The Gift of 2020--Out With the Old, In With the New

This morning, before sitting down to watch (virtually) the last church service of 2020, I fix my breakfast. 

 

My conscience tells me I need something better than the dessert cuisine I've been indulging in for the past four days, so I boil a couple of eggs and plunk the last two slices of an old loaf of bread into the toaster. 

 

I suspect the sermon may tell me I need something better to feed my spirit as well--something more eternally significant than the Spider Solitaire games I've been playing while popping Christmas candy into my mouth all week.

 

I am too lazy to make a fresh pot of coffee so I go to the fridge, pull an old, nearly empty, carton of Costco Chai latte mix from the back of the top shelf, pour it into a cup, add milk, and zap it in the microwave.

 

The key word here is "old."

 

I stir my latte, un-shell my eggs, and butter my toast. But when I pick up my cup a minute later I notice three or four clumps of mold have floated to the top. I dump it and fix a cup of instant cafe mocha instead. Then I carry my breakfast into the living room and sit down in front of the TV.

 

The pastor is talking about "The Gift of 2020." Intriguing. What gift? 2020 seems more like a year of God's taking things away than giving us something.

 

I take a few bites of toast before I notice the moldy taste there too, and that's when I begin to wonder if God might be trying to tell me something.

 

End of year.

Moldy food in my fridge.

 

Maybe He's saying I need to do a major clean out of everything about the old year and get ready for a fresh start. That makes sense.

 

But, "No," God says, "It's not the old year I want you to throw out. I want you to get rid of the expectation that things will ever get 'back to normal' after this is over."

 

Ouch. That's not a word I want to hear. "I'd rather keep that glimmer of hope for the future, God, if you don't mind.  It sounds a bit like you might be planning to throw out our 'normal' forever."

 

 

Forever is a scary word. But, thankfully, experience has taught me that sometimes God has to take old things away from us in order to give us new things that are better.  Like fresh bread, and fresh coffee.

 

My friend, Nikki, is a wisely intelligent woman whose spiritual insight I admire. God often says things to her directly, with "Words of Knowledge," and she shares them with those of us who are usually too busy to listen for God's still, small voice.

 

She told me that in January this year God said to her, "Nothing will remain unchanged."

 

She said at first she thought that was a wonderful thing. She supposed God meant He was going to change things for the better. But then she thought, "Wait. What if the changes are not going to be good ones?"

 

Then came March and the meaning of the word became clear.

 

God also told her to keep her eyes on Jesus during this time of change. My pastor said that 2020 was a gift to us because God was using it to shape, or form us into something good. He told us that 2020 was going to change us, but it was up to us to decide how it would change us. We could either spend the rest of this year being grumpy and frustrated about 2020, or we could spend the next few days thinking about why 2020 might have needed to happen.

 

Instead of making the 'normal' list of resolutions or goals for ourselves this year, he suggested we make a list of all the things God might want to change in us for the better as we move into the coming year.

 

That could mean some uncomfortable re-arranging of some stuff in my life, like maybe my assumptions about God--His priorities and goals--or about His purposes for my being here. Will I have to give up some of the fun I have on my electronics?

 

That would be a shame, because one good thing that has come out of this COVID year, for me, is that I have nearly perfected my game of Spider Solitaire. I've learned some new strategies. I used to give in to the overwhelming urge to place a nine of spades on an open ten of spades, where it needs to be, as soon as that ten of spades becomes available.

 

But I've gradually figured out that sometimes you have to put things where they don't belong in order to open up several more productive moves later on. I've found you can get that nine of spades on top of the ten of spades, in the end, if you're willing to live with the uncomfortable feeling that comes when you temporarily put it on an open ten of hearts instead.

 

2020 has been an uncomfortable year. I've had to put lots of things where they don't belong and it hasn't felt right. But what it has done for me is demonstrate that what I've considered to be 'normal' in the past years isn't necessarily 'right.'

 

Before 2020 it was 'normal' to feel secure in all kinds of things that turned out to be unstable. In 2020 we learned that we could not count on health, or wealth, or work, or relationships, or even things we have always taken for granted, like white privilege, an admirable government leader, or police protection. Literally everything we have put our confidence in has crumbled to dust under our feet.

 

The Bible says there is only one sure foundation for our lives. That foundation is a Person. 

 

That Person told His disciples that it is nonsense to put new wine into old wineskins, because when the wine ferments it bursts the old skins and spills out on the ground.  Jesus was, and is, that New Wine. He was, and is, the Bread of Life. He said, "I am come that they might have life, and have it more abundantly."

 

So His message was, and is: "Out with the old. In with the new."

 

God warns us in the Bible that we need to act on this information while we still have the chance. We need to let go of the temporary things we are holding onto and take hold of the unshakable foundation of God's love as expressed in Jesus' life, death and resurrection. We need to do it now, because one day the opportunity will pass.

 

"Seek the Lord while He may be found;

Call upon Him while He is near.

 

Let the wicked forsake his way

And the unrighteous person his thoughts;

And let him return to the Lord,

And He will have compassion on him,

And to our God,

For He will abundantly pardon.

 

For My thoughts are not your thoughts,

Nor are your ways My ways," declares the Lord.

"For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

So are My ways higher than your ways

And My thoughts than your thoughts."

Isaiah55:6-9

 

In 2020, everything changed, and those changes are going to continue into 2021. I need to let go of my hope that everything will eventually go back to the good old days.

 

I need to let go of everything I trusted in before 2020 and fix my eyes on Jesus--the only firm, unchangeable foundation for my life--my eternal life.

 

And as I keep my eyes on Jesus, no matter what the years that lie ahead may bring, I can rest in the expectation that, in the end, there will be a whole new normal, and it will be a good one.

 

COVID: A Season of Longing

As I think about this past year and all the changes it has brought us, I keep hearing the word, 'longing' for some reason. This, for me, has been a season of longing.  When I look at this swelling emotion in my heart more closely, I feel it moves in three directions.

 

First, I've found my heart reaching out, more than ever, to Jesus. I've had more time this year to spend meditating on His character and His love for me. My mornings are often unscheduled. I can sit with the Bible as long as I like, without watching the clock. That freedom has opened my heart to receive the gift of His presence in a new way. 

 

I long, more than ever, to be close to Him, to please Him in the way I live my life, to give back to Him a little of the love He has poured out on me.  Even as the world writhes in pain in this year of the pandemic, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the many ways God has shown me His love.  He has cared for me thoroughly, even in the details--details as insignificant as the number of hairs on my head. 

 

One example is the new home I settled into in September, so full of little blessings I didn't even ask for. As I moved in, everything I needed for my comfort and happiness seemed to fit in a place that was created for it ahead of time.  And this downstairs suite is specially suited for the frailer body I'm growing into--no stairs to climb, smaller spaces that are easier to move around in, little nooks here and there where the things I need can be stored, close at hand. 

 

A fireplace, and the new soaker tub that will be installed next week! 

 

I feel pampered by God's love. 

 

Second, as I've spent more time luxuriating in God's love for me, I've developed an even greater longing that other people might experience His love for them. Many mornings I find myself in tears as I think of friends and loved ones who are struggling in so many ways, many of them oblivious to how deeply and earnestly God reaches out to them--unaware of His great desire to bless them extravagantly with His love.  

 

I struggle to find ways to share His love with them--ways that will communicate to each of their hearts--ways that will avoid the sense that I am 'foisting' my faith on them--ways that will honour their God-given freedom to choose whether or not to receive the love He offers them.

 

I feel like one of the lepers in the story of the Aramean siege of Jerusalem. Starving to death after long months of depleting food supplies in the city, they decide to surrender and head out to the surrounding army, only to find that the enemy has fled, leaving behind all their provisions. 

After gorging on the food they find and squirreling away other treasures for themselves, they realize how selfish they are for not sharing the happy news with the people in the City, and run back to announce to the guards at the gate the abundance of spoils available to everyone.

I feel like that--like one beggar telling another beggar where to find food. But I worry that my exuberant declarations of how wonderful God is, and my urgings that my friends consider the abundance of wealth He wants to share with them, will come across as condescending, or proselytizing. 

 

So I pray for them, and cry for them, and hope they get a glimpse in my life of the blessings God wants to give every heart.  I don't want to enjoy those blessings alone!

 

And third, as I watch this poor, broken world suffer the pain of pandemics, slavery and oppression, the violent destruction of wars and uprisings, and just the everyday feelings of lost-ness that come when our moorings are destroyed, I find myself longing, more than ever, for the day when Christ finally comes back the second time, this time to bring His kind and righteous Kingdom's rule fully to this earth!  A time when all swords will be beaten into plowshares, when the lion will lie down with the lamb, and when children will play safely around the holes of serpents. 

 

This is the Kingdom rule that the angels proclaimed at the birth of Christ 2000 years ago. It's the rule that Jesus offers to bring into the hearts of each person who welcomes Him in this present age.  And it's the rule that He will one day bring to the whole earth, when "the old order of things has passed away," when all evil has been cast out and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.

 

So COVID has done this to me.  I don't know whether this longing is a blessing or a curse.  Maybe it's a little of both.  There is distress in the longing, but there is also hope. 

 

The longing is painful. My heart feels like a dry, empty desert waiting for the spring rains. But the hope--the surety that the spring rains will come--fills me with a quiet peace and joy.  I am content, knowing that this, too, shall pass, and that one day every tear will be wiped from our eyes forever.