Beach Cleanup

by Jill McFaddenIMG_1631

A few years ago Ian and I were on our honeymoon in Nicaragua.  We headed to the seaside town of San Juan Del Sur to stay in one of its nicest hotels (after all, it was our honeymoon).   As we rolled up into town on public transportation – a dilapidated decommissioned school bus decked out in a bizarre mixture of Looney Tunes decals and Catholic icons—I was surprised to find that our hotel was at the very top of a big hill.  To my mind, “nice hotel” in a seaside town meant that the hotel had waterfront property and beach access.

To be sure, the hotel was lovely and the views were stunning.  But swimming in the infinity pool looking out over the crescent shape beach and inviting waters, I still thought it was odd that the hotel was so far from the water.

That evening we walked down the hill to find a waterfront restaurant for dinner.  And it was then that I realized why the nicest hotel is on a hilltop.  The beaches that looked so gorgeous and inviting from the infinity pool were now revealed for what they were – replete with old tires and trash, stained with oil, pervaded by the smell of dead fish.

I continued to enjoy the beauty of the distant beach from the hilltop infinity pool.

Indulge me in an analogy.  If my heart is the beach of San Juan Del Sur, too often I like to look at it—my actions, thoughts, motivations, desires—from the comfortable distance of the hilltop pool.  And from there, really, it looks pretty good.  I mean, I have no criminal record, go to church, help people with some regularity, am usually kind to my husband.   I can even invite friends to the infinity pool.  Compared to a lot of people’s beaches, this one looks sparkling and inviting—from a distance.

But when I do take the time to walk down to the beach, I see my inner life for what it really is.   Full of pride and accompanying insecurity, self-centered, striving for success and approval, addicted to comfort and averse to self-denial.   At the water’s edge, it is clear that even my most sparkling actions are accompanied by oily motivations.

Maybe this is why I don’t make the space or time to visit the beach all that often.
It’s easier to be too busy.

We like to look at our lives from the infinity pool.  We like our friends to look at us from the infinity pool.  But God is always on the beach.  He knows the complex motivations of every action, he sees each thought.  This sounds scary, depressing, defeating.  Why won’t God just stay on the hilltop pool deck?

We might be a little worried to walk down to the beach, thinking God would be there to meet us for a good scolding.  But, to our surprise, he seems glad that we’ve finally shown up on our own close-up shore.  He hands us a big trash bag and one of those pointy sticks, maybe some gloves.  Turns out God is inviting us to do some beach cleanup, and will stay with us and empower us to do it.  If we’re overwhelmed or not sure where to start, he’ll point out a pile of trash here, an oil spill there.  After all, it’s his transformative, restorative, new-life work anyway.

This Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, the kick-off to the Lenten season.  Lent is a focused time of repentance and renewal.  Basically, Lent is a time to stay on the beach—or at least spend some time there every day—to face the trash and the smell, and do some serious beach cleanup.  Yes, it can get ugly.  But surprisingly, it comes with a lot of joy as well.  God longs for us to share in his full, irrepressible life.  The more we stay in his presence, attentive to the state of the beach, the more of his life and joy and power we’ll come to know.

Not sure where to start?  This prayer is a good place to begin.  Happy cleaning!

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
    test me and know my anxious thoughts.
Point out anything in me that offends you,
    and lead me along the path of everlasting life.
Psalm 139:23-24

Advertisements

Pancakes, Puritans, and Penitence

by Ian McFadden

I know it’s hard to imagine, but when I was growing up in England, we never celebrated Mardi Gras.   Well, sort of.   We never called it Mardi Gras.  In England—and in much of the Anglican-influenced world for that matter, Fat Tuesday is called Shrove Tuesday or, more commonly, Pancake Day.  Why?  I guess ‘cause pancakes can make you fat…  Actually whatever name you use for it, the Tuesday before Lent (beginning on Ash Wednesday) has historically been a day of feasting and partying.   With 40 days of pared back eating and living looming, most people feel like having a last hurrah.  Thus beads and beer and parades.  Thus also pancakes.   All of which begs the question, “why give up certain things for Lent?”

Lent is the 46 days (if you count Sundays) leading up to Easter.  In the past, the church around the globe has used these 40 days (not counting Sundays now—hang with me)  as a mini desert experience.  The people group called Israel wandered in a wilderness for 40 years prior to God fulfilling his promise to them by leading them into a Promised Land.  This wilderness motif became a useful one for Israelite prophets and teachers to describe harsh circumstances—whether exile or enslavement or occupation by external regimes—which God used to draw his people back to himself before bringing them some sort of deliverance.   Of course the ultimate deliverance God offered was through His Son, Jesus Messiah, who died to free us from the condemnation of our sinfulness and rose, freeing us from the lasting bonds of death.  When Christians celebrate this deliverance in Easter, therefore, it is appropriate to spend a few weeks in a mini desert beforehand, drawing close to God and feeling our need for rescue.

That’s one of the biggest problems for me:  feeling my need for rescue.  That is, I don’t, often. Continue reading

Mountaineering [1], The Enlightenment [2], and the Advent Child [3]

By Ian McFadden

I’m not a mountaineer. But in my head I am.  I’ve climbed enough small mountains and read enough books and watched enough documentaries about expeditions on bigger ones that I feel I know at least something of the culture of the climbing world.  It isn’t exactly what you’d expect.  I would have expected a world of driven egomaniacs, people convinced that if they’d clambered to the top of the world physically, that they’d achieved the same conquest more universally as well.  I’ll concede that such monuments to some Jurassic machismo do exist; but they’re not the norm like I thought they would be among world-class climbers.

Instead I’ve come across (in print, in celluloid or in person) mountaineer after mountaineer who climbs because it makes him feel small.  When they talk about what they’ve achieved in the world’s tallest peaks, words like “conquer,” “defeat,” and “prevail” hardly crop up.  They’ll talk about “sneaking” through a brief gap in the weather, they’ll talk about “surviving this time,” and regularly use words like “humility,” “accept,” and “patience.”  My point isn’t that these climbers are necessarily a lovely bunch of role models  (though some are, to be sure).  What I’m saying is that I think serious mountaineers see in the world’s most difficult peaks a view of reality that rings more true than the prevailing western, post-Enlightenment “can-do” attitude.  It is a strange line of argument, I realize.  It seems counter-intuitive that people who are ostensibly all about achieving a difficult goal would find solace and a clearer vantage-point on truth in being defeated.
Continue reading