It So Happened...

"It so happened..."

The words caught my eye this morning like a glint in the grass on a sunny day. "It so happened..." Flippant, really. Casual. Like the person telling the story was holding a cup of coffee and looking over his shoulder at the action in the street. Nothing remarkable here.

And that's what made it remarkable to me.

I was reading this passage from Luke 1:8-12 in the Message:

"It so happened that as Zachariah was carrying out his priestly duties before God, working the shift assigned to his regiment, it came his one turn in life to enter the sanctuary of God and burn incense. The congregation was gathered and praying outside the Temple at the hour of the incense offering. Unannounced, an angel of God appeared just to the right of the altar of incense."

"It so happened" started the rhythm as I read. "It so happened...carrying out his duties...working the shift assigned..."
If this were a movie, there would be no blockbuster beginning. When an angel of God appears and tells Zachariah that he will be a part of heralding the in-breaking of God's kingdom on earth, what is he doing? 
His job. The duties given to him. The shift assigned to him. It just so happened...
At the precipice of the Messiah exploding into the human experience, Elizabeth and Zachariah are living their lives together, honorably, carefully, obediently, and NORMALLY.


I had just read of Zachariah and his wife, Elizabeth, in the paragraph above it: " Together they lived honorably before God, careful in keeping to the ways of the commandments and enjoying a clear conscience before God" (Luke 1:5-7, MSG). 

That gives hope to us mamas who's floors look like this:

Those of us with bruised knees and babies with fevers and oatmeal on the floor...again. Those of us working behind computers or behind fast-food counters or behind pulpits. Those of us bending over student's shoulders, or lawnmowers, or elderly loved ones.

The beauty of the stage being set for Jesus to arrive on earth is that the kingdom of God can break in when we are doing the duties, assignments, and daily life given to us, whether it be mundane or headline-making. God, it seems, is oblivious to counters that look like this:

and prone to start his greatest stories in the hearts of those living quiet, faithful lives and enjoying a clear conscience before Him. 

The second thing that caught my heart's attention was Zachariah's job on the day he found out he'd be padre to THE Prophet. He was burning incense. 

The New Testament has wisps of this incense wafting through its pages: 

"Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God." (Ephesians 5:1-2, NIV)

"...The gifts you sent. They are a fragrant offering, an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God." (Philippians 4:18, NIV)

"For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing" (2 Corinthians 2:15). 

Our lives, our quiet lives of obedience to Jesus, service to those around us, faithfulness in sacrifice and in love, are our incense offering to God. 

If we keep offering our ordinary selves, we might find ourselves like Zachariah, with a message from Heaven in the midst of our mundane, glory right beside us where we never expected it to appear. 

May more whispers of a coming kingdom come where we find ourselves, "it so happens," to be. May we be faithful, ordinary "wide-eyed in wonder and belief" (Luke 11:33, MSG).  

On Pinholes and Feasts...

I've been a woman walking with eyes burned gray these past few days. 

You see, I've been staring at the sun. 

When I'm hurting or bored or tired senseless, I begin gazing. At first, it always seems harmless. Looking backward, processing emotions, naming frustrations, pinpointing causes for the anger or restlessness or sadness I feel.

 Like the sun, these reflections are helpful: they shed light on places I still need healing, illuminate losses I've yet to process with Jesus, bring why and how I'm feeling into sharper focus so those I love can better help me. 

However, when they are all that fill my view, the burning begins. The flash can be beautiful, mesmerizing even, but all of the sudden, when I look at my life, there's the black dot afterimage that mars the beauty right in front of me. 

That black dot tells me I've looked too long and deep back and inside and everywhere except at the One person and his thousand gifts. 

I've struggled this week with perspective:

The sticky floors have seemed like mire. The air conditioner like a train's rush as I tried to sneak some peace on a back porch that is decidedly not like this country-girl's home. The past like a table of medals for each way I've been wounded or lost something in the fight.

I was so entranced by the shimmering shards of each sacrifice I'VE made that I didn't notice my hands bleeding from constantly pouring them between my hands.

I am not supposed to keep holding them.

I'm supposed to give them up, stand back slack-jawed at the mosaic I've GAINED by His marvelous grace.

This morning Elisa and I had a quiet morning as daddy had a meeting early, one of the many reasons I cried angry the night before. I spread her toys out on top of her bed so I could keep lying down until it was at least light out. As I watched her sweet profile, He whispered these words: for the joy set before Him. 

I remembered the rest of the verse: For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame... (Hebrews 12:2 NIV). 

If Jesus had focused on the cross, on the sacrifice only, on the pain and confusion and loss and disappointment, would he have been able to complete his mission? What did he hang onto when life was excruciatingly hard? The joy set before him. 

I know there are probably commentaries and translators and all that jazz that would tell you exactly what "set before" means but this morning, looking at our smorgasbord of toys, I couldn't help but think of a feast. 

If I focus on the cross I'm called to bear, the sacrifice only, on the pain and confusion and loss and disappointment, I will go blind every time. If I focus on the nourishment of his love, the decadent array of beauty and delight and sweetness he's given me, especially in this face right here: 

I can endure any drudgery or sacrifice by His side. 

It's like looking at the sun through a pinhole projector (remember those from elementary school eclipse days?) If you looked at how the sun filtered through the pinhole in the cardboard box, you could view it without your eyes being damaged, watch it in it's burning without being burned yourself. 

If I view my past, my current to-do list, my sacrifices for my God and my family through the holes in His wrists, the joy I have in being loved and sacrificed for, I can view them without damaging myself or those I love. 

God wrapped up this story beautifully for me at breakfast. Elisa and I were eating oatmeal at the table with the radio on in the living room. In our bedroom, the alarm clock went off, another radio station blaring. 

From two rooms these two songs: In one room, "rumor has it. Rumor has it. Rumor has it" (Adelle) In our room, "...come to me when you're weary, and I'll give you hope when you're hurting, I'll give you rest from your burden" (from Jamie Grace's "Come to Me"). The two songs dueled for my attention.

There lies my choice: the whisper, the rumor that Eve heard that God was not enough and was holding back on her and the promise of the Savior that he will help us endure all things for the love-feast joy of his hope, presence, and rest. 

We finished our literal oatmeal feast to this: 

"Because my heart

Sometimes can wanderAnd my faithat times can strayBut I knowThat when I fix my eyes on YouThat I will always remainSafe in the shadows of Your
Grace..." (Building 429, "Grace That is Greater.")