Waiting in Line by Wil Triggs

“Is it true,” the woman said.

She spoke those three words accusingly, not exactly a question.

Falling into the line behind us, socially distanced, but speaking loud enough for all to hear, she asked, “Is it true that they’re giving it away?”

This time it was a question, but no one replied right away. Perhaps the heat or the drought that wasn’t called a drought had gotten to everyone. Maybe it was just easier to stare at the brown dead grass or the too-early-in-the season yellow and orange leaves on the trees.

She was fashionably dressed in a print that looked the way late summer was supposed to look, a pattern inspired by classic Provence prints—olive green, lemon yellow, sky blue and sunset orange. Her mask matched perfectly. Her hair, though, still needed attention.

“I mean, it can’t be.” She went on, missing the cues that no one else in line was talking to each other let alone to her.

In the days leading up to this, there had been a lot of talk about cost. It had to be available for everyone, rich and poor, all races and ethnic groups, every country, but whenever these areas came up, the discussion was shot through with distrust and skepticism, followed often by anger and fear. Would it be like that, or would it become available for one particular group of people—a wealthy group, or one isolated to a particular country or family group.

“I’m sick of this new normal. It’s not that. It’s abnormal. So, this can’t just be free. They must have spent millions or billions on it if it works. Someone has to make money from this.”

She had no idea of the actual cost—more than any of us could afford or imagine. A cure. Finally.

When they announced that the cure was here, like a lot of people, I was both thrilled and disbelieving. Word spread that this was coming, but all I could think of were the lines and how long they would be. And yet. I didn’t want to say anything. Honestly I wasn’t sure if I trusted it. And yet. There I was in line.

“I think it’s a trick of some kind, like they aren’t sure if it works, so they are giving it away as a test. We’re just guinea pigs or mice. Where’s the media? Shouldn’t they be here recording all this?”

The line wasn’t moving yet. I was starting to feel anxious.

“It’s just a rumor anyway,” she went on. “No one is going to give us anything. We’re just waiting. For nothing.”

Was it just me, or was she starting to annoy people with all her talking? The silence around her from the other people suggested a level of impatience was brewing.

“Well,” she continued, “I don’t think that kind of prank is funny. Probably just some kind of behavioral experiment to see how desperate we are.”

And then, at last, the line started moving forward, six feet at a time.

Once it got going, it was really fast. When we got to the front, each of us held out our hands and received the cure. No papers to sign, no money to pay. No fanfare or long speeches about how special we were to be selected for the cure. All of us looked down at what they gave us.

A little red pill. A piece of paper. A bottle of water.

“That’s it?” she asked. I looked down at it myself and realized she had been asking what we all were wondering but not saying out loud.

The red pill was small. So much sacrifice to make pills this small, so there would be enough—more than enough, really—for all. Almost as tiny as the seed of an herb, poppy or mustard, something along those lines. It was so miniscule that I thought it might just blow away.

The paper was the usual instructional piece, each panel in a different language. Time released. Works on anyone. One dose for all of life. Drink with water. There wasn't really a lot to do but take it.

We placed the pills on our tongues, a surprisingly saltiness. We opened our water bottle and drank.

All of us walked away together. This cure, made by father, son, spirit, not manufactured in any lab, but wrought in fifth and failure, shame and death, crossing over all the boundaries and limits of our progress and pride and so much more that adds up to nothing more than soiled rags.

“Well,” she said to no one and everyone, a gentle tone, dare we call it happy, in her new voice, “I think that’s the best water I’ve ever had in my life.”

And some of us said, reflexively, “Amen.”

It was the first time any of us had responded to her, and all of us repeated that one simple word with great joy.

For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.

(My) History of the Bible by Lorraine Triggs

It was a first edition—the Reach Out Living New Testament, and off it went with me to Bluewater Bible Camp in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. I loved that paperback Bible. I underlined favorite Bible verses in bright pink ink. I drew daisies in the margins. I even blackened out a few teeth of the smiling young people in the photographs.

It was at camp that my Reach Out Bible met its soggy fate. Standing on the dock, my friends and I stared at my Bible slowly floating out of reach. Then to the delight of this giggling gaggle of high school girls, the dashing water ski instructor drove by in his boat and rescued my Bible from the clear blue waters of the Canadian lake.

The rescue effort didn’t come close to my effort to dry out the Bible. Beginning with Matthew’s gospel and ending with Revelation, I worked my way through the New Testament, resting it on a tree stump in the sun trying to get the pages as dry as I possibly could before packing it in my suitcase. Fortunately, a dry Reach Out Living New Testament made it across the Canadian border to Michigan.

But more than a dry New Testament came across the border that summer. God’s Word began its transformative work in my heart as I began to read and re-read (and re-underline in aqua blue ink this time) those favorite verses and more.

Another first edition Bible, this time with both testaments, a hard cover and my full name stamped on it, went with me to Moody Bible Institute. At the time, the preferred version of the Institute was the New American Standard Bible. The discovery of a misspelling in that edition of the Bible, the book of "Galations," more than made up for my disappointment over its lack of photographs. (I like to think that the typo inspired my future vocation in editing and writing.)

While the typo may have inspired my future, it didn’t detract from the school’s then-motto of 2 Timothy 2:15, “Be diligent to present yourself approved to God as a workman who does not need to be ashamed, accurately handling the word of truth.” (NASB, of course) As I was proving to be a somewhat diligent student, I realized that the study of God’s Word wasn’t contained to semesters or syllabi.

There are still a few of my Bible artifacts around the house, including one with a Chiquita Banana sticker on the cover. I’ve never experienced a scarcity of Bibles in my life, unlike believers my husband met in Russia.

“My first time traveling to Russia, it was the foundational country of the Soviet Union,” Wil recalled. He was working for Slavic Gospel Association at the time and spent much of his time reporting on Christians who were arrested, imprisoned or hospitalized in mental wards because they were Christians.

“Many Russian people were desperate for a Bible. They copied portions of it in books that looked to me like bluebooks. People cobbled together makeshift printing presses and hid them in their basements and made duplications of Scripture any way they could. People in prison would scratch Bible verses on bars of soap or on the walls of prison walls.

“So, when I stood in front of the customs agents and they took the New Testaments and Bibles out of my luggage and the pockets of my clothes, I started to argue with them. ‘These are gifts,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not bringing them into your country to make a profit, or to subvert your government. They are to help people.’ I was as insistent as I could be in a situation where I had no real power. I prayed and continued to insist. After a while, they agreed to keep half and give half back to me. People later told me they probably wanted to sell them on the black market. It was a great joy to give those gifts of Scripture to Christians I met in the days afterwards.”

To this day, I remain envious of my husband’s first trip and first friends in Russia. Now that I’ve made my own friends in Russia, I can imagine the genuine and emotional response to holding a real, honest-to-goodness Bible in your hands for the first time.

Those Bibles were more precious to these Russian believers than fine gold, even much fine gold.

Today—as in Saturday, August 29, today—in Benin, West Africa, believers from the Yom people group are celebrating the completion of the Yom Bible, an almost 70-year project in which College Church missionary Dorothy Forsberg has been involved. (A New Testament in the Yom language was completed in 1986.)

Imagine the joy today as a Yom believer reads Psalm 19 in his or her first complete Bible, “More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings of the honeycomb.”

I hope that in a few years, a teenage girl in Benin will be underlining her favorite Bible verses and drawing flowers in the margins of her Bible.

In Search of NEOWISE by Susan Zimmerman

I really wanted to see the comet. The New York Times article made it clear I should scan the heavens now, not later. “Enjoy it while you can. The frozen ball of ice won’t return to the inner solar system for 6,800 years.” [“Comet NEOWISE: How to See It in Night Skies,” The New York Times, July 15, 2020] 

The image headlining the article was glorious. NEOWISE (NASA’s Near-Earth Object Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer) was shown plunging toward the horizon in a long-tailed fireball over Mount Washington near Springfield, Oregon.

But the inspiring photo implied a warning―my chances of seeing NEOWISE were not good. The grand starry carpet of skies over the purplish outline of mountains announced, “No light pollution here.” Wheaton, Illinois is not Springfield, Oregon, or Montlucon, France, or the Colorado National Monument—places where photos showcased NEOWISE against a vast dark sky.

Nevertheless, the article was encouraging to suburban dwellers like me. “NEOWISE . . . has even been spotted by people living near city centers with all the light pollution.” Per a Harvard & Smithsonian Center astronomer, “You can watch it from your backyard and you don’t need a telescope.”

Supposedly you could even take a cellphone photo of this comet. “Try framing NEOWISE against a nice background such as a tree,” helpfully suggested another astronomer.

My husband is always framing cellphone photos against a tree. On the evening of July 22, I convinced him we needed to try to see NEOWISE. We grabbed our binoculars and followed the article’s instructions: Wait until an hour and a half after sunset. Look to the northwest. Find the Big Dipper and follow its ladle toward the horizon. “NEOWISE will appear [!] under the Big Dipper about 10 degrees above the horizon.”

We hedged on one instruction: go to the darkest area possible. Our viewing site was our backyard, reasonably dark for Wheaton, but nothing like the dark sky over a mountain. We scanned, we searched, we focused and refocused the binoculars. After 45 minutes or so, we thought we had seen a few blurry stars that might have been moving, but no NEOWISE.

It had been a partly cloudy night, I reasoned. And the article said the comet would make its closest approach to Earth on July 23. My husband agreed we should try again.

The evening of July 23 was beautiful, with a clear dark sky. We returned to our backyard, this time adjusting our position for a cleaner view of the horizon. Again, we trained our binoculars on the night sky, searching for the brilliant fusion of gas and dust that had traveled from the outer reaches of the solar system.

We didn’t see NEOWISE.

Friday, July 24, was another lovely evening. Warm, not humid. Clear sky. We decided to search for NEOWISE one more time, but at a new location, the empty soccer fields at the front of Seven Gables Park. We parked in the front lot shortly before sunset. A few cars were parked far to our left; were others also watching for the comet? The sun set in a quiet orange and pink glow. The sky slowly darkened, and stars began to come out.

We stayed in the park a long time that evening, watching and waiting for a coveted glimpse of NEOWISE. But that night, not even a clear sky, an empty field, or its near approach to earth brought NEOWISE before our eyes. We didn’t “find” the comet, though of course it was there, a ball of ice streaking near earth through a sky where most likely you did need inky darkness and a decent telescope to see its bright display.

Though we didn’t see NEOWISE, the nights of star gazing offered something else.

As we sat in the dark looking up for something we never saw, we recalled a time years ago during a family camping vacation to Wisconsin with our two children when we did see celestial magnificence. The four of us had headed to a tiny boat landing well after dark, hoping to see a mass of stars, and God instead treated us to an unexpected shower of northern lights. On this night in the disquieting summer of 2020 we had hoped for similar drama from a comet, but our heavenly Father still used the quiet interlude for his purposes.

The NYT article concluded with a suggestion from the astronomer who was the principal investigator of NEOWISE: “Things are really tough right now for lots of people,” said Dr. Amy Mainzer. “But this is a chance to look up and reconnect with the big picture stuff.”

I’m not sure how this particular astronomer defines “big picture stuff” but for me and my husband those July evenings spent searching for a comet became a time to not only look up, but to look beyond to the Creator, and then especially to look in, inside God’s Word for reminders of who is the One who created and sustains not only comets, but all heaven and earth.

Isaiah 40:25-28 says, “To who then will you compare me, that I should be like him? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name; by the greatness of his might and because he is strong in power, not one is missing. Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel, “My way is hidden from the LORD, and my right is disregarded by my God?” Have you not known? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable.” 

God knows exactly where NEOWISE is. Perhaps he has even given it a name, hopefully one less wonky and cumbersome than the one chosen by NASA. But more importantly he knows where I am. Where my husband is. Where all of his children are during this strange and yes, tough time. Our way is not hidden from him, and he who “does not faint or grow weary”, he the One of unsearchable understanding, is fully able to sustain us.

Stay Safe

Lorraine Triggs muses briefly about an entry from Prayers for Every Occasion by Ellen Elwell.

"Stay safe" is the new “take care.” I have hopes it might replace “have a good one” in the national vocabulary, but I’m not counting on that.

That desire to stay safe and to secure our future is a long-standing trend, not a new cultural phenomenon. We invest, we plan, we work, we vote as if everything depends on us. What a relief and rest to know that our safety and security is in another’s loving and kind hands.

Ellen Elwell captures this well in the entry “Priorities.” Read the psalm, read Ellen’s prayer, rest today, stay safe, be secure in God.

Priorities

Psalm 39:4-7 (NLT)

Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.

Remind me that my days are numbered—

how fleeting my life is.

You have made my life no longer than

The width of my hand.

My entire lifetime is just a moment to you;

at best each of us is but a breath.

We are merely moving shadows,

and all our busy rushing ends in nothing.

We heap up wealth,

not knowing who will spend it.

And so, Lord, where do I put my hope?

My only hope is in you.

God, you live in eternity, and it’s hard for us to get our minds around that. In comparison to you, our lives seem like meteors that pass quickly through the sky. Even if we saved millions of dollars during our short lifetime, we couldn’t take a penny of it with us when we die. What we can take with us is our relationship with you. Though we shouldn’t put our hope in time or money, we’re safe to put our hope in you, God. Thank you that you are the same yesterday, today and forever.

House Hunting by Wil Triggs

These days, Lorraine and I have developed a new kind of interest in the grocery store. It’s not about the sale items or the seasonally fresh selections we sometimes can’t resist. It’s not about the people who work there, though that’s another story. No, this interest has to do with people we might see there.

It started back in April when we hadn’t seen anyone in what seemed like forever. It had just been a few weeks then. One day we saw Micah in the Jewel.

She was so excited she let out a little scream of a hello. Really, she just said hi. Lorraine answered her. Well, you knew they were excited. You could tell they were doing one of those hugging things that really wasn’t a hug at all. They didn’t even touch, social distancing and all, but they managed to express how happy they were to see each other. Even with masks on. No touch. You could just tell.

That was the beginning, but it keeps happening. So now we’re always looking for people at the store—it’s like a bonus. Besides food to feed our bodies, there’s always the chance we will see someone we used to see most every week. It's sort of a tonic for the heart to see these people.

Just yesterday we saw Di in the pasta aisle at Caputo's.

But it’s not just at the grocery stores. It’s starting to happen in other places.

Think of Lucy spotting Mr. Tumnus at the lamppost in a strange always-winter land or eating a delicious meal with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver in their lodge. It’s that kind of warm sense of wonder, for just a few sweet seconds at a time, and then we move on to whatever is next.

I look around at the people pumping gas next to me at the station. Hardware and home improvement stores also make for happy hunting when it comes to finding long-lost relatives who aren’t really lost and aren’t nearly as distant as they seem right now.

Last week Brandon waved at me across the parking lot, and I waved back as we drove away. It was a hat trick of sorts at Costco, just a week ago, where we got to see Evelyn, Becky and Roger in a single visit. They all looked great.

Sunday night I saw Bill at the baptism service. He was so happy to see me and everyone else. It was like waking from a sort of dazed dream to see, yes, all these people, still here after these months. And it was just a moment of joy, simple and kind of amazing. Like a little summer firefly at twilight, the light glowing naturally for a few seconds and moving on, then raising itself again and giving another summer green glow.

This week I got to talk to Jim and Patte. Granted, this was on Zoom, but I got to hear their voices. They’re still there with all the insights and challenging thoughts and open prayer requests and the desire to talk about poetry together.

Tuesday, I got to see Wendell, which seemed miraculous. I walked out of the church office and there he was, standing on the right side of the plexiglass by Lorraine’s reception area. We said hello, and he spoke in the life-affirming way that he always does. And I was lifted up. There’s nothing quite like shaking Wendell’s hand. And we used to do that normal, everyday greeting almost every Sunday. So just seeing him now, well, that was more than swell.

We used to see all these people and more, Sunday after Sunday. and it was just the way it was. Now, though, I think we realize what a true treasure our gathering is, or was, and will be.

I need to tell you a secret.

All these people and me and the others—we all live in the same house. We’re used to seeing each other all the time. Different rooms, one home. It’s a great house. But we aren’t exactly there right now. Not quite.

We love that house. I especially love working with other people on lifelong renovation projects or brainstorming ways to add on to the house. Or a group of us get creative and change out the color of a wall or plant spring bulbs in the fall to see the burst of color in the spring. Sometimes it’s great to just sit in that house and share a meal or pray and talk about life together.

But our big loveable house seems to have moved somewhere we can’t quite find. Like Dorothy’s house that the tornado picks up and takes on a technicolor journey, it eventually will land back where it started. This crazy movie of flying monkeys and lions, scarecrows, witches and tin men who will really turn out to be people around town, people who live in the same house with me. The ones we bump into wherever.

This house we’re longing for—not everyone has that abode.

There’s always room for more in ours. Because, after all, the house is us. Handcrafted by Christ, we are the house. What a gift of grace it is to walk this life together. To hear God’s Word and see it come to life in and through us. Even in this crazy pandemic time, though distanced and masked, we live it and share it together. Maybe not in the pew, but in the dairy aisle of the grocery store or by the light bulbs in the hardware store or pumping regular gas in the tank this week. Little moments of home along the way.

So, look for me or another one of us when you’re out on an errand today. And let's make room for more.

Even the sparrow finds a home,
    and the swallow a nest for herself,
    where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
    my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
    ever singing your praise! 
Psalm 84:3-4

Check Out Lane by Lorraine Triggs

In the last four months, the 30 or so Kindergartners in Bible school became first-graders without us. We never told the story of Hudson Taylor or marched and waved palm branches through the preschool hallway on Palm Sunday. We missed seeing the wonder on the children’s faces when they heard that Jesus is alive. No one attended the end of the year party, and the Kindergarten room has been uncharacteristically tidy.

This probably explains why I noticed the young shopper at Caputo’s pushing her shopper-in-training cart around. The little one was just about the right age for some Kindergartner antics. She didn’t disappoint.

For a while, she happily trailed her mother down the aisles until, right there in front of her was the eye-catching, mouth-watering display of bright orange Utz Baked Cheddar Cheese Balls in big, round tubs with bright blue lids.

What was a shopper-in-training to do? She reached for a tub, hugged it close to her chest and dropped into the cart, clearly pleased with her single purchase that filled the entire cart.

Her mother came up behind her and simply shook her head at her daughter’s cart but didn’t tell her to put it back.

“Those cheese balls aren’t going to make it to check out,” I commented to my husband as we pushed our cart to the checkout lanes. “Her mama isn’t going to let that happen.”

We reached the checkout lanes at the same time, and I couldn’t resist telling the mom what a good mama she was and how much I enjoyed watching her daughter grocery shop.

Sure enough, no cheese balls left Caputo’s.

I wish I had the same assurance as I fill my cart with what I think I need. Maybe that pint of greed won’t make it to the checkout lane today. Unfortunately, greed not only makes it to the checkout lane but also into the plastic bag and all the way home.

Even though I pass on today’s special on gossip, I can’t resist the two-for-one deal of complaining and discontent. I like bargains as much as the next person, but as soon as I spot pride in its original packaging, I don’t count the cost and carefully place two or three or more packages in the cart.

Perhaps that’s the problem. I don’t count the cost, which becomes apparent as I rummage through the clutter in my life. What am I going to do with another jar of greed on the shelf? No worries, I’ll think of something. What’s this bottle of selfishness doing way back there? It’s way past its sell-by date. It still might be good. I’ll set it aside for whenever I might need it.

That creates a whole new problem according to Colossians 3:8-9, "But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth. Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have put off the old self with its practices."

Sins aren’t to be set aside for future use; they’re to be “put to death” and “put off.” Don’t take on the burden of sin. Jesus has already done that for us. I can take that bottle of selfishness or carton of sour ungratefulness straight to the trash bin—not to earn extra grace points with God, but to live out the graced life I already have in Christ.

As the clutter from sin shrinks, it frees up space for compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience and forgiveness. All I need for my daily bread here and the feast to come.

Riding in the Car, I Mean, Sitting on the Ground with Jesus by Wil Triggs

“I’m sorry about my speedometer,” Mary, the driver said. The gauge in her car bounced back and forth from zero to 120, making a sound like an overly caffeinated metronome trying to make sure I stayed in tempo with the “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

“It usually works fine,” she explained, “until we hit 90, and then it just starts to freak out like this. It needs fixing.”

Great, I thought. We’re going to get killed in a car accident.

Mary was weaving from lane to lane and even onto the median, trying to make up for lost time. We were moving so fast that the other cars traveling at a normal speed looked like they were parked. I imagined coverage of the tragic accident in the local news.

Who will break the news to my parents? They won’t believe it. Mom and Dad thought I was at an evening service at a church I never went to except for these Saturday music gigs, just a half mile from our home.

But when I got to the church that late afternoon, I discovered they had rented a bus for the orchestra and choir to go to San Diego for a special service in Balboa Park. The bus was running late. “Sorry,” explained the concert master, who was a first chair violinist in the high-school orchestra. “I thought San Diego was next weekend,” he shrugged. People started to climb onto the bus.

There were no cellphones. I couldn’t call and explain to my parents.

One problem. There were too many people to fit on the bus. The driver wouldn’t drive an over-filled bus. He could be fired. There were words between him and the organizers, but he wasn’t going to budge.

After watching the debate, Mary offered to drive her car. So, some of us orchestra members crammed ourselves and our instruments into her sedan. But the delay had thrown us off schedule, and we needed to get to the service on time. She turned the car’s air conditioning on high. We wound our way from the church to the freeway and headed south toward San Diego.

That’s when the tapping began. It was loud and wouldn’t stop unless she decelerated to something closer to the speed limit.

This wasn’t even my church, not even my kind of church exactly.

I was at my high school at the end of the term when a friend of a friend asked me, “Can you play the Hallelujah Chorus?”

“Sure,” I said. The trumpet solo part was fun to play.

“Would you come and play at our Saturday night service? We need a trumpet player. One who can do the Hallelujah Chorus.”

“Okay, yeah,” I said. “I’ll come.”

Thus began my summer at what turned out to be a series of Pentecostal healing services on Saturday nights. Most weeks we played at the church near my home. We travelled into Los Angeles several times and now this one trip to San Diego where we soared by the other vehicles going at the normal traffic flow rate, all to the tap, tap, tap of the overtaxed speedometer.

Where was the California Highway Patrol? It was only a matter of time before one of them pulled up behind us, siren screeching and lights blazing. “What kind of Christian witness would that be?” my frightened self asked. But it never happened.

We arrived at the Balboa Park venue in half the normal time. No car accident. No speeding citation.

It turned out that there were two different “Hallelujahs” that we played—Handel’s and the praise chorus one. We played Handel at the beginning and end of each service, but we also did the praise song “Hallelujah” multiple times over the course of the night. Musically, it was quite a workout. I wasn’t used to playing without notation, and except for Handel, most of what we played was improv, something they called “playing in the Spirit.” Sometimes we passed hymnals around and people would call out numbers for us to turn to and play. The congregation/audience in the theater-style seats either found the numbers in the hymnal or already knew the words because they were all singing.

I did my best to concentrate on the various musical pieces, and except for the sermon and testimony time, we played through the whole service. This was outside my comfort zone. As we played, people would line up to come forward for prayer. Non-stop music, like they couldn’t have silence in the service, not even during the prayers.

People, in lines that stretched down the aisles, sang, prayed, cried and waited for their turn to be prayed for, to be healed. I tried not to look at them in line. It seemed somehow private, whatever reason they had for standing there, and I wasn’t sure what I thought of the whole thing. This was not me. I was Baptist or Friends—something not that. But there I was—just there to play the trumpet after all.

And then people would wait to give testimony to the healing power of Jesus. The audience laughed, clapped, burst into spontaneous song, which was always our cue to start playing whatever they happened to be singing. I honestly don’t know how we did it. Somehow it all worked out.

On the way home, I traded spaces with another friend and rode safely home on the bus.

This pandemic summer, I’ve been thinking about that summer. The world right now feels like one long over-the-speed-limit ride to San Diego in a car that needs fixing. The danger of crashing all around, anger at injustice, growing global persecution of Christians, corruption, an election coming in the fall, daily reports on infections and deaths even on local news. It goes on and on. There are so many places to get off course. And people are lining up in their own ways to find some kind of healing, connection, hope, relief. Those lines of people came to mind early in the pandemic, when Lorraine and I were waiting in line at the grocery store with what seemed like half the town, everyone hungry and wanting to protect themselves from sickness.

It reminds me, too, of the crushing persistent crowds who came to Jesus seeking healing, curious to listen to his teaching and see what he had to say and be part of the wonders he might do in their midst.

As we move into today, the weekend, next week, the rest of 2020, let’s pray for revival—not just for the lost, though certainly that, but also in us. Many are tired and weary.

As the gospel writer observed in Mark 8:1-9:

In those days, when again a great crowd had gathered, and they had nothing to eat, he called his disciples to him and said to them, “I have compassion on the crowd, because they have been with me now three days and have nothing to eat. And if I send them away hungry to their homes, they will faint on the way. And some of them have come from far away.” And his disciples answered him, “How can one feed these people with bread here in this desolate place?” And he asked them, “How many loaves do you have?” They said, “Seven.” And he directed the crowd to sit down on the ground. And he took the seven loaves, and having given thanks, he broke them and gave them to his disciples to set before the people; and they set them before the crowd. And they had a few small fish. And having blessed them, he said that these also should be set before them. And they ate and were satisfied. And they took up the broken pieces left over, seven baskets full. And there were about four thousand people. And he sent them away.

As troubled as the world is, there is enough of Jesus and his abundant grace to go around. With baskets left over. More than enough for us all.

I ask no dream, no prophet ecstasies,
no sudden rending of the veil of clay,
no angel visitant, no opening skies;
but take the dimness of my soul away.

Off My Pedestal by Lorraine Triggs

Forget Queen Victoria or Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, even William Shakespeare. On this trip to London, as a Sunday school curriculum editor at the time, I was intent on finding one statue—that of Robert Raikes, the founder of the modern-day Sunday school movement.  

With a copy of Access London guide in hand, my supportive and directionally savvy husband spotted the statue first—in the shade in the Victoria Embankment Gardens, behind the Savoy. The description on the base read: “Robert Raikes/Founder of Sunday Schools/1780 This statue was erected under the direction of the Sunday School Union by contributions from teachers and scholars of the Sunday Schools in Great Britain.”

I imagined Sunday school teachers encouraging the children to bring in coins to help build the statue; then organizing a field trip to see it. I was thrilled, and somewhere in an old photo album is a picture of me standing in front of the statue. (This above photo of the statue is from the internet, minus me.)

Statues are back in the news again. Whether you like the statues the way they are or want new ones, we want to control who is placed on our pedestals. That’s the problem—flawed people elevating other flawed people to almost god-like statuses. And even when it isn’t about statues, we still like to elevate ourselves.

In Luke 9:28-36, the account of Jesus’ transfiguration has an ordinary beginning, “. . . he [Jesus] took with him Peter and John and James and went up to the mountain to pray.” Then the most extraordinary event takes place: They saw Jesus’ glory. They saw Moses and Elijah “who appeared in glory” talking with Jesus. They saw glory, and well, look how that turned out.

Let’s build tents, three tents. I think Luke was being generous when he described Peter as “not knowing what he said.” (Luke 9:33)

God had the final say in the cloud on top of the mountain, “This is my son, my Chosen One, listen to him!” He is greater than Elijah, greater than Moses. No need for three tents, only one is necessary. But a handful of verses later, the disciples were ready to unpack the other two tents as they argued about which of them was the greatest, which of them deserved the statue, or should I say status. I would have been right in the thick of that argument.

We people are easily impressed by one another−and also easily disappointed by our failings. And as long as we keep our eye focused horizontally, we can imagine, debate, tear down or build up. The only solution I see is to stop looking at each other,look up first and then see one another a little more like Jesus does.

About eight days before the Transfiguration, Jesus said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23) Jesus didn’t say climb up on a pedestal, but take up your cross and follow him. Lose your life to save it. 

There’s one more thing Jesus wants us to take up—his kind yoke and light burden and learn from his gentle and lowly heart for us. He doesn't reject us for carrying around the extra tent or a hard-to-shake sin. He wants to remove our burdens and give us rest for our souls.

Rest from pitching that tent for my idol of the day, rest for that next time I kick the base of my pedestal, tempted to climb back up and rest from trying to earn his grace or prove myself to him.

Jesus sees us as we are, not some idealised version of ourselves that we imagine ourselves or our heroes to be. He not only sees but he loves us exactly as we are. And thereby lies the path to hope and change. The cross and the empty tomb, the words in Scripture are enough, not etched in a monument, but written on our hearts, not by human hands but by the nail-scarred hands of God himself.