room really wrongly. Perhaps too you know what it’s like to think you had figured out exactly where something was leading only to be shut down. Maybe your cheeks also flushed and your head fell in embarrassment or shame. You put out your petition for what you thought was rightful, but you misjudged. Meeting rooms aren’t very gracious in these moments; company politics record the loss and avoid association.
I don’t think that’s what Jesus is doing here though. Peter isn’t kicked out. He’s not even demoted. Six days later, Jesus takes him, James, and John up on a mountain by themselves, still part of the inner circle. Instead I wonder, even in the clear refocusing of attention, if Jesus isn’t reminding Peter of that moment when He called him on the beach. Come here after me, He invited in Matthew 4. And now, could it perhaps also be: Get back behind me, Peter, so that we can align our focus on the Father’s interests. Could it be that Peter’s still growing, but it’s just hard for him to see at that moment?
Return to me, Jeremiah. Come near, Elijah. The invitation to follow and grow remains, even when it’s hard for us to see. In the very next section in Matthew, Jesus explains that following after Him will look like losing your life for His sake, but actually lead to finding life.
The authors of the laments don’t stay in despair, and they don’t remain in the proofs of justification or the demands of why. They convert to a position of trust and hope that comes from beholding and belonging with God. Peter keeps following Jesus. Precious starts to come out of the worthless worry. David writes that he loves the place where God’s glory dwells, loves being in the house of God. It’s good for him. We see their language and behavior change.
In our worst moments of despair, in the one where we’re fighting to be proven and validated, in the one where we’re preoccupied with whether our comfort or security or effort or investment are at risk, God meets us with assurance of His character. I’ll fortify you and make you strong, He promises Jeremiah. I’ll rescue and redeem you. It’s a strange comfort, but comforting nonetheless, to reimagine our laments as moments of nearness and growth.
But even in Romans, His calling and gifts are irrevocable, remember? He’s going to grace us with what we need to accept His invitation. And so we can be confident to give Him our whys, to wonder at how and lament that it’s hard for us to see where we’re growing. And then we can return to hope knowing that it’s His job to see the rightful endings through (vengeance is His). He holds the weight of ensuring the outcomes, guaranteed to be constant in His mercy and kindness.
He even promises to take care of our lingering wishes for validation. We are told to give those who hate us food to eat and water to drink, and that it will heap coals on their head. This isn’t some sort of cheat code to get back those who have hurt you; it’s a symbol of bringing life, of keeping someone’s fire going. We heap coals on a fire to nourish it and help it grow. When our gaze returns to rest on Him, we aren’t fighting for our life and our answers, we’re trusting and confident in His faithfulness to us so that we can extend life. We become His spokesperson in sharing life, and He takes the effort of applying mercy. Why is overcome by Who: a loving Father patiently encouraging and refocusing us. Loving without hypocrisy becomes possible as He gifts us, and our growth starts to look like hospitality, preferring one another in honor, and associating with the lowly.
We don’t strive into being or growing. We can’t exert enough of an argument or case to sway God to be merciful because it was already His character, long before we even knew to petition for it. Instead, we are drawn to rest in Him, our laments and limited ability to see safely held, and He brings revelation, restoration, life, and growth into love. Our confidence is restored and our trust is resettled in Him.
Our feet stand on a level place. We too can bless the Lord.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God Who Restores,
You bring us back to confidence and stability. You strengthen and encourage what despair and uncertainty try to erode. Grant us hope for the precious, that we could see beyond the worthless mindsets and speak aloud all that You imagine for us. To Him who is able to keep us from stumbling, be glory, majesty, power and authority.
Amen.
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
May we cling to what is good, in the most unlikely of circumstances and relationships. May we be loving, ever leaning on You to be merciful and to draw mercy out of us. We trust that You bring life through loving, and we offer our own lives in that hope.
Amen.
Blessing
May we find our gaze focused on our Father, that we would be overcome by good and encouraged toward life.
Photo by Jan-Willem on Unsplash
Jeremiah 15:15-21
Psalm 26:1-8
Romans 12:9-21
Matthew 16:21-28
Devotional:
I wonder if I’m growing
I wonder if I’m growing
My mom says yes I’m growing,
But it’s hard for me to see.
-Raffi
Perhaps you also have a version of this core memory: standing up extra straight, with your heels pushed against the wall or doorframe, chin lifted a little too much, and your eyebrows pushing your hair up hopefully a half inch higher as your parent marked a line to track your growth. You could see where you were last year, where your older siblings were at the same age. Maybe if your family had one of those walls at your grandparents’ house, you could see your parents at the same age, too. But if you came back the next day, you wouldn’t see any change. And the waiting to finally reach that one height — where you were tall enough to ride a roller coaster or officially taller than your dad — just seemed to take forever. Even then, you were growing, as children’s singer-songwriter Raffi says, but it was hard for you to see.
A friend and I were lamenting this reality this week. That growth, not just height, seems to be an uncontrollable function of time. Lasting growth is rarely rushed. Gardeners know this. Rushed growth often produces insufficient roots. And so it really feels like a lament: couldn’t we just be there already? Couldn’t we jump up a few flights instead of taking these small fractional steps? It seems like we could eventually form a habit in 2 days rather than the average 66 (or worse, the broad and unknown range of 18-254) days for something to feel second-nature.
I think it’s no wonder then that the majority of the Psalms are laments, the anguished poems of suffering, grief, and despair. From deep wounds and tangible losses to the feelings of waiting prolonged, hope suspended, or the anxious measuring of growth, the laments capture the candid distress and human ache of wanting to see the other side. We want to plead our case and claim the ending we hope is deemed rightfully ours, with God on our side.
You can hear it in David’s lament in Psalm 26: “Vindicate me, for I have walked with integrity. I have trusted in the Lord without slipping.” This is the feeling when you know that you are where you are supposed to be, you’ve checked the correct boxes, you’ve made every effort, and you really don’t want to be let down. You want the results to work out in your favor, and further, you want the assurance and certainty of that outcome.
And poor Jeremiah. We get the luxury of feeling retrospective pity for him, because in his entire service as a prophet, he doesn’t see a single convert. Jeremiah’s lament is that, though he follows God’s words, he endures reproach. “Why has my pain been perpetual?”
“Why” is such a tricky word. In leadership development, we tell people to know their why and to explain the why so that others will come along with them or that they can imagine the same future. Answering why before it’s asked, for yourself or for those you lead, can build confidence and trust. But often, if you ask someone else why, it can seem to demand a justification. “Why does this process work like that?” suggests that someone needs to prove if it’s worthwhile. “Why has my pain been perpetual?” demands Jeremiah, seeking the gratification that speaks to his comfort and security. We’ve all been there, craving an answer that satisfies the conditions we are experiencing, or the acknowledgement that our conditions should be changed.
The business leadership model would tell you to ask “how” instead of “why” so that you signal curiosity and openness rather than risk a perceived attack. But the laments model an interesting turn after these honest statements of feeling pain, abandonment or trial. In the middle of a bunch of whys, or even of a long list of proofs for their cause, the authors seem to reset their attention to petition for God’s help or mercy. Then, somewhat abruptly even, they resolve with a confession of trust, confidence, and faith.
It’s like our story of Elijah a few weeks ago, depressed and hangry, in need of the restful comfort of God. The laments show us that the answer might not be in the well-crafted argument or proof, but in adjusting our focus.
Look at God’s response to Jeremiah.
Therefore, thus says the Lord,
“If you return, then I will restore you—
Before Me you will stand;
And if you extract the precious from the worthless,
You will become My spokesman."
Return to God. This is actually Elijah all over again. Come before Him. Behold Him. Turn your face. In other words, what are you looking at? Where is your focus? Has your gaze drifted? Return to Him, and “extract the precious from the worthless.”
Oh, how much of our despair and lament is hanging on the idea of our effort and energy being worthless or forgotten? We fear it’s a waste, or it won’t be fulfilled, or we will have lost out on something by over-investing. We fear being misunderstood, feeling regret, missing what was. What if we committed to the wrong thing? What if it isn’t going to work out how we thought?
“God forbid it!” laments Peter, the efforts of his invested time and following being confronted with the thought of Jesus dying. “This shall never happen!” You can hear his fear in that moment. After all, the Father has revealed who Jesus is to Peter. He’s finally seen a glimpse of all the growing, and now he might lose it?! You better believe that in that moment, we would be with Peter in protesting the thought. Why would He die? Why would that be the way? Why would He do that and risk all of the time they had spent together? Why would He waste it all or let it become something worthless? Why would He leave the disciples now? The demand for justification is hanging in between the lines.
Jesus answers with a sentence I’ve heard many times before, “Get behind me, Satan. You are a stumbling block to Me; for you are not setting your mind on God’s interests, but man’s.”
Perhaps you know that feeling of reading the room really wrongly. Perhaps too you know what it’s like to think you had figured out exactly where something was leading only to be shut down. Maybe your cheeks also flushed and your head fell in embarrassment or shame. You put out your petition for what you thought was rightful, but you misjudged. Meeting rooms aren’t very gracious in these moments; company politics record the loss and avoid association.
I don’t think that’s what Jesus is doing here though. Peter isn’t kicked out. He’s not even demoted. Six days later, Jesus takes him, James, and John up on a mountain by themselves, still part of the inner circle. Instead I wonder, even in the clear refocusing of attention, if Jesus isn’t reminding Peter of that moment when He called him on the beach. Come here after me, He invited in Matthew 4. And now, could it perhaps also be: Get back behind me, Peter, so that we can align our focus on the Father’s interests. Could it be that Peter’s still growing, but it’s just hard for him to see at that moment?
Return to me, Jeremiah. Come near, Elijah. The invitation to follow and grow remains, even when it’s hard for us to see. In the very next section in Matthew, Jesus explains that following after Him will look like losing your life for His sake, but actually lead to finding life.
The authors of the laments don’t stay in despair, and they don’t remain in the proofs of justification or the demands of why. They convert to a position of trust and hope that comes from beholding and belonging with God. Peter keeps following Jesus. Precious starts to come out of the worthless worry. David writes that he loves the place where God’s glory dwells, loves being in the house of God. It’s good for him. We see their language and behavior change.
In our worst moments of despair, in the one where we’re fighting to be proven and validated, in the one where we’re preoccupied with whether our comfort or security or effort or investment are at risk, God meets us with assurance of His character. I’ll fortify you and make you strong, He promises Jeremiah. I’ll rescue and redeem you. It’s a strange comfort, but comforting nonetheless, to reimagine our laments as moments of nearness and growth.
But even in Romans, His calling and gifts are irrevocable, remember? He’s going to grace us with what we need to accept His invitation. And so we can be confident to give Him our whys, to wonder at how and lament that it’s hard for us to see where we’re growing. And then we can return to hope knowing that it’s His job to see the rightful endings through (vengeance is His). He holds the weight of ensuring the outcomes, guaranteed to be constant in His mercy and kindness.
He even promises to take care of our lingering wishes for validation. We are told to give those who hate us food to eat and water to drink, and that it will heap coals on their head. This isn’t some sort of cheat code to get back those who have hurt you; it’s a symbol of bringing life, of keeping someone’s fire going. We heap coals on a fire to nourish it and help it grow. When our gaze returns to rest on Him, we aren’t fighting for our life and our answers, we’re trusting and confident in His faithfulness to us so that we can extend life. We become His spokesperson in sharing life, and He takes the effort of applying mercy. Why is overcome by Who: a loving Father patiently encouraging and refocusing us. Loving without hypocrisy becomes possible as He gifts us, and our growth starts to look like hospitality, preferring one another in honor, and associating with the lowly.
We don’t strive into being or growing. We can’t exert enough of an argument or case to sway God to be merciful because it was already His character, long before we even knew to petition for it. Instead, we are drawn to rest in Him, our laments and limited ability to see safely held, and He brings revelation, restoration, life, and growth into love. Our confidence is restored and our trust is resettled in Him.
Our feet stand on a level place. We too can bless the Lord.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God Who Restores,
You bring us back to confidence and stability. You strengthen and encourage what despair and uncertainty try to erode. Grant us hope for the precious, that we could see beyond the worthless mindsets and speak aloud all that You imagine for us. To Him who is able to keep us from stumbling, be glory, majesty, power and authority.
Amen.
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
May we cling to what is good, in the most unlikely of circumstances and relationships. May we be loving, ever leaning on You to be merciful and to draw mercy out of us. We trust that You bring life through loving, and we offer our own lives in that hope.
Amen.
Blessing
May we find our gaze focused on our Father, that we would be overcome by good and encouraged toward life.
Photo by Jan-Willem on Unsplash
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