An Excerpt

I had many goals in mind when writing my book, perhaps the most prevalent of which was to walk with my readers, shoulder to shoulder, through the absurdity of life.  

My words are mere ink on a page or pixels on a screen, a flimsy series of black curves and lines. Yet, my prayer is that their bends and strokes form a yoke that tether you to me and me to you and us to a God who promises his yoke is easy and his burden light. 

I approached my book knowing that I was writing from a place of pain, and you were likely reading from a place of pain, too. And that pain is a blessing, making us richer, wiser, fuller, lower, and gentler. It makes us more like Christ. 

So, today, I offer you an excerpt from the introduction of my book. I pray the bends and curves and dots and crosses of each letter form a bridge from me to you, one that connects us in our sameness and celebrates us in our differences.

“Living on the Northside of Houston meant that I was near to one of the largest churches in the world, one that just so happened to preach what some like to call the “prosperity Gospel.” To combat this, I heard constantly from church leaders that works do not beget blessings. Yet, I had been inoculated with the prosperity gospel in accordance to suffering. The teaching that suffering is always and only because of our own doing was embedded in my bones. The fruit of the Christian ought to always be blind happiness, so I thought. The idea that I should always smile because Christ died for me was like a badge over my heart that I obsessively asked Jesus to enter. And the notion that sadness was an enemy became a burden that clung to my back. Each of these things is a form of works-based salvation and blessing, though. It comes from the same bones of the prosperity gospel, the same marrow which the church up the highway sucked dry.

Bad things happen to good people. Suffering exists. Platitudes about joy never seemed real or true or right. I could not shake the fact that there was another side to that proverbial coin. I did not know that sadness was spiritually forming me; I didn’t know that was an option. I knew there was a tension, a balance that existed between two things that are seen as opposed, I knew that it did not feel right to ignore suffering and muscle through it like it did not bother me, but I had no idea that anything more was possible. I stayed isolated in this push and pull. I pretended it did not exist, and I accepted the so-called fact that my crying was a hindrance to my salvation, that God wanted nothing to do with my sadness because he was the author of joy.

As I have journeyed on a long road of hardship, tears have met me where I am, extending kindness to me at my most desperate points. They have walked with me down life’s arduous and lengthy road. In the same way, this book is written with you. As I walk the path of suffering, as I leave a bread-crumb trail of tears in my wake, I am walking with you. I am not further down the road, calling back to you and telling you to avoid that stumbling block, that ditch, that bump. I am extending a hand that bears the same wounds and callouses as yours, and I am asking you to trust me to walk with you, offering my shoulder to bear your heavy yoke. Where you sit to rest, I sit with you. When you sprint, I sprint. And when you arrive on the other side, I’ll cross the finish line with you." 

Season Greetings and Goodbyes

We are coming to the end of the season of Ordinary Time, about to enter into the season of Advent. Ordinary time is a season in-between Pentecost and Advent— a time of nothing-in-particular. A time of catch-all. A period where all our little, everyday habits grow and culminate and (hopefully) transform our lives in major ways.

Ordinary Time focuses on one’s individual wholeness and growth. It’s a time meant for reflection, stewardship, and sacred rhythm. It’s the season of the everyday. It’s the longest season—we spend the majority of our lifetime in the folds of ordinary-ness. And so we work. We build sacred habits and rhythms and we pray fervent prayers and we ground ourselves in mundanity as our roots sink deeply into the soil of our God-given vocations. 

I sense that everyday-ness is particularly jarring this year. 2020 has allowed us a peek behind the curtain of the sentiment of God’s time in which “a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like a day.” We have been pulled into the current of the Lord’s slowness, forced to ride out the waves of time in what feels like a vacuum. 

But Ordinary Time has an end. This season is just that—a season. It spans a certain time and does not go beyond or before its allotment. And as it ends, we welcome the season of Advent. Perhaps this year is the year that we all need to ground ourselves in the season of Advent the most—waiting, watching, expecting, expecting, expecting. Longing. Yearning. Fighting. Hoping. 

As we prepare to walk away from ordinary time and into a season of Advent, I invite you to dwell upon these two collects, drawn from the Book of Common Prayer. 

A Collect as we leave behind Ordinary Time

Remember, O Lord,

what you have wrought in us

and not what we deserve;

and, as you have called us to your service,
make us worthy of our calling;

through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who lives and reigns with you

and the Holy Spirit, one God,

now and forever.

Amen.

A Collect as we approach Advent

Stir up your power, O Lord,

and with great might come among us;

and, because we are sorely

hindered by our sins,
let your bountiful grace and mercy

speedily help and deliver us;

through Jesus Christ our Lord,

to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit,

be honor and glory, now and forever.

Amen.

Thank you for reading. Want to continue the conversation? Reply to this email; I’d love to hear from you!

If you enjoyed this newsletter, would you consider forwarding this to a friend?

Not a subscriber already? Click the button below to sign-up on my website!

Stay Connected

Facebook

Instagram