Don’t Fight It

I like solving problems. It makes me feel productive–and useful. If there’s a situation that needs to be resolved and I am in the vicinity, then I act or speak. My husband is the exact opposite. If there is a problem, he thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it some more. I don’t understand this. While he’s thinking I’m chomping at the bit. I throw out one suggestion after another. I grab the car keys. I find the number for the plumber. I pull up a YouTube tutorial. But still, he thinks.

Though maddening in the moment, what I have come to realize over the years (and begrudgingly appreciate) is that my husband isn’t not doing something , he’s reasoning the problem out. He’s looking beyond the immediacy of the situation to find a long-term or lasting solution that is likely much more logical and practical than anything I would rush off to do. And while it’s infuriating, it also makes a lot of sense.

This morning, as we enter into the final stages of the Passion journey, I’m reflecting on Jesus’ measured approach to his arrest and subsequent trial. Jesus has shared Passover with his friends. He has announced that one will betray him, and given them a new covenant to observe. He has prayed alone and in anguish while the friends who have sworn to stand beside him fall asleep. And he has been filled by God’s spirit to finish what he was born to do. So when Judas brings a mob to arrest Jesus in the middle of the night, Jesus is calm and steady and focused on what he needs to do.

Surrounded by a group of angry people wielding weapons and intent on harm, Jesus doesn’t react in panic or fear. He doesn’t try to bolt. He doesn’t spit in Judas’s face and scream, “Over my dead body!” He doesn’t grab a sword and start swinging. Instead, he looks at Judas and simply says, “My friend, go ahead and do what you have come for.”

Jesus saw the big picture. He knew that he and God were rewriting history. And so, while it made absolutely no sense to those rash problem-solvers like Peter, Jesus went willingly and silently with his persecutors. And he changed the course of history in the process.

Instead of fighting the powers that be, Jesus followed THE power that is and was and is to come. And though the next few days would be awful and agonizing and astonishing, all of humankind would benefit. When I consider Jesus’s act of thoughtful love in the garden so long ago, all I can do is say, thank you, and then seek to share this story of amazing, life-changing love with others.

We live in a culture that feeds on rashness. We speak, act, and jump into the fray with little thought to the consequences or plan. Today, Jesus is reminding me that, sometimes, we need to think further ahead. We need to focus on the divine plan, and let God’s love lead us forward, even if it means not reacting in the moment. Even if it means giving up our own power and authority. Even if it means sacrificing our plan to follow God’s.

As we move toward Easter Sunday, I would encourage us all to pause from reacting in the face of whatever might come. Instead, seek the silence. Seek the garden. Seek the foot of the cross. Seek the tomb. Hold it all–the pain and sacrifice, the fear and confusion, the loneliness and abandonment, the weight of crushed dreams. Be still and wait before the Lord. Be still and know that he is God. And he has a better plan.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

The Invitation

Last night was Ash Wednesday service, my least favorite service of the year. I’ve never fully appreciated the call to repentance and renewed discipleship. It’s not that I don’t think those two things are important, but I feel like those are daily practices in trying to follow Jesus…although, I suppose there is something to be said for a corporate call to repentance and renewal–sort of like the Day of Atonement in Judaism.

That said, I mostly just show up for Ash Wednesday and go through the motions until it’s over. But last night, something struck me. It came as my husband read out the invitation to enter into Lent.

This year, the beginning of Lent falls in the middle of the quadrennial Winter Olympics. To say I am an Olympic fan would be putting it mildly. I LOVE the Olympics. It’s a weird quirk for someone who generally eschews all things sports, but the Olympics are so amazing. I love seeing all the different sports beyond throwing and catching balls. Who knew sliding a stone along a sheet of ice could be so thrilling? And who in their right mind would look at a ski jump and say, “What if we just added a bunch of flips after we launch ourselves fifty feet into the air?” There’s also something beautiful about nations coming together to peacefully compete. And, of course, there are the athletes themselves who have spent years working toward this moment, and most of whom will go home with nothing more than the title of Olympian next to their name.

During the closing ceremony of each Olympic games, the head of the International Olympic Committee gives a proclamation, inviting the youth of the world to gather, once more, in four years time to compete in the Olympic games. That invitation, repeated every two years for both summer and winter games, always gives me goosebumps. It’s such a beautiful call–one of purpose and hope and expectation. And upon hearing it, I always think, “I can’t wait for the next Olympics!”

As I was listening to the invitation to enter into Lent last night, I found myself thinking: What if I approached Lent like I do the Olympics? Instead of something dark and dreary, what if the invitation to Lent was actually a beautiful call of purpose and hope and expectation? Because what is the point of Lent, really, if not to draw closer to Christ? And how can we approach that invitation with anything less than exuberance?

Through our practice of Lent, Jesus calls each of us to draw closer to him–to throw off the trappings of busyness and brain rot, of worry and want to sit with him in the desert places and be healed, uplifted, encouraged, and strengthened. And as we sit in those desert places, God promises that he will bring life. Forests will grow, plants will flourish, and streams will burst to overflowing.

Through the practice of Lent, God is inviting us to enter into the life that he desires for us, one marked by his presence and his wisdom and his love. We all enter into the desert in different ways. For some, it’s about giving something up. For others, it’s about taking something on. But for all of us, it’s about getting to that place where we can sit and commune with God.

This year, I’m very excited about a new Lenten series from Lectio 365. This daily prayer and devotional app has been extremely helpful to me in drawing me closer to God. I love that the format is rooted in ancient traditions, and I appreciate the intentionality of the daily prayers and guide to reflection. Lectio 365 is a place infused with God’s Spirit. Their 2026 Lenten focus is on the Desert Fathers and Mothers. Each day throughout Lent, the devotionals will focus on the life and teachings of the men and women who lived in the desert centuries ago, helping people find their way to Jesus. If you’re looking for a Lenten practice, consider getting the app and following along. It’s free and easy to use.

However you approach Lent this season, I pray that your time in the desert will produce a bountiful harvest of God’s grace and love in your hearts and homes.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Because Compassion Matters

I’ve been praying and thinking and reading and watching a lot the past few days, trying to both understand and discern the awful events in Minnesota this past weekend. For me, the civil unrest in Minnesota is a culmination of events that have been taking place for many months in many cities around the country. I’ve tried to focus on the Gospels, reading and thinking on Jesus’s words and actions as he traversed the regions around Jerusalem. I’ve listened to thoughtful reflections from Christian teachers and leaders. And I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed. Because this moment matters. Because what we’re living through is not normal. Because people are suffering. Because we can do better.

I try not to mix politics and faith. I appreciate and respect that many of my Christian friends and acquaintances have differing political perspectives than I do. Over the years, I’ve had great debates with some of these friends, but we’ve always walked away from them in love. We didn’t care that we disagreed on issues such as abortion, gun laws, or even marriage. We just enjoyed the heated discourse and figured God would handle the rest.

But that’s not true today. I love the United States, and I feel very lucky to have been born in this nation that has the freedom of people to live and self-govern at its core. Sure, we’re messy, and our actions have often fallen way short of our ideals, but we’ve done some pretty fantastic things, too. Yet if I’m being 100 percent, I have to say that I am deeply struggling with the state of the US today. We seem to be led by individuals who are both corrupt and morally bankrupt, by people who somehow equate power with wreaking havoc and sowing chaos. As my husband said, it’s like someone burned down your house, set up a tent, and said, “Look! Isn’t this better?”

In the midst of it all, people are playing tug of war with Jesus in an effort to support their own ideologies and desires, forgetting that Jesus doesn’t play those games.

As I’ve been praying and pondering how Jesus is calling his people to respond in this tumultuous time, one word keeps coming to my mind: compassion. Luke 1 speaks of one who will come with compassion, allowing the dawn of heaven to break upon us and give light to those living in darkness.

Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is driven by compassion. He had compassion on the people who flocked to him for healing. He had compassion on the outcasts who were cast off by society. He had compassion on the little children who were placed before him by eager parents. He had compassion for those who were mourning the loss of loved ones. He had compassion on the servant of the high priest whose ear was cut off during Jesus’s arrest. And he had compassion on the soldiers who nailed him to the cross and were gambling for his clothes.

Jesus saw the suffering of others. He sees the suffering of others today. And he still has compassion. He has compassion for the immigrants, regardless of their legal status. He has compassion for the federal law enforcement officials who have been tasked with doing a terrible job. He has compassion for those mourning Rene Good and Alex Pretti, whose lives were taken in shocking acts of violence. And while it’s really hard for me to understand how, he probably has compassion for the officers responsible for these deaths, too.

I’m in no way condoning what has been taking place in Minnesota, or what has taken place and is taking place in cities around the country. While I respect a government’s right to enforce their immigration laws, whether I agree with those laws or not, to do so by terrorizing people and denying them due process is wrong.

It’s interesting to me that Jesus lived in a time when leaders sowed violence and seemed to lack the capacity for compassion and humility, too, but he didn’t talk a lot about that. At least, not explicitly. A lot of what he said and did was counter-cultural and upended both cultural norms and religious teachings. But he didn’t yell about it. He didn’t call political leaders names or make them into caricatures. He did yell at the religious leaders and called them whitewashed tombs and a brood of vipers because they were exploiting people and perverting the gospel message, which should be a sobering reminder for all of us “religious” folk out there. But mostly, he just saved people–physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He drew people to him and he loved them.

So, what is our Christian witness in times of turmoil and unrest? I like how Christian writer Henri Nouwen puts it:

As Christians, we’re not called to sit on the sidelines and watch as people suffer. We’re called to exercise compassion and help those who suffer. But we can do so in a variety of ways, depending on where we feel God calling us. Some people show compassion by bearing witness to acts of injustice or terror. Others take part in community-led endeavors to support those in their local communities who might be struggling. We can show compassion by reaching out to our immigrant neighbors, asking them how they’re doing and what they need. We can do the same for law-enforcement members who live in our neighborhoods, too. We can support immigrant-owned businesses, as well, and get to know the people who run them. We can pray for those who are suffering, and for those who are the cause of the suffering.

Most importantly, we can stop dragging Jesus between political parties and just let him move freely throughout our homes, neighborhoods, communities, and country. If we truly want to follow Jesus, then we have to leave ourselves behind, taking action with and for those who suffer to build God’s beloved kingdom on Earth, as it is in heaven.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

What Are You Doing?

Sometimes, the past comes to me unexpectedly. Not literally, of course, but I’ve always had this sense of time transcending space, or maybe space transcending time, when the present and past intermingle. There are moments when I feel history all around me, and while it’s probably a product of my overactive imagination, it never ceases to move me.

And so it was, on a chilly December evening, as I sat on a riser on the stage of a historic mid-1800s theater, that the past showed up again. It was the final rehearsal for our community Christmas concert, and the choir was taking a break while the small ensembles ran through their numbers. A choral group was center stage, singing a gorgeous rendition of the The First Noel. As I looked out across the mostly empty theater, with its box seats, brass balcony rails, and gilded flourishes, I thought of all those who had been in this theater before. In my mind, I saw Civil War soldiers peeking from behind the stage curtains, while bustled ladies in plumed hats peered down from the boxed seats and teens in rolled jeans and bobbie socks tripped down the aisles holding buckets of popcorn. The theater that had been nearly empty before was suddenly full to bursting, and my heart rejoiced at this great reunion of souls as I thought about all of the life that had been lived in this one place.

All of a sudden, the closing lines of poet Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day” floated to the surface of my mind, and I found myself pondering:

I turn 50 in 2026, and just putting this fact on paper fills me with dread and, weirdly, humiliation. 50 wasn’t a number I ever pictured for myself. I was simply going to be in my early 30s forever. For me, 50 feels like rounding a bend and finding myself a lot closer to the end of the race than I expected. I keep doing the math in my head, adding up the ages of my ancestors to try and gauge how much time I might have left, but honestly, I’ve never been very good at math, and maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.

As I communed with the great cloud of witnesses in the theater last month, I was reminded that life is a gift–a wild and precious gift–and God, in his infinite kindness, has given us the opportunity to choose what we do with it. As a Jesus person, I believe that we are called to live lives of purpose, seeking to build God’s kingdom here on Earth. But I don’t think that means we’re called to live lives of drudgery and severity. Quite the opposite, actually.

In the gospel of John, Jesus talked a lot about life–mostly that he is the bread of life and brings life to all who follow him. In John 10:10, Jesus talks about the kind of life we’re called to live.

Of course, Jesus being Jesus, there’s a lot more to this verse than just YOLO (you only live once). It’s in the middle of a teaching about sheep following their shepherds which ends in Jesus revealing that he is the Good Shepherd who leads his flock to salvation. So, when Jesus talks about life, he’s talking about it on two levels: the spiritual and the temporal. Jesus came that we might have eternal life, but also so that we might live as people freed from the fear of sin and death; hence, living life to the fullest.

Each new year, I try and choose a word that will be my theme for the year. Initially, I had chosen “Surprise” as that word. I feel like, in some ways, I’ve stopped allowing myself to be surprised by life. I’ve become too cynical, and I want to be more open to wonder. But as I was writing this, I realized that going into 2026 requires more. I think, for 2026, a better word is live. If life is a gift meant to be lived to the fullest, then we should do that. We should take the trips, make the big leaps, tackle the someday projects, set extra places for dinner. We should give extravagantly, forgive generously, turn the page on past failures or hurts, embrace the possibilities, be kind to others, and say yes to God more. We should walk through woods, plant some flowers, look at the stars, and watch the birds take flight, giving thanks to God for the wonderful world he’s made.

Living life to the fullest isn’t, I think, about adding more to our lists. Rather, it’s about making our lists in conversation with God. Here’s the entire text of Mary Oliver’s poem. I think it captures full-life living beautifully. So, what are you doing in 2026?

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Still A Time for Wonder

I laughed this morning as I read this post from a few years ago…because we’re just a couple of days from Christmas and everything in the first paragraph is still true! It’s like my life spins on one endless loop…I’m creating traditions where I don’t even know it. These words from Malachi were a good reminder for me just when I most need them, and it’s my prayer that they will be for you, too.

And thank you, for engaging in this faith exploration journey with me–for showing up in this space, even when it’s not regularly scheduled programming. I appreciate each of you, and wish you a very Merry Christmas whatever it might look like.

Sara

Today, we find ourselves entering the home stretch of the Advent season. Christmas is in two days and, per usual, I am in manic mode. There are gifts to finish purchasing, stockings to stuff, menus to plan, and goodies to bake. In all of my self-inflicted hustle and bustle, I sometimes forget to pause and reflect on why we celebrate Christmas in the first place. Holidays can easily devolve from celebrations to chores if we’re not careful, and there are times I have teetered on that ledge–or nose-dived right off it!

So now, I’m reflecting on the writings of the minor prophets: specifically, the books of Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi. These three prophets lived and worked in the post-exilic period, after the Israelites had returned from Babylon. There was a lot of work to do–the land was in ruins. So this group devoted themselves to putting the pieces of their nation back together. It was busy work and, as happens in the midst of busyness, the people were neglecting God again. The prophets were there to remind them that, although the work of rebuilding the nation of Israel was important, most important was their continued faithfulness to God and his law. Kind of like our to-do lists, right?

And yet, I have found, that when we set aside our “must…keep…pushing…through” items and focus our souls on God, he shows up in such unexpected and remarkable ways that we can’t help but, as the hymn proclaims, stand in awesome wonder. Last year, about this time, a moment of awesome wonder came in my kitchen as I was sitting on the little wooden step stool my husband’s grandfather made long ago and which has become my Bible time stool. I was reading through the book of Malachi. Like his contemporaries Haggai and Zechariah, Malachi was urging the people to remain faithful to God, and chastising them for prioritizing other tasks and only giving God the left-overs of their daily lives. But Malachi was also speaking beyond the present, prophesying a time to come when God would judge between the faithful and the faithless, setting aside a people to call his own. Chapter four of Malachi ends this proclamation:

#saramsnyder.com

I quickly turned the page to see what would happen next, and was flummoxed to discover that there were no more words. What?! I thought to myself. That’s it? Truth be told, there’s one more verse–it says God will come and strike the land with total destruction. (Malachi 4:6) Quite the exclamation point! But I want to focus on the proclamation–the promise of Elijah before the day of the Lord’s arrival.

As I flipped ahead through the next several pages of historical commentary in my Bible, somewhat disgruntled by the lack of resolution on the author’s part, it dawned on me…Malachi ends abruptly because the story’s not done. Flipping quickly to the book of Matthew I sat, stunned, as I looked at the words before me. For the first time ever, I was awed, not by God’s word, but by a genealogical list of names.

Normally, when it comes to biblical genealogy, I just skim through it. But what stunned me, what awed me, weren’t the names themselves, but the fact that God had been continuing the story for generations, even after the prophets in Scripture had gone silent. Malachi spoke of the coming of Elijah in 430 B.C., and in the first-written synoptic gospel around 60 A.D., we have John the Baptist, an Elijah-like figure, living in the Judea wilderness and preaching a gospel of repentance in preparation for the coming of the Lord.

The final word in the Old Testament is a promise of the Lord’s coming. Then there’s silence. Time moves on. One generation gives way to the next. Nations rise and fall. Yet the minutiae of life keeps moving, like a time-lapse video, different figures blurring together as they move in an out of the same scene. Years pass…hundreds of them in which people are born, in which they live and laugh and love and cry, in which they die and are laid to rest with all of those who have gone before. And the Earth keeps turning.

It’s quiet. It’s ordinary. Until one day, in an ordinary time in an ordinary place, an angel delivers a message to a young man and a young woman that will change everything. While many people had long ago stopped expecting God’s promises to be fulfilled, God hadn’t forgotten. From Malachi to Matthew (and Mark and Luke) God had a plan, and what we celebrate at Christmas is the fulfillment of that plan.

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This, then, is what fills me with awe. That God came in a moment when it was least expected–in a time when many had likely written off his promise of a messiah as a myth or legend–a story of hope to be shared, but not really to be anticipated. God continued the story…for thousands of years! And it’s a story he’s continuing to write–his words etched into the hearts of all those who love him–his promises yet to be fulfilled.

As the shepherds did on a night long ago, I stand (or sit) in awesome wonder of God’s work. I’m overwhelmed by the depth and breadth of his faithfulness. For me, this Christmas is about hope. The hope that God is faithful, that all of his promises will come to fruition in his time and in his way. God never gives up. He came when everyone least expected it, and in a way that no one could have foretold.

My prayer for you as we enter the Christmas season is that you, too, will have an experience of God that leaves you standing in awesome wonder. Are you looking? Are you waiting? Fear not! God will come.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Hopeful Expectation

I read this quote in an online devotional the other day, and it completely captivated me. Theater is one of my favorite art forms. I was still a baby when my dad sent me out on stage for the first time–he was directing a high school production of Annie Get Your Gun, and they needed a little one to go into a papoose. I was smitten–not with acting, but with live theater.

As the child of a theater person, you go to a lot of plays. Not only did I hang out with my dad during high school play practices, but my parents always took my sister and I to at least one professional theater production each year. As a teen, I got involved in theatrical productions myself, though I preferred backstage to onstage, and as an adult I’ve done some community theater directing, too. Just as my parents took my sister and I to the theater, so we have raised our kids on Broadway musicals and community plays, continuing the legacy of love of theater as my niece made her theatrical debut this fall.

Whether you’re in the audience or behind the curtain, there’s a special kind of energy that comes as the house lights dim and a hush falls over the theater. Everyone is waiting with bated breath for the curtain to raise, and our souls are open to wonder and joy and art. The experience is all the more lovely because it is communal–we aren’t waiting alone.

If I’m being honest, I haven’t felt that sense of joyous expectation in awhile. I’ve allowed the constant press of worrisome news and hurt and suffering to weigh down my soul, and I’ve retreated too much in to the armor of cynicism. In many ways, I’ve stopped expecting God to show up.

Yet Advent is a season of hope in the darkness–a reminder that we are not abandoned or forgotten–that something bigger and better and brighter is coming. We wait together, as a people united in Christ, with souls open to receiving the Good News once more. As Buechner writes:

“What is coming upon the world is the Light of the World. It is Christ. That is the comfort of it. The challenge of it is that it has not come yet. Only the hope for it has come, only the longing for it. In the meantime we are in the dark, and the dark, God knows, is also in us. We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are.”

While we may live in a world of darkness, we are still called to be a people of light. It’s easy to feel helpless when you see the effects of war, injustice, sickness, poverty (which is, really, an injustice), gross disregard for humanity, inequality, and hate mongering. Sometimes it feels easier to bury our heads in the sand or snow, or to wrap our hearts in cynicism, or even shout into the darkness ourselves. But the apostle Paul admonishes us against that. In a letter to the Galatians he says:

I love this verse. It’s a reminder to keep moving forward in faith and hope–together. Let us not get tired of doing good…we will have a harvest if we don’t give up. In American culture, we value the individual, and so, our churches often stress the importance of a personal and individual relationship with Christ. And while that is important, scripture shows us time and again that the practice of faith is really about community. We live together in faith. We work together in faith. We don’t do faith alone. Well, we shouldn’t do faith alone.

Therefore, Advent is a season where we wait together and hope together and seek wonder together and bring joy together. Each year, my mother-in-law organizes a massive Christmas event for a nursing home in her community that is comprised mostly of residents who have very little to no income. She brings people from her church community together to uplift the residents of the nursing home, and to remind them that they are not alone in their darkness. It’s a ton of work, but it’s a labor of love that builds expectation and brings light to all those who participate in it.

There are so many ways we can work together to bring light to others in our dark world. But, I would argue that we can’t do it with a spirit of cynicism or despair. Just as audiences wait in hopeful expectation for the curtain to rise, so we, together, work in hopeful expectation of the light that is to come for all mankind. Maybe we grab some friends and go caroling, or make cookies together and deliver them to our neighbors. Maybe we commit to going to church and worshiping with others each Sunday in Advent, or attend a special community Christmas service. Maybe we take some time to spend with our families doing something fun and silly, or leave anonymous notes or treats for our co-workers. There’s so much we can do!

This Advent, I’m choosing wonder and joy. I’m choosing to reach out in community to uplift others. I’m choosing to not grow weary, for I know that the harvest celebration is coming. What about you?

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

The Reason I Sing

This is a repost from a couple of years ago…but it’s still true. Keep singing, my friends! And Happy Thanksgiving.

For several days this fall, I awoke with Phil Wickham’s beautiful hymn “Reason I Sing” playing through my head. If you haven’t heard it, take a listen here. I remember one morning in particular, when I was standing on the front porch watching the puppy run amok. The light was still new–you know–that happy pale yellow that makes everything look like an Instagram pic, and the sky was that perfect cerulean blue that only comes when summer is waning into fall. I remember looking at our bushes–which are big and unruly and always make me want to grab a shovel and start digging them out, and humming the chorus of Wickham’s song, when I had the unmistakeable awareness of the presence of the holy diffusing itself all around me.

Before you get all excited about some modern-day burning bush story that ends with me uprooting my family and heading to Egypt, let me clarify that I didn’t see my bushes on fire (though if they HAD been…never mind). No, in that moment of holy hello the overwhelming feeling that bubbled up inside of me was gratitude. I began thinking about all of the reasons I had to sing: breath in my lungs, a roof over my head, family peacefully slumbering inside, good friends to share the journey with, food on my table, work that I love….but mostly, that there is a God who created all things, who is full of love and mercy, and who calls me his own. And so, in that moment, the song I had awoken singing became a prayer of thanksgiving to the One who calls me beloved.

Gratitude is a powerful thing. I’m not talking about the merely polite “thank yous” we dole out when someone holds a door, hands us a receipt, or refills our water. I’m talking about that deep-from-your-soul spring of praise that bubbles up when you realize that you are walking with a holy presence, and the very fact that He IS means you are blessed. Maybe not materially, maybe not in health, maybe not financially, maybe not in peace…but for sure in the secure knowledge that you are held by the One who created the heavens and the earth and who holds eternity in his hands. And that is our hope. And that is our joy. And that, Wickham writes, is reason to sing.

That’s not to dismiss the horrors of the world–of which there are many. My heart breaks for the people of Israel, Gaza, Sudan, and Ukraine, especially the children whose lives are being ripped apart by unimaginable violence. I ache for those friends who are in the midst of the valley of the shadow of death–whether it be a physical loss of someone held dear, the end of a relationship, or a sudden change in life’s circumstance. But the fact that there is pain and suffering in the world shouldn’t diminish our capacity for gratitude, or cause us to cease lifting our voices in praise. On the contrary, I think, as God’s people, we are called to stand in front of that yawning pit of darkness and to fight it by lifting our voices together in a song of praise to the one who will make all things new.

Being grateful for what God has done in our lives doesn’t mean we’re ignoring the pain….it just means we’re choosing to put our hope in something more than that which can be found on Earth. And we know where that hope leads. It carries us to eternal joy, which is so much more than temporal happiness.

So this week, as we gather with loved ones to share a meal in a season meant for giving thanks, let’s lift our souls in songs of praise to the one who journeys with us, faithfully holding our hands as we navigate a road that can be broken, muddy, covered in boulders, hilly, and sometimes dark, knowing that he will lead us to where we need to be.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

The Practice of Persistence–Coffee Edition

Coffee…rich, aromatic, sharp, and revitalizing…is one of my favorite things and, quite often, the reason I get out of bed each morning. According to legend, coffee was always there–we just didn’t know it until a young goat herder walking his livestock along the Ethiopian plateau stopped alongside some berry bushes and let his herd chow down. The goats began dancing and frolicking soon after, so the young goat herder decided to sample the berries, too. After experiencing a similar boost in energy, he shared the berries with some drowsy monks who used them to stay awake during nighttime prayers, and then the monks cashed in on the buzz the berries created.

There are many ways to enjoy coffee, but as self-proclaimed coffee snobs, my husband and I prefer the pour-over method–using freshly ground beans, of course. Coffee-making has become a sort of ritual for me, as I go through the same steps each morning to savor my one, glorious, cup of joe. The pour-over method is not quick. You have to heat the water, grind the beans, place the filter, and then pour the water slowly and methodically over the ground beans.

Making coffee this way can seem interminable–especially when I’m really sleepy–and my arm often gets tired from holding the goose-necked kettle over the glass carafe, though I tell myself it’s an exercise in strength-training. As the coffee blooms, it’s aroma rises and wafts around me. This is when impatience sets in, and I often find myself tipping the kettle too far in an effort to speed the water’s flow, resulting in a spill that I then have to clean up. Or, I attempt to pour my coffee before all the water has seeped through the filter, leading to a sludgy mess in and around my cup.

Often, as I’m working through this practice of patience, I think of all the labor that went into my coffee–not mine, but the many hands that brought the beans from far-off fields to my kitchen–and I take a moment to give thanks for them. On my best days, this ritual reminds me that I am a small part of something much bigger, that I am connected to people I will never meet, but whom I depend on each day. And when I let impatience have its way and make a mess, I am also reminded that God is never in a hurry. All of his work takes time, and its usually a lot longer than we’re willing to wait.

We live in a world of NOW, focused on the immediate rather than the long-term, but that’s not who God is. From the beginning, God had the eternal in mind, and when it all went sideways, he remained patient, letting his plans unfold in their proper time, and ensuring that each of the players in those plans were truly ready for the job God was giving them.

Consider David. He was just a child when Samuel anointed him God’s chosen king, and yet it would be years before he actually ascended the throne. David wasn’t ready to lead, and the people of Israel weren’t ready for his leadership. It took time (and a lot of running from a murderous king) before this man after God’s own heart was ready for the task God had called him to. And even after he’d achieved what God had designed, there was still a lot of soul-work to be done, and many more periods of waiting. In fact, “How long, O Lord?” becomes a common question throughout many of the Psalms attributed to David. Waiting is hard…especially when it feels like the world around you is falling apart. We, too, ask “How long, O Lord?” And often, the answer is “wait.”

Yet something important happens in the waiting…if we let it. Just as the coffee blooms and becomes fragrant as I pour the water over the grounds, so our souls expand and flourish as God works within them to bring his plans to fruition. We learn patience in the waiting. We also learn surrender and acceptance, which can, ultimately, lead to contentment and peace, regardless of our circumstances. God never promised us a quick fix, or, really, even a fix. But he did promise us his presence, no matter how long the wait. And he did promise that our hope in him would never be put to shame, even if the road is long and hard. Each morning, as I go through my somewhat absurd coffee-making ritual, I remember that God’s goodness will come, and we will be all the more grateful because of it.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

What to Do When the Zeitgeist is Grim

Recently, a meeting at work got strangely contentious. I don’t know why. We were discussing article ideas, and since many of our texts center on amazing animals, quirky places, and kids doing remarkable things, it’s generally a pretty genial experience. Except this day, it wasn’t. People seemed more on edge. They were cranky. And instead of embracing possibility, there were more “this won’t work” moments. I blame the zeitgeist. And the fact that it was late afternoon. I don’t know about anyone else, but my patience and creativity tend to wane after about 2 PM. Much like an EV, our brains can only go so far before they need a recharge.

Unfortunately, finding a recharge at the moment is a bit tough. There’s too much noise. From social media posts to news stories and hushed conversations between colleagues and friends, the mood seems more than grim–it’s kind of like everyone, everywhere is running around in circles screaming while the alien spaceship’s doors are opening and the cosmic ray is slowly brightening. We’re not thinking, we’re just reacting, and we’re not even reacting wisely.

To complicate matters even more, the definition of Christian has been thrown into the mix, with sides being taken and insults being lobbed across the void, which is the exact opposite of what Jesus wanted his people to do. Don’t get me wrong, the world is a mess. And I am deeply troubled by the actions leaders are taking against their people (and people in general) throughout the world. Most everything about how governments work (or don’t) run contrary to the teachings of Jesus, but Jesus didn’t come to set up an earthly government. He came to establish God’s kingdom which transcends it all anyway.

In considering all of this, I found myself longing for a face-face conversation with Jesus this week. “Just 10 minutes!” I begged God. “Just send him into my kitchen for 10 minutes so I can ask my questions and get some answers about what it means to truly be a Christian in the midst of this mess we’ve made!” I wanted to make sure I had it right.

Apparently, Jesus was busy. Or rather, God didn’t seem to think he needed to hang out in my kitchen in bodily form. Instead, he spoke to me in his usual ethereal manner–little wisps of understanding that swirl and coalesce into a feeling of conviction. And what was God’s response?

Do the work I’ve placed on your heart and leave the rest to me.

This has been a recurring theme between God and I over the years. I’m a big picture person, and so I want to see the end result. But God has shown me time and again, from career changes to personal conflicts and even my concerns for the world at large that my job–my only job–is to do the work he has placed on my heart for today and to let him figure out the big picture.

I can’t end hunger. I can’t stop bombs from falling. I can’t cure cancer. I can’t stop grief. I can’t make people do the right thing. So, what can I do?

This morning, it occurred to me that I can live joyfully. Instead of propagating hate and vitriolic discourse, I can simply choose to embrace the gift of a new day and live in gratitude for what is before me right now.

Paul tells the Philippians, who were living in their own grim moment, to rejoice always. God had called the people there to engage in his work–to proclaim the Gospel and to do good. Do that, Paul says. And do it joyfully. God will take care of the rest.

That’s not to say that we don’t engage with the world–that we bury our heads or adopt the practice of toxic positivity. But I think, as people of Jesus, we can engage with the problems of this world in a much more constructive way. We can do what Jesus did. We can go out into our communities. We can see others. And we can do what we can to make their lives better. We can look on others with love and tenderness. We can show compassion. We put down the stones that we carry and offer an outstretched hand. And most of all, we can have faith in the fact that God is NOT done yet!

So, where is God calling you to work today? What story is he writing on your heart? Focus on that. Give thanks. And trust. The darkness might feel deep, but dawn will come.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

What is a Christian?

Recently, I listened to a speech by a US Senator titled “What is an American?” In this senator’s framework, the definition of American was limited to White Anglo-Saxon Protestants (WASP) descended from Puritans and rugged frontiersmen who, apparently, tamed a continent and saved humanity. And if you can trace your lineage to one of these folks, you’re in. But if not, then America’s not really for you.

The speech bothered me, in part because it was filled with nationalist tropes and built on a mythos that was historically inaccurate, and discounted the contributions of millions of other Americans. It also bothered me because I know many Christians who applaud such ideas, and I don’t think we should. Which leads me to wonder: “What is a Christian?”

As I was pondering and praying, I read Ephesians 2–the second chapter of Paul’s letter to Gentile believers in which he outlines the crux of our faith: You are saved by God’s grace and have become an heir to his kingdom through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ alone. There were no ancestry lists to cross-reference, no list of deeds that had to be submitted and verified. You didn’t have to pay dues to join up, and you didn’t need to pass a test on Mosaic Law. The people of the Ephesian church were in because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, and no person and no circumstance on Earth could change that.

In essence, a Christian is someone who has accepted the grace offered by God through Christ and who seeks to live according to Christ’s teachings. It’s pretty simple, really. And Jesus simplified it even more when he said that all of the commandments boil down to two things: Love God; Love others. We’re the ones who overcomplicate it.

We draw boxes around church membership and make denomination labels. We establish rules and church laws and make judgements about who is in and who is out. The earliest churches did this, too, which is why Paul wrote so many letters. Because God’s house is big, and there is always room for one more.

This is what Paul tries to explain to the Ephesians in 2:17-19:

God brings people of different backgrounds together. Paul states that God proclaimed peace to those who were far away (the Gentiles) and to those who were near (the Jews,) and then he says, “Guess what? You’re all related now!”

But there’s something else Paul says that we can easily miss, and it’s huge. Paul writes that because of God, both Jews and Gentiles were citizens of God’s kingdom, which in ancient Rome, would have carried a lot of weight. It was hard to gain citizenship in ancient Rome. Generally speaking, you were either born into it, or you paid a lot of money for it. And citizenship mattered–a lot. There were many rights and privileges afforded to Roman citizens that no one else had, including the right to legally marry, give your children an inheritance, vote, own property, have a fair trial, and not be subjected to torture or crucifixion.

So, when Paul writes that everyone who has been saved by grace is a citizen of God’s kingdom, he means that they ALL had equal rights and privileges through Christ who joins people together, regardless of their earthly citizenship, and that was a profound contrast to the political status quo.

However, Paul hasn’t dropped the mic just yet. There’s more…because with God…there’s always more.

This image reflects the beauty and glory and love of God. He brings people from near and far together, and with Christ as the cornerstone and the apostles and prophets as foundation, we become a living embodiment of the one true King.

Several years ago, my husband and my parents and I were touring Westminster Abbey in London. A public communion service is held each day at noon, and my husband and I decided to take part. It was a surreal moment, sitting beneath the vaulted ceiling of a nearly millennial-old church and reciting liturgy that the faithful have been engaging in for even longer. But what gave me chills was when we said the Lord’s Prayer, because suddenly, I heard it being offered in several different languages at once. People prayed in French and Italian, Korean and Spanish, Dutch and Hindi. It was the first time I’d ever experienced the church universal, and it opened my eyes to the absolutely awe-inspiring wonder and beauty of God.

God’s kingdom isn’t relegated to one nation alone; rather, it encompasses the world. And each of us who calls ourselves Christian becomes part of that world-wide church. We might quibble over “trespasses” vs. “debtors”, debate the theologies of Calvin and Wesley, and even argue over juice vs. wine. But in the end, Paul shows us in Ephesians that we are one body–a living temple–fused together through Jesus Christ. And there is room for us all.

Jesus said that we cannot serve two masters, Either you will hate the one and love the other, or be loyal to one and have contempt for the other. Of course, he was speaking of wealth, but I think he could be speaking about politics, too. Do we worship God, or our political ideologies? There are those in many countries who would have us believe that our true identity lies in nationality alone, and that each of our respective nations is only open to a select group of people who prove can prove their worth. And maybe they are…I don’t know. But it’s a premise I reject.

God’s kingdom, however, is open to all who wish to enter, so long as we are willing to accept his gift of salvation. There is nothing to prove. But there is much to do. God longs to establish his kingdom here, and he wants us to help build it. Yet we can only do that if we’re worshipping God alone, together, with all of his people.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara