Fading Blossoms

There is nothing like Spring in Greensboro, NC, where I live. Although New England owns the Fall, Spring in the south is second to none. The colors of the azaleas, with dogwoods sprinkling a descant above, along with countless plants I cannot name, make me open my eyes in disbelief. I pause near blossoms that offer a scent sweeter than church incense. It’s truly inspirational. Pollen’s yellow film that coats everything seems a small price for such a visual symphony.

But it never lasts.

Slowly the colors fade then turn brown on the ground. Dogwoods eventually look like every other tree, and fragrances blow away. My mind knows the sensations of Spring cannot last, but my heart still grieves. I feel like a child who knows he needs to go back to school after a glorious vacation. Logic can so often spoil a party.

But I’ve always wanted the party to last. It’s what people in 12-step recovery circles call a “character defect.” I want it to always be Spring. I want the colors to always be bright, and the fragrances to always be overwhelming. Like my friend who once said, “I have a disease of more,” I want Spring to be bigger and brighter and last forever.

But one of the hallmarks of a mature faith is accepting the changes in season. I am not just talking about trees and flowers. There are seasons to jobs, relationships, possessions, health . . . the list is endless and always changing. Like a child with his arms around his marbles so the other children can’t get them, I want to hold and protect everything, and everyone, given to me. I want things and people to stay the same.

Yes, everything has a season, the writer of Ecclesiastes tells me, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Beyond poetic acceptance, I need to make peace with the fact that blossoms fade and flowers die. The only way I can do this is trusting in a power greater than I, the creator of all seasons – past, present, and future. This season, this moment, is a gift. Rather that hoard or protect it, I need to open my arms and heart and give thanks for it. Wherever I see blossoms fading, I need to trust there will be others. It’s not easy, nor do I like it, but I accept it, in faith.

Touching Wounds

I have long known about Thomas and his need to be certain, but this Easter he has spoken to me in a new way. For those unfamiliar with Thomas, he was one of Jesus’ disciples who was not with the others when Jesus was made known to them after Easter. He famously said he would not believe Christ was risen unless he touched Jesus’ wounds himself. When reading his story again recently, I was drawn to an important subject: knowing Jesus through touching wounds.

Sometimes I think faith like a mustard seed would be an improvement over the faith I hold. Too often, my mind dominates, and my heart can’t get a word into the conversation. Like Thomas, I want to see things for myself; mystery becomes an uncomfortable proposition. Even though my heart longs to enter into a relationship with God, my mind stands at the gate demanding proof.

To be able to reach out and touch Jesus’ wounds would certainly do the trick, but that’s not possible. However, I realized something the other day which awakened my soul: there are wounds all around me. I have many. My wife and children do, too. My friends have wounds, and I’m sure every person I pass during the day does as well. The question is not whether there are wounds to touch. The question is whether I’ll reach out my hand?

I believe every time I touch a wound, I’m touching Christ’s. It’s how I can know him for myself. It may not be what Thomas had in mind, but it achieves the same purpose.

The Ride Ain’t Free

“The door’s open but the ride ain’t free.” Bruce Springsteen

I am not certain, but I’m pretty sure I was the only one thinking theological thoughts as Bruce Springsteen performed to the sold-out crowd last week. During the captivating rendition of Thunder Road, I heard one of my favorite lines and thought only of the coming of Palm Sunday and how we are asked to consider the cost of discipleship. Yes, the door is open, but the ride ain’t free.

This Sunday, churches throughout the world will gather and lift palm branches as if standing on the roadside two thousand years ago welcoming Christ into Jerusalem. The moment was not a geographic one as much as it was spiritual, and, like them, we are invited to stand beside one another and welcome Jesus into our lives as if for the first time. Through God’s grace, that invitation is given to us all, or, to use the lyrics, the door is open.

The catch is, the ride’s not free. Yes, it’s wonderful to stand with others and celebrate God’s triumphant entrance into the gates of our hearts, but that’s only the beginning of the story. There are lessons to learn, tables to turn, and nothing short of death waiting inside. No wonder churches and people love to skip from Palm Sunday to Easter with little attention to what happened in between.

This week, as I make my way to Jerusalem, I want to think not only of the triumphant entrance, but of the cost of letting Christ enter the “city.” At times, the cost seems too great, but I know that on the other side of the work is an empty tomb and new life.