Our Daily Bread

Our Daily Bread

by | Apr 18, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

Have I ever done a blog series? I don’t know that I have. But I’ve recently finished reading an amazing book called Jesus and the Jewish Roots of the Eucharist* by Brant Pitre, and it has forever changed the way I view communion. Far more, it gave me such a deep understanding of what Christ was really doing when He came to earth to save us. The expectations He was meeting and fulfilling. The way He’d written history to perfectly foreshadow what He knew He was going to do for us.

It’s beautiful. So, so beautiful. And so, naturally, I want to share it with you. As I always do, I’m going to take the lessons I learned not just from the book above, but also from everything else I was reading and doing during the 8-week study I did of the book, which means some of it will be Pitre’s research, some of it will be my own, and all of it, I hope, will make you go “Wow!” just as it did me.

So for the next several weeks, I’m going to look at the different ideas that all work together to give us this beautiful, complex, deep picture. And I’m going to start with the idea of our “daily bread.” (For the record, this isn’t where the book begins. But it’s the thing that has stuck with me the most and where I want to start, LOL.)

Have you ever pondered the repetition of that line of the Lord’s Prayer? Give us this day our daily bread.

Um…this day, our daily…yeah. I’d never really stopped to consider how that was saying the same thing twice. Why doesn’t it just say “give us this day the bread we need”?

Because to the Jews Jesus was talking to, daily bread didn’t just mean “what we need today.” It covered that meaning, sure. But it isn’t all it meant. And in fact, the word used there in the Greek doesn’t have anything to do with the word for day. The Greek word is epiousia, and it actually means “above the natural” or perhaps “super-substantial.” This prayer is inviting us to pray for supernatural bread. And in Jewish history, what was their supernatural, God-delivered, daily bread?

Manna.

So why is Jesus inviting us to beseech God daily for His provision of manna? Why does Jesus talk about the manna in His “bread of life” discourse in John 6?

Because the people of Jesus’s day who were looking for a Messiah had something very specific in mind. They weren’t waiting for just any Messiah. They were waiting for a new Moses. Someone to deliver them not just from oppression, but to true freedom, of spirit as well as politics or physical things. Moses himself prophesied that another would be raised up in his same spirit, and that was exactly what the people of God had been waiting for in the thousands of years between Moses and Jesus.

Why?

Because though they entered the earthly Promised Land, they never fully possessed it. They’d forfeited so much of what the covenant between God and Abraham was supposed to include through their disobedience and sin. They were supposed to be a nation of priests, with each father being the direct line between their families and God Himself.

But they’d instead worshipped the Golden Calf. They’d turned their hearts back to Egypt. Despite the miraculous escape from Egypt and the ways God had met them in the wilderness already, despite the words He had spoken aloud to them as a people, they’d forgotten. They’d sinned. They’d broken the terms of the covenant, and so they were given a new, abbreviated version–one with a lot of rules to follow. No longer would each man be able to go directly to God—only the Levites, who had remained true to the Promise, could do that. The priesthood was gifted only to them.

In another amazing book called A Father Who Keeps His Promises by Scott Hahn, the author goes into fascinating detail about all aspects of the covenant between God and man, and he pays especial attention to the giving of the Law to Moses. Did you know that every single animal God deemed “clean” had been reviled in Egypt? And that every animal that Egyptians included in their rituals of worship or used to represent the gods, God marked as “unclean”? I had never realized that! But it was a total and complete reversal of the ways of Egypt. We today tend to look at His prohibitions from a purely scientific point of view—you know the ones. “Pigs are filthy animals. Lobsters are bottom-feeders. They carry disease and make you unhealthy.” And all that may be true. But it misses a very vital part of the equation.

God wanted His people to completely forget the ways and worship of the Egyptians. He wanted them to be set apart. He didn’t want them to be constantly looking over their shoulders toward Egypt, like Lot’s wife at Sodom. He wanted them to embrace being a people set apart. A people belonging to the One True God and none other. He didn’t want to be a god in a pantheon. He wanted to be the sole ruler of His people’s hearts.

Part of this was taking care of His people during the journey from oppression to freedom, even when that journey took forty years instead of a few weeks thanks to their unfaithfulness and stubbornness and doubt.

Boy, that’s reassuring, isn’t it? Because let’s face it, friends. All of us have short memories. When it’s sweltering in the summer, we don’t remember how cold we were in the winter. When our land is parched and dying, we don’t really care that it was flooded last year. When we’re thirsty, it doesn’t matter if we had water enough to drink two days ago.

We are a people of now. A people of “what have you done for me lately?” A people so quick to forget God’s promises. And even when we remember them, knowing it doesn’t necessitate feeling it.

Yet still God meets us there, in our deserts. He meets us in our doubt. When we cry out, no matter how whiny we may sound, He provides.

When His people cried out for food, He sent them food every day. Bread from heaven in the morning. Quail in the evenings.

Pause for a moment to consider that—the daily miracle. The miracle that was so weird at the start that they named it “what is it?” and yet which they quickly grew so bored of that their complaints brought on a plague.

What daily miracles are we treating with such disdain? What daily bread are we turning our noses up at? What miracles are we not only refusing to believe anymore to be miracles, but do we come to despise?

It’s no coincidence that Jesus both begins and ends His “offensive” speech about the Bread of Life—a clear lesson on what we now call the Lord’s Supper, the Last Supper, Communion, or the Eucharist, depending on our faith background—with talk of manna.

Manna, the “daily bread” given to the people of Israel. Manna, which was “food for the journey.” Manna, which ceased when they entered the Promised Land. Manna, which was given every single morning (except for Sabbath, of course) for forty years. Manna, which tasted like wafers in honey—a foretaste of that Promised Land flowing with milk and honey.

Why did Christ draw the parallel between that daily bread and the bread that is His flesh? Why did He instruct us to pray for it to be given to us “each day”?

Because His flesh—that communion bread—is our sustenance for our journey in this life. Our journey before we reach our Promised Land, which is when we’ll dwell in His courts for eternity. Jesus is our manna. He is our daily bread. He is our supernatural bread. His flesh is food indeed and His blood is drink indeed, that’s what He tells us in John 6. And only those who partake of it—and who believe it—will have eternity with Him.

But there’s a whole lot more to how Jesus brought a new dimension to the Passover, and next week, we’re going to look at that Passover more fully.

In the meantime, I would love to know–what does Holy Communion mean to you? What role does it play in your church or your faith? I will admit that I had a very limited understanding of it for many years…and that it was studying it out that led me to change churches. Because I do believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the wafer and wine. I believe it is a miracle performed daily for us. And I needed a Church that teaches the same.

* Please note that this is an affiliate link. See disclaimer in the footer.

A World of Black and White

A World of Black and White

by | Apr 11, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

I believe in the True. I believe in the Good. I believe in the Beautiful.

I believe that God embodies all these things, and that we partake of them in bits and pieces that are often dim and incomplete, in our humanity.

But a few weeks ago, David and I were talking about the concept of “a black and white world, with no shades of gray,” and it…chafed. Grated.

Let’s be honest. We’ve all heard this argument, especially in faith communities, right? We see the world around us, the society that not only makes excuses for what we deem sin, but which embraces it; a culture that creates its own definitions of good that sometimes have nothing to do with God’s definition, and which often directly contradict it. We sense the wrongness of it in our spirits, and we want to name it for what it is.

Knowing our own consciences, knowing God’s definitions is CRUCIAL. Important. Something to be pursued.

But…as I pondered a black and white world, one with no shades of gray, I couldn’t help but look around me at the world through which we were walking as we talked–the world with fresh green buds on the trees, with the first daffodils poking their yellow yeads up through spring-green stalks. I couldn’t help but see the blue sky and the red cardinal winging by, the first tiny purple flowers nestled along the path, the way the clouds streaked orange and pink as the sun set lower.

And I sensed a deeper truth. God did not create a world of either black and white or shades of gray.

God created a world of rich, vibrant color.

What does this mean in terms of right and wrong? I think we might we be surprised. I think it means that He gave us laws and then makes exceptions–exceptions that are often touted as the most righteous.

God detests a lying tongue…but the midwives in Egypt were praised for lying to Pharaoh to protect the innocent lives he wanted to destroy.

God called lepers and bleeding women unclean, but Jesus not only touched and healed both, He praised their faith in stepping forward.

God set the Sabbath up as the very first thing to be observed, even before the Law was given to Moses, and Jesus shows us that doing good, doing the work of God on the Sabbath was never what the Lord meant for us to refuse to do on that holy day.

Jesus shows us a world of depth. Of nuance. Of color. Color that is lit entirely by love. When we see the world through His Light, we get the full spectrum–and know that there are parts of it still beyond our human eyes, right? In ranges we can’t quite conceive. We know that sometimes, when we use His love, His light with the right prism, it fractures into a rainbow of richness we’d never imagined was there.

Black and white as representations of right and wrong is an analogy that is simple and understandable…but it’s also misleading, I think. Because it looks at the rule instead of the person. It looks at the letter instead of the love. God set down a LOT of rules and laws, yes…but He also said the ones that should govern everything are to love Him above all, and to love our neighbors.

When you love your neighbors as yourself, there’s room for grace. There’s room for mercy. Take as an example the parable of the servant who was forgiven a huge debt by his master but then refused to show mercy to his fellow servant for a small debt. He was within his legal rights–his moral rights–to demand that repayment. In terms of black and white, that was clear. But Jesus invites us to see more than those stark shades, doesn’t He? He invites us to ask, “But how would I want to be treated?”

Even in questions of morality. Even in questions of right and wrong. There is a right and wrong, yes. Absolutely. But how we react to it doesn’t need to be so stark. How we react ought to be to draw out the prism of His love and see how the Light sheds new light upon it. To see the red of the bleeding heart before us. To see the blue of despair in the person desperate to find their place in the world. To see the bright yellow of a joy that shouldn’t just be snuffed out, to see the green of tender growth that needs to be nourished, not stomped on. To see the purple of penitent souls and the orange of the fire for justice blazing hot within them.

We need to see the people, not just their actions. We need to see the motivation and the need and the yearning, not just the political stance. We need to see the colors, my friends, not just the black and white image.

Because when we see the world only in black and white, it’s so easy to lose our focus. And worse, it’s so easy to be deceived. Did you know that in old black and white movies, they discovered that the best way to convey makeup and clothing colors were often to use the opposite? “Red” lips were made using a green lipstick. If you saw the shots in color, you’d be horrified! But in black and white, that nice deep green conveys red better than red did.

How ironic is that? And yet, how often do we fall prey to the same thing in life? How often does harshness seem to convey the love of God better than gentleness? How often does hating our enemies seem “purer” than trying to see their point of view? How often do we prefer to stay “apart from the things of this world” rather than try to redeem them?

But friends, we don’t serve a God of black and white. We do serve a God who separated the Light from the Darkness…but He did so by creating light that is NOT white. It’s color. It’s every color. It’s every shade. It’s ultra-colors that our human eyes cannot perceive. It’s red and orange and yellow and green, it’s blue and indigo and violet. It’s more than those.

So next time we ponder what’s right and what’s wrong, I hope that we can look at it not just through a lens, but through a prism. I hope we can see that, yes, there is a Truth and a Goodness and Beauty, but within that blinding White Truth, there is nuance. There is color.

There is always, always room for grace, and for mercy…and for Love.

The Constant Plank

The Constant Plank

by | Apr 4, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

“How can you say to your brother, `Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” ~ Matthew 7:4-5

 

A couple weeks ago, my husband David shared a quote from one of his favorite podcasts, the Art of Accomplishment. I’m probably going to mutilate the original (sorry, Joe), but it went something like this:

Keeping an open mind doesn’t just mean listening to someone else and not trying to find what’s wrong with their argument. Keeping an open mind means searching for what’s wrong in your own.

 I believe my response was something along the lines of “Wow. Huh. That’s…that’s really good.”

It’s also really hard.

And you know what else it is? Really Scriptural. Really what Jesus tells us to do.

Here’s the thing about that thing He says to the Pharisees in Matthew 7…it sounds really obvious, like they should know they have a PLANK in their eye–I mean, if you get a big ol’ chip of wood in your eye, you notice, right?!

Generally, yes. But our “planks” aren’t always made of wood. Sometimes they’re more like cataracts, or like vision that has changed over time. Sometimes they’re something so ever-present that we get used to them. Sometimes we just don’t know that we’re not seeing clearly.

Do you wear glasses? Do you remember that time you went to the eye doctor, and it had been too long or your eyes had changed a lot? Do you remember when he or she put the right lenses in front of you through those little goggle things? Can you hear yourself in your memory? I bet you said something like this: “Whoa! That’s what it’s supposed to look like? I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten!”

To the doctor who just heard us bumble through those letter or shape charts, our problem is no secret. It’s very clear to them that we can’t tell an E from an F from a chicken. But us? We think we’re just fine. We think they started us off on “the hard one.” We think that all’s well in the world and we’re seeing clearly, just like we always were.

But we’re not. And we don’t know if we’re not unless we’re keeping up with those health-checks or paying attention to our senses. We don’t know unless we try to know, many times. We don’t know until we either see what it’s supposed to be, or someone we recognize as having authority and wisdom tells us so.

Jesus wasn’t just talking to the Pharisees that day, though. He was talking to all of us. Because we are all so quick to see the flaws in someone else’s argument, even if they’re small; we are so quick to look for reasons to disagree with people we don’t like or who are opposed to our views. We are so quick to judge. And even when we check that, when we say, “I won’t point out their speck of dust or try to remove it,” that’s not enough, is it?

Jesus didn’t just say, “Don’t try to remove their speck when you have a plank in your eye.” He said, “First remove the plank from your own eye.”

First, identify your own faults. Your own flaws. Your own skewed vision. Notice it’s there, and then dig it out. Look for where you’re wrong.

In the book I’ll soon be turning in to my editor, The Library of Burned Books, one of the big themes is censorship–the worst possible kind, the kind that is self-selected. Because the German book burning and bannings were not government-led, they were demanded by the people. A people who had decided they didn’t want to engage with certain ideas anymore. Who deliberately purged those ideas from their culture. A tyranny of the people, of the social consciousness, is a powerful, deadly thing. And something we’re seeing today.

But the answer isn’t as simple as “don’t.” The answer is “do the opposite.” My hero puts it this way (we’ll see if it remains as quoted here, LOL, but as of right now…):

“Read things you hate and things you love and things you never thought you’d understand, and never, never accept the excuse that it’s not for you. That you’re not smart enough or deep enough or strong enough to handle it if you read something that offends you. You are. You’re strong enough to admit where you’re wrong and then to grow. You’re strong enough to be offended and then try to understand why. You’re strong enough to grant that someone can be different and still be worthy of dignity. And if you aren’t?” He slammed one more book onto the stack. “Then read more, until you are.”

The only way to remove the plank is to identify it. And the only way to identify it is to look. And the only way to look is to engage with other ideas, compare them to your own, to approach your every belief with care and speculation and introspection. To assume nothing. No, wait–to assume you don’t have it all right. Because I promise, you don’t. I believe 100% that God’s Word is Truth…but I also know that I fail in my understanding of it. I know Christ was enough–but I know I do a lousy job of accepting it. I know the Spirit will provide the answers–but I know I don’t always listen.

What would happen if we took that form of humility though? What would happen if we approached each debate, each conversation, each argument with that perspective? What would happen if we didn’t shy away from being wrong but REJOICED when we found where we were blind, so that we could remove it?l

We wouldn’t all just have open minds. We’d have open hearts. Full hearts. Hearts overflowing with love.

Lord, show me today the plank I have left in my eye.

The Lamb in the House

The Lamb in the House

by | Mar 28, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

“Tell the whole community of Israel: On the tenth of this month every family must procure for itself a lamb, one apiece for each household. 4 If a household is too small for a lamb, it along with its nearest neighbor will procure one, and apportion the lamb’s cost in proportion to the number of persons, according to what each household consumes. 5 Your lamb must be a year-old male and without blemish. You may take it from either the sheep or the goats. 6 You will keep it until the fourteenth day of this month, and then, with the whole community of Israel assembled, it will be slaughtered during the evening twilight.” ~ Exodus 12:3-6

David and I are participating in a study of the book Jesus and the Jewish Roots of the Eucharist for Lent. It’s a fascinating look at what the original Passover and Exodus was, what it had evolved to be for the Jews by the time Jesus walked the earth, and how He purposefully modeled His ministry to be the NEW Exodus, with the NEW Passover (or perhaps purposefully set up the “original” to foreshadow, since we know He’s the author of all).

There are so many fascinating historical details in this book, so many “Ohhhhh!” moments I’ve already had in the three weeks and three chapters. But today I want to focus on one little detail of the original Passover narrative.

One little detail that I’ve noticed before but had never really paused to fully think through.

“You will keep it until the fourteenth day of this month…”

So on the 10th of the month they select a lamb and they “keep it” until the 14th.

How do you suppose each family kept the lamb, when they were living in a city? For that matter, how would each one “keep it” when they were in the wildness, after they’d selected it? What did this “keeping” entail?

It meant that they took the lamb into their house (or tent or dwelling, whatever the case may be). It meant they lived with that lamb for four days. It meant that they fed it and gave it water, and that the children probably petted it and played with it (because we all know what happens when kids and small animals meet, right?). It means that this people who identified as shepherds–who took care of their lambs, who would go off in search of the one that had strayed, who would fight lions and other wild beasts to keep these lambs safe…they gave very preferential treatment to this beautiful, perfect, spotless lamb.

They made it, for four days, a part of their family.

And then they sacrificed it.

Just pause for a moment. Let that sink in. And ask yourself WHY God, through Moses, commanded this.

Why did He tell them to choose the best of their herd? Why did He tell them to keep it for four days? Why couldn’t that part happen on the day of Passover?

Because this lamb wasn’t just giving its life for their food. Not even just as what would become normal offerings throughout the year. This lamb was literally saving the life of their firstborn. A direct trade–its life for his. The blood of this lamb told the Angel of Death “Don’t stop here.” It marked that house as belonging to God.

It was supposed to hurt.

It was supposed to be hard to kill that lamb.

It was supposed to cost them something.

It was supposed to make them pause and consider how important this was. How much it meant. What belonging to God demanded and gave. It was supposed to matter.

And let’s note that God gave the instructions not just for that FIRST Passover, but as what should be done every year. That same process for the lamb, yes–but also the instructions for what to say. Every year, even thousands of years later in the time of Christ, the father of every household said these words, when the child asked why they observed the feast: “It is because of what the Lord did FOR ME when I came forth out of Egypt.” (Emphasis mine, Exodus 13:8.)

Even from the beginning God was setting in motion a ritual that would make certain each new generation experienced this miracle anew. That each one understood how serious it was.

Christ set up the same instruction for us, with the Last Supper. He told us, too, to eat His flesh just as the Israelites had to eat that lamb they had sacrificed. Why? Because only His blood will save us from ultimate Death. Only His blood marks us as belonging to God.

So…what about those days, then? What about taking the lamb into the house? What’s the parallel for us today, as Christians, who don’t bring in a literal sheep or goat?

How are you taking Jesus into your house in the days leading up to the Paschal celebration? How are you dwelling with Him? How are you drawing closer and closer, so that when you relive the events of those three miraculous, earth-shattering, history-changing days, it hits you anew, as if you were there in Jerusalem for the Last Supper? As if you were there on the hill of Golgotha?

This is why the season of Lent has been part of the church for so long. Not just four days, but forty. Forty days to grow closer to your Savior. Forty days to invite Him anew into your house. Forty days to make Him a part of your meals, part of your conversations, part of your prayers, part of your daily life in a new, deeper way. Forty days to remind yourself of how He is your friend, your brother, your King, your rabbi, your everything.

Because then, when you look anew on the cross, it will be real to you. Then, when you take the bread and the cup, you’ll remember what it cost. Then, when you explain to your children or grandchildren or your own stubborn heart why we observe this same thing year after year, you’ll know the answer.

“It is because of what the Lord did for me when He went to Calvary, when I came forth out of sin and into true life.”

Bring the Lamb into your house this year, friends. And lavish love upon Him. Because we need to remember what our salvation cost.

The Praise and Faith of Despair

The Praise and Faith of Despair

by | Mar 7, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

A couple weeks ago I received two beautiful books as a gift. Sheltering Mercy and Endless Grace by Ryan Whitaker Smith and Dan Wilt. These are poetic responses to the Psalms, from a Christ-centric point of view. The work itself is beautiful–highly recommened. But it was actually the introduction of Sheltering Mercy that got me thinking.

In the introduction, the authors make a statement. They say that ALL the Psalms are praise.

Now, if you’re like me, you’ve tended to put the Psalms into different categories–some are praise, some are lament, some are a cry for help. When we think of praise, we think of joyful singing (even when it’s a sacrifice). And we all know that some of the psalms are full of complaints. Full of at-my-wit’s-end. Full of despair.

Is that praise?

The authors call this “the praise of the forgotten. The destitute. the fearful. The guilty.” They go on to say that we serve the God of the distraught, not just the God of the joyful.

And that settled deep in my spirit and stayed with me, especially as I was reading a novel in which the young heroine kept crying out, “Are you there, God?” I’ll admit that her constant refrain was driving me crazy in the story because she had just heard His voice. But as my reading friends reminded me (we’re reading this one together in a sub-group of my Patrons & Peers), don’t we all do that? We turn so quickly from assurance to doubt. So quickly from joy to despair.

You know what? He’s still our God.

When we’re in those positions–as we all are at some point in our lives–our praise is simply acknowledging that God is the only one who can help. We are praising Him with our despair. With our desperation. With our lack…by offering it to Him.

Even the very question of that fictional heroine who was frustrating me–are you there, God?–is, in fact, an act of faith. If we didn’t believe it on some level, we wouldn’t ask.

You’re never going to hear me crying out, “Are you there, Easter Bunny? Can you help?”

No. Even when we’re upset, when we can’t see the goodness, when we don’t understand why things have happened, when we’re angry at God, when we can’t forgive Him for the things that have happened, when we just don’t have energy for faith, when we’re so overburdened by loss or grief or pain or numbness, depression or anxiety or exhaustion or sickness…we know to whom to cry. Even if it’s in anger. Even if it’s in despondence. Even if it’s in despair.

I’d never before paused to consider that lesson that Psalms give us–that it’s not only okay to cry to God with all of that…THAT IS FAITH. Pouring out all our complaints…THAT IS FAITH. Questioning God like we’d question our own family–“Are you even listening to me??”–THAT IS FAITH.

Because that is saying, “I don’t even know who you are right now–but I know THAT you are, and I know you’re supposed to be the one to help me.” It’s saying, “I can’t take any more, so I’m trusting you to take it for me.” It’s saying, “I feel like you’re ignoring me, Lord–but I’m still calling you Lord.”

That’s what David did. What the other psalmists did. And those examples have been preserved for us because we NEED TO KNOW that praise isn’t all joy. Praise isn’t all happiness. Praise isn’t all worshiping on the mountaintop.

Praise is crying out from the pits of despair. Praise is shouting in rage. Praise is curling up in a ball and begging Him to make it go away. Praise is acknowledging that we just don’t understand.

Now, this isn’t the part of faith or praise we want to be in. It’s not the part we strive for. But we’ll pass through it–all of us, at some point or another. And it’s important that we remember these parts of our journey toward the Father, through the Son, with the Spirit are good. They will deliver us to the other side. They teach us that faith, in those times, is crying out, not going silent. As long as we’re still communicating, then we’re still clinging.

I hope and pray that you’re in a mountaintop season. That your praise is joyful. But maybe you’re not–and it’s not. Maybe you’re struggling right now, in one way or another. Maybe you feel the comfort of the Lord through it all, or maybe you’re angry with Him, can’t sense Him, or feel like He’s abandoned you. Maybe you feel like God has gone silent or is far away–even though you know the words that say otherwise.

Knowing isn’t feeling.

David knew. David knew God was not far off. But he still cried out and asked, “How long are you going to make me wait, God?”

Cry out. Shout. Sing. Scream. Cry out to God with those doubts, with that anger, with that despair. Offer it to Him.

And that will be your praise. That will be your worship. And it will be enough.

Why Do I Love You?

Why Do I Love You?

by | Feb 14, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

There’s a famous poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning called “How Do I Love Thee?” You’ve probably read it. But if it’s been a while, here’s a quick refresher of this beautiful, short poem (which is in the public domain):

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

You know what I love about this poem? That it doesn’t try to explain why she loves Robert. It doesn’t enumerate his good qualities or how she feels in his presence. It doesn’t talk about the way her heart goes pitter-patter when he smiles at her. It’s not about the why. It’s about the how.

And there’s something so very true about that approach to love, isn’t there? Because we rarely know why we love someone. We just know that we do. We know how it changes us, inspires us. We know how it creates life within our existence.

I am so incredibly blessed to have a husband who tells me many times a day that he loves me. Many times a day, he’ll just look over at me say, “You’re so pretty. How are you so pretty?” Or “I love just looking at you.” I mean, I’m no supermodel. And he usually says it when my hair’s still wet from the shower or a mess from bed. But when I get ready for the day and walk out–which I do most days even when I’m staying home to work, he’ll comment on that too. He’ll tell me how nice I look, how beautiful I am, how lucky he is.

And when I return the sentiments, this man I love so much will sometimes say, “I don’t know why. I mean, everyone should love you. I don’t know why you love me.” It’s become part of the dialogue, part of the script, part of the game. And over the years, my answer has changed. Sometimes it’s teasing, sometimes it’s ooey-gooey. But lately…lately I’ve settled on what I deem the truth. “I love you because you’re you. I love you because you’re my hunny.”

That’s what love is. We don’t just love the things someone does, the words they say, the way they look. We love them. And when we love the core of a person–the place from which all those other things flow–that’s when love roots deep. When it gets at the kind of love God has for us. Our Lord doesn’t love us because we pray or sing or come to church. He loves us. First. Because we are His. Because we are us. And then all those other things…those rise up and overflow from that love. Because He loves us, we learn how to love Him. And when we love Him–not for the things He does or the Words He says, or the way He appears, but for who He is…then our faith becomes unshakable too. Because our faith is just our love for Him.

I certainly didn’t love my babies because they’d done anything right or were great people the moment they were born. I loved them before they were ever even put in my arms because they were them. I didn’t know who that was yet. But I knew they were. And they were mine. Just like David. Just like the family I was born into. Just like my Lord.

On Valentine’s Day, we might give a gift to our special someone (or even many special someones, if you have kids!). We might plan a nice dinner or put on nice clothes. We might try to look our best for them. But if that doesn’t happen this year, you know what? It’s important to remember that those things aren’t part of the why. We don’t love people because they take us out to dinner. We don’t love them because they remember to buy cards. We love them because they’re them. We love them because we can trust them to love us for being us. All those outward things…yes, they can be an indicator of that soul-deep love. But they’re not always. They don’t have to be. People can take all the right actions and not have the right heart. People can have the right heart and not know the actions you want them to take.

Today, this month, this year, let’s not focus on the why. Not in our own lives, and not in other people’s. Let’s not ask why they love the people they do. Let’s praise God for the beauty of love that exists without reason. Love that exists because we do. Love that provides the strength, provides the goodness, provides the words and actions.

Let’s smile, because we know that the answer that may sound like a cop-out is actually the truest answer of all. Why do I love you? Because you are you.

Cart
Checkout - $0.00
  • 0
  • 1