I was six years old when Hurricane Hugo tore through South Carolina. We lived in Columbia at the time and so we were spared the storm’s full wrath. My brother, newborn sister, and I all slept in my parents’ room that night. Even as they taped up all the windows in our house, Mom and Dad had exuded a calm that we would be okay and we were. But I remember the howling winds through the night; the sound was like a gash being ripped in creation itself.

I felt vulnerable and small and scared. The world could have come undone.

The tricky thing about Advent is there is more than a little about this time of year that is about the world coming undone. There is an untamed ferocity to the season that we often bury under twinkling lights, sleigh bells, and children’s choirs. The first Sunday—the beginning of a new year in the church—is about hope. Hope for a better tomorrow. A time-displaced hope for the coming Christ child. A future hope for when all things will be made right. But it is all hope with a jagged edge.

Where do we go from here? That question seems to follow us around. After all, each morning presents new forks in the road. What kind of people are we going to be? Empathetic or hateful? Full of hope or cynicism? Looking our for others or only for ourselves? Those choices profoundly direct the trajectories of our lives and those around us. And each day provides a new opportunity for that.

But the question of where we go from here always seems weightier in moments of great transition. The road seems to bend in dramatically divergent directions. When Joshua was at the end of his days leading the people of Israel, he gathered them together with directions on which road they ought to take.

Now if you are unwilling to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.

Choose this day whom you will serve.

October turns over to November with two significant days that often get buried under a pile of Halloween candy. The 31st is Reformation Day, which remembers Martin Luther nailing 95 theses on the Wittenberg church door protesting the shortcomings he saw in the church of his day. This action is considered the symbolic catalyst for the Protestant Reformation, a movement that dramatically transformed not just the Christian church, but all of Western Civilization.

Then today is All Saints Day. If you want to get into the weeds concerning a church holiday (and I always do), some celebrate All Saints Day as a memory of all the faithful who have gone before us. Others celebrate solely the canonized saints and then remember the rest on All Souls Day the next day. Because of my priesthood-of-all-believers-confessing Baptist roots, I tend towards remembering everyone on the same day. The way I see it, the lessons I learn from St. Francis of Assisi and my Grandma are equally profound and important.

Reformation Day and All Saints Day hold together our past, present, and future. The animating force behind the Reformation is that the church should always be moving forward to God’s calling of us. Since we are all flawed individuals, the Christian institutions are always stumbling in the vocation of loving God and neighbor. Thus we always need to take sober stock of the church’s actions and reform for a more Christlike tomorrow. All Saints celebrates the hope, courage, conviction, and failures of past Christians who can illuminate that way forward.

I make up TV shows in my head all the time. I had this idea for one called God Cops. It would be a normal police procedural, but the crimes investigated were violations of the Ten Commandments.

Just imagine the “Good Cop, Bad Cop” interrogation of a man who allegedly did some work on the Sabbath. Or the precinct’s frustration when someone who used God’s name in vain is back on the street because the judge rules that commandment is more about misrepresenting God than an exclamation. Or a cool, aviator glasses-wearing, mustache-sporting detective sliding across the hood of the car to take down a perp looking covetously at his neighbor’s cow all while a funky guitar riff is punctuated by a blast of horns.

It would have been glorious and would have made so, so many people angry. The inspiration behind this satiric ridiculousness was that people often seem really eager to police religious adherence. It is as if their whole conception at the root of following God is a notion of crime and punishment. You obey the commandments so the Almighty doesn’t throw the book at you and there are scores of people who believe they are deputized to carry that out.

Jonah is a children’s Bible story staple because of its big fish. Someone decided long ago that if an animal is in a tale then it must be a great story to tell to kids. This is a terrible idea and Noah’s Ark is at the top of the list why. But Jonah has a large sea creature and he learns a lesson so we make that exclusive content of children’s church and don’t really pay it any heed as adults.

That’s a mistake because Jonah is a fascinating little story with a nasty little protagonist who learns a lesson yet not the lesson and a God who is filled to the brim with mercy.

When I was told this story in church as a kid, it was said that Jonah ran because he was scared. He didn’t want to go to Nineveh because he was afraid to deliver the message. This isn’t true; at least not how it was framed to me. Jonah says so himself. He ran because he was afraid that God would forgive the people of Nineveh and Jonah did not want to see that happen. This prophet would rather disobey God—risking his life and the life of some unwitting sailors at sea—than see people he considered his enemies receive grace and restoration.

This is a story we should read regularly as adults.

One of my favorite pictures ever of our two boys was taken in the final month before I moved to Tennessee. The two of them are dancing in the sprinkler in my parents’ yard. The sun beams down on them. And I know that it sounds cheesy, but it looked like every children’s Bible illustration of the Holy Spirit shining down. But instead of a just-baptized Jesus and a dove it was our 6 year old and 3 year old joyfully frolicking in the grass. Though that was not going to save the world, it still looks like God is saying, “This is good. With them I am well pleased.”

Even four years later, that picture never ceases to make me smile. There is something so joyous and pure and good about it. It captures a memory on to which I try to hold as much as I can. It’s one of those moments that reminds me why EA and I do this parent thing even though it often drives us up the wall these days.

Many years ago, Paul wrote that our love must be sincere and we must hate what is evil. But he had a third piece of instruction that feels like the engine that drives the other two: hold fast to the good. For us to have a love that is authentic and the strength to push back on the injustice that inflicts wounds on all of us, we need to cling to whatever good we find in the world.

Tonight felt a little bit like the sun peaking through the clouds after a fearsome storm. Things will still not be normal for quite some time. The effects of the storm are ever present. To be honest, I don’t even know for sure if the storm has passed or we have just caught a break. I just know that right now there seems to be some daylight.

The last time that we met as a youth group was over five months ago. We filled the gaps where we could. We rode Zoom to the end of the school year. We made front porch visits in the summer. But like so much else in this year gone sideways, it was not the same. And today was still not the same. We met outside scattered around the church’s campus. We wore masks and kept our distance.

But we were together and, in the midst of chaos and the tumult of this year, that felt like a victory.

It also felt like a victory to create something new. Our youth and children’s ministries teamed up to put together a drive-in worship service for families. Beneath the late August sun, we sang and ran and danced and reminded those dear to us that we love them and God does too. It was gratifying to hatch this scheme with a great group of people, have no idea if anyone would show up, and then watch the parking lot fill with cars. That too felt like daylight.

Matthew 15:21-28 goes a little something like this:

Canaanite woman asks Jesus to heal her daughter. Jesus ignores her. Canaanite woman persists. Jesus implies Canaanite woman is a dog. Canaanite woman points out that even dogs get scraps. Jesus is impressed with the Canaanite woman’s response and heals her daughter.

Pardon?

This is the gospel passage for the Lectionary today. People have to actually preach on it. It’s a crazy passage because on the surface it undermines one of the most fundamental things that Christians have long believed about Jesus: that he was the compassionate, sinless human embodiment of God. Yet in this passage, he coldly shoots down the requests of a mother with a sick child; all because she was not one of his people.

²⁵ But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” ²⁶ He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

That isn’t great! It’s disconcerting and troubling. It seemingly runs against a lot of what Jesus says/does when he encounters Gentiles in other passages. It seems to run counter Jesus preaching that we love our enemies. The problems are only amplified as we are presently having important cultural conversations about how certain people groups are discriminated against.

This is one of those weeks where I’ve written about five different versions of this post. I even recorded a rambling stream of conscious reflection while I drove home from getting lunch yesterday and almost published that. I’m not in writer’s block territory, but I’m driving through the neighborhood.

So let’s keep it simple.

Walking on water shouldn’t be possible. Anytime I was at the pool as a kid, I would hover my foot above water wondering if I could somehow catch something solid. But you go right through. Every single time. So say what you want about Peter, but that moment when he steps out onto the sea are one of the most inspiringly fearless moments in human history.

Or it could’ve been one of the most stupid moments. But honestly the margin between fearless and stupid is as thin as the water’s surface. And, yes, Peter got distracted. And, yes, he started to sink. But he hopped onto the waves when no one else would. There is something beautifully noble about this particular failure.

We’re going to talk about a Kanye West song for a second. We’re not going to talk about Kanye the person so don’t get distracted. But I really enjoy his song “Follow God” off of Jesus is King. It’s the only song on that album that has really stuck with me. It’s on my running playlist because it’s one of those jolt of adrenaline tracks. It also was the song that knocked Lauren Daigle off the top of the Christian Songs chart and sat at #1 for 8 weeks. Imagine going back in time a few years and telling someone Kanye topped Christian radio for multiple weeks. Their head would explode and it would be like the 73rd craziest thing you would tell them about our current world. But I digress.

There is one line on “Follow God” that always jumps out at me whenever I listen to it: “Wrestlin’ with God / I don’t really want to wrestle.” My reaction is always something to the effect of “Same, Kanye. Same.” If we’re honest with ourselves, it is such a universal feeling. All of us feel like Jacob in the Bible sometimes. We find ourselves grappling with God over something that doesn’t make sense. When friends are diagnosed with cancer or we see someone we care about suffer, we wrestle over why bad things happen to good people. Or we read the news and see corruption flourish and we wonder why good things happen to bad people.