Renewed

Spring has come.

The earliest blossoms I saw are minute blue flowers. Pale and soft baby blue, perfectly formed, every one. Gradating in the same pattern: three blue petals and a singular white-spotted one. Beside the river from among the winter yellow grasses they spring, so every trek beside shallow water rife with Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets, and ducks large and brown, mallards with brilliant blue heads and tiny wood ducks, every step with downcast eyes finds the evidence of rebirth. These blue babes birth in the New Season.

The first fragrance I smelled came on a warm breeze. Sweet, welcome and surprising as chocolate chips in oatmeal. Magnolias, brilliantly pure and spread like dancer’s skirts. Their thick, hardy petals scented somewhere close to vanilla. Most lovely at night when their moonbeam hue opposes the sapphire dusk.

Forsythia spreads yellow sunshine along river and streets. Cheery, bold, and brass against the monotonous winter brambles. The famous cherry blossoms uphold their reputation as the Glory of the Season. Bursting forth in snowy cascades, softening the queerly spiny branches of their sooty stems. They now adorn the streets as pearls and quartz, ever decreasing the dreary winter palette.

And in park and forest, where russet and charcoal crowd in the austere dark green of conifers, magenta Rhododendron flashes: a color not to be ignored.

Friday I retreated to the forest, unintentionally. My plan was to complete a trail only ever begun. So commenced under impressive April sun, quickly sweating off my first layer, feet faithfully setting onto the intended trail, and promptly setting off again to a curious ascent winding out of sight. There brown and green enclosed me and the city faded blue behind. But those cheeky  magenta rhododendron met me every few feet, waving as genial neighbors calling salutations from their front yards.

It was quiet. City sounds were replaced by shifting breezes and gentle birdsong--food for my weary soul.

Then there came an audacious rustling of leaves as I crested an arduous rise. Expecting perhaps a squirrel or a particularly raucous jay, instead my roving eyes found the deer.

Little, with diamond-ears and so short I thought of a rabbit, tawny brown as the leaves around her. She picked her dainty way onto the trail ahead of me, the breeze acting in my favor, blowing away my trace. So I watched her with a smile, our distance respectful.

But after a moment the overwhelming influence of my generation made me reach for my phone and align her in the camera’s frame. She promptly stepped off the path and was lost to sight among the brambles. A lady always knows when to leave.

I haven’t been much of a lady lately.

These past months I’ve acted on whims and given little thought to consequence. I’ve been brash, callous and selfish and embarrassingly responsible for a lot of heartbreak and stress. These months have shined light on the shadows of doubt of my maturity; I’m not nearly as wise and discerning as I thought.

Those who love me with the loyal love of ages offer comfort, urging me not to blame myself. They say we should spread the fault among other parties. Perhaps there is fault to be shared, and blame is not often accurately placed—but I know that I did wrong. Whether others should share in my penance is not for me to say: I can only admit my own selfishness and bow my head with shame, repeating steady as the tears: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

So these past weeks have been a show of Grace.

Grace as lovely and as unexpected as the dainty steps of that deer. As rounding another brown corner of the trail to see an orchard open before me: a distant greening hill lit with snowy cherry blossoms.

Grace as powerful and comforting as the afternoon sunshine shot with ruffling breezes. I’ve been as overwhelmed by grace as I have by the sudden onset of spring.

My life has been a stream of sins and disappointing actions that let down peers, teachers, friends, family, and especially my Father. I’ve done some good things to bring comfort or joy, and maybe there have been enough good deeds to cancel out most of the mistakes.

At least, that was my thinking.

We are taught from Sunday School single digits that salvation cannot be earned, that we are sinners black as coal that need washing red with blood to be made white as snow (what is black and white and red all over?), and we church-goers profess understanding that good deeds are the product of faith but not our measure of worth. So often we repeat this adage—but do we believe it?

Perhaps not.

Because we live in a world where love must be earned.

We earn love through performance and deliberation, through gifts and compliments. We expend every effort we can to earn that love. Love fulfills us.

When love is not earned we are perplexed, depressed and defeated.

Despite everything, sometimes we cannot earn love. Unrequited we quit. Even one unreturned affection is devastating. Our failure is complete.

Many Christians strive to earn God’s love.

We perform acts of service, attend events, arrive early and stay late to set up and clean up, cook extra, sing loudly and pay our tithes. We give our time and our money and our talents.

Yet we still worry. We still pray with tears and trembling hands. We still sing the words “wretch like me” with emphasis. We know we are still not good enough.

Then we make a mistake. We blunder, create problems too big to handle, watch our decision spread like venomous ripples to harm others, even those we care for.

That’s when we know we’ve failed utterly. We’ve definitely lost God’s love.

How can we ever earn it back?

Several weeks ago I listened to a sermon called “Stupid Love.”

The title made us all chuckle, and most of us agreed that love is nonsensical and unpredictable. Can’t control who you love. Love makes you do silly things.

But the accompanying story wasn’t about romance. It didn’t tell the foibles of some smitten boy or some desperate woman. Rather, it told of a man’s hindered pursuit of God.

Attending a pastoral training, he set about to grow closer to God.

He planned time for prayer, Scripture reading, and worship through song.

While praying one day, he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop praying.”

Bewildered but convicted, he ceased his prayer.

A few days later he was reading the Bible, faithfully abstaining from prayer.

While reading he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop reading.”

Bewildered, disappointed, but convicted, he ceased his reading.

A few days later he was singing praise, faithfully abstaining from prayer and Scripture reading, grateful that he had this one outlet left to God. He especially loved singing.

While singing he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop singing.”

Agonized but convicted he ceased singing.

A few days later he was in a prayer room surrounded by cheerful peers, other believers who had experienced break-through, special communion with God that pushed them deeper into their faith. There was joy and progress.

He was miserable.

Wrestling with the bizarre and confining commands he’d heard, his temper rose and he threw his Bible across the room. He stormed out.

A few days later he was still in anguish.

While fuming and trying to hold in his misery and confusion, he heard God speak clearly.

“Now do you understand?”

He listened.

“Do you understand why I had you stop praying, stop reading the Bible, and stop singing?”

He kept listening.

“Even if you don’t do any of those things, I still love you.”

He kept listening, astonishment replacing the misery.

“No matter what you do, I will love you.”

He was speechless, astounded and perhaps still anguished, but anguished over his previous anger. Anguished over his past mistakes and his own lack of merit.

I know I was, I am.

Stupid love.

Love undeserved, unwarranted, even often unwanted.

God’s love pours out for us constantly. We ignore it or even run from it. We turn to anything, everything, for comfort, but reject the only true solution to our lonely brokenness.

We just cannot fathom a love that is not earned.

This Sunday I listened to another sermon about love.

This one was called “Love is Verb,” and cited Romans 12, verses 9 through 21, where Paul outlines actions of love, and actions not of love. The verses are impossible. We are ordered to bless our enemies, to bless our persecutors: to sincerely pray for God’s favor on those intentionally hurting us. This is beyond tolerance or even forgiveness: this is affirmative action on our enemies’ behalf. Enemies who hate and harm us without just cause.

We are called to love like Jesus.

But Jesus was perfect.

With God’s power he loved and loves us. He asked pardon for his torturers and demanded no apology from his friends who abandoned him, denied him in his time of desperate need.

He took the thief, the prostitute, the life-long sinner, the pinnacle of mistakes and selfishness, he took them in and loved them as he loved the righteous, those who spent their lives serving others.

Jesus told the famed story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). Here we see a breath-taking example of God’s love for his errant children, running to meet them when they look for Him, and serving up the best of His house for their undeserved comfort.

Lesser discussed is the elder brother of the wayward son. He stays at home, obedient and hard-working. He labors in his father’s fields and makes no demands. He is angry at the injustice done to his father, and understandably bewildered when his ill-behaved little brother is treated so well upon his return.

This elder brother stews in his wrath outside while in the house there is a celebratory feast for the brother previously lost to the world.

The father begs his elder son to join the party, to understand his joy at regaining his son—they should celebrate together. But the elder son is obstinate.

Why should he not have been so well-treated all this time he was obedient. Why should we not have preferential treatment for our good works? Why should God bestow such generosity upon the bad people of the world, those who murder, who rape, who steal, who worship in cults, who do drugs, who drink, who sleep around, who pirate music, who go over the speed limit, who don’t tithe every month, who have wine at dinner, who talk badly of their neighbor, who don’t spend hours in fasting and prayer….

Of course we are all sinners. We are all bad people in need of grace. Even Jesus said no one is good but God. Despite the impressive number of good works we may do, we still accumulate a disastrous, maleficent impressive number of sins: selfish impulses, unkindnesses, rude comments, lies, thefts, betrayals and all their dirty kin.

Fortunately for us, God keeps no record of our sin (Psalm 130:3). He graces us every day with new mercy and a fresh chance to make better choices (Lamentations 3:22-23). He uses our every blunder to demonstrate His glory (. And no matter that tally of black marks, He never loves us less.

Stupid love. Stupid love without explanation or rationale. Stupid love as overwhelming as the beauty of spring, as invigorating, revitalizing and breathtaking.

The same Artist who designed each minute blue petal of those perfectly gradated riverside flowers, who added purple sheen to the magpie’s feathers, who sculpted the heron’s neck to that graceful S-curve, who tinted the cherry blossoms bashful pink and who daily paints the sky for sheer delight—this same magnificent Artist paints our souls fresh.

Despair is impossible under the boughs of a cherry tree dropping blossoms to the breeze like snow, outlining the blue sky above and scenting the air with sweetness.

Rather the encompassing beauty of this renewed world is further reminder of God’s grace.

I have made mistakes, I’ve acted badly, unladylike and graceless, but for no reason I have been forgiven.

For the ashes of my culpability, I’ve been given beauty.

For my mourning, I’ve been given joy (Isaiah 61:3).

Stupid love.

So now there is nothing left to say but Thank You. To sing out my praises of gratitude and look forward to the future sunshine.

There is rain today, typical of spring time; many delicate blossoms have been knocked down from their limbs and now lie crushed on the sidewalk.

Thank God we are not cherry blossoms.

When we are knocked down and trodden on, we may feel crushed, but we are not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:8-9). Our lives are not so brief or so simple. They are complex and heartrending and anguished with torrential rains, tornadoes and hailstorms. They are also rife with balmy sunshine, fragrance, and insurmountable love: stupid love.

So I, with the graceful, generous aid of loving hands around me, have picked myself up off the concrete and will start my trek anew.

Thank you, God. I will do better next time.

“You take our failure, you take our weakness, you put your treasure in jars of clay. So take this heart, LORD, I’ll be your vessel: the world to see your light in me.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see. I can see You now, I can see the love in your eyes. Laying yourself down, raising up the broken to life.”~  “Broken Vessels” Hillsong United