Category Archives: The WORD (Faith)

Finding What We Were Looking For

Our journey to the U2 concert two weeks ago was more complicated than driving from our home to the stadium.

I bought the tickets for Mike in October 2009.  No, that is not a typo.

I gave them to him for Christmas that year, as we had always dreamed of seeing U2 live.  Seeing them in Seattle was second only to seeing them in Dublin, so we were both thrilled it was finally happening.

Like thousands of other fans, we were crushed when we got the email in March 2010 that Bono had hurt his back and the concert would be delayed.  We were absolutely slayed when they decided to delay it by an entire year to June 4, 2011;  it felt like they had said, “Whatever date sounds like it will absolutely never arrive — that is the new date of the concert.”

Toward the end of 2010, a couple in our Bible study announced their engagement.  We were utterly thrilled for them and so excited to watch them take the next step in their relationship.  We didn’t give a thought to the date they chose, because their wedding seemed close, and we thought the concert was impossibly far away…

…until one day in mid-April I was driving to lunch from work and heard the announcer on the radio excitedly mention the concert coming up on June 4.  I nearly careened off the road as I dove for my phone to call Mike in a panic.  He said we could talk about it that evening.

Talk we did.  Many times.  We even prayed about it, because the last thing we wanted was to hurt our friends’ feelings.  Finally, after much discussion, we figured out a way to honor their wedding and make one of our dreams come true — we would do both.  Thankfully, the fabulous bridal couple graciously understood.

I forgot to mention one little factor.  They planned to marry in Yakima, which is 2.5 hours outside of Seattle.

The wedding was at 4PM.  The concert was at 7PM.  This was going to require some James Bond Mike Reph driving skills.

We dressed for the wedding, packed alternate clothes for the concert, and made sure our tickets were in the glove box.  We hauled tail over the mountains to Yakima and made it there at 3PM so we could help with wedding duties.  The wedding was beautiful and we were so thankful we didn’t miss it.

We pulled away from the church at exactly 5PM and by 6:55PM we were circling Qwest Stadium.  Mike shaved 35 minutes off the drive time.  If that’s not James Bond, I don’t know what is (luckily Lenny Kravitz was the opener, so we took our sweet time snubbing the $50 parking lots in favor of the $15 spots half a mile away).

After arriving at the stadium, we realized we couldn’t find our section.  We walked back and forth between 236 and 238, but section 237 started to feel like the 13th floor of a hotel…nonexistent.

A concerned stadium guide saw my baffled expression and asked which section we were looking for.  “Oh!” she said.  “You’re on the club level!  It’s one more flight up!”

Club Level?

I didn’t buy Club seats!  I am far too cheap for such extravagance.  But buying them without knowing I was being a spendthrift was too good to be true.

We walked inside and gaped at the difference — 75% fewer people, no lines for the bathroom, and a far greater selection of food and drink.  Then we found that our seats were a mere six rows back from the balcony, our view was stellar, and we were on the aisle.

The whole situation was beginning to feel like a winning lottery ticket covered in sprinkles and delivered by carrier pigeon with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus in the background.

Without a doubt, the concert lived up to what we had hoped it would be.  I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I actually cried — more than once.  I couldn’t get over our deep sense of gratitude, the beauty of the music, and the magic of seeing the greatest band on Earth.

Knowing exactly how cheesy it would sound, but unable to contain myself, I turned to Mike in the middle of the concert and said, “Merry Christmas!”

He just laughed and pulled me in for a hug, which is how we stood for the rest of the song.

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Switching Seats

As Mike and I boarded our plane for Cabo two weeks ago, we prepared ourselves for the battle to sit together.

I was 23A and he was 25F.  We thought that since neither of us was a middle seat, we had a pretty strong chance of someone trading.

When I arrived at my seat, however, it was already filled.  With a four-year-old.

I politely told the gentleman next to the boy that I was 23A.  He looked up at me with the most pleading eyes I’d seen since Mike last saw a puppy.

“Would you mind sitting across the aisle next to my wife?” he asks.  “We’re trying to seat the family together.”

That’s when I notice a six-year-old boy next to the four-year-old, and across the aisle a smiling woman and a two-year-old girl next to…my new empty seat.

“Sure!” I reply quickly.  “I totally understand.  In fact, we were trying to switch too.”  I said “were” because of course now I had zero chance of anyone trading with me to sit in day care.

Mike leans over to me and says, “Who cares? I’m going to ask somebody to switch you anyway.”

I exchange hello’s with the wife next to me, and five minutes later from behind me I hear, “BABE.  IT’S NOT GOING TO WORK.”

I look back to Mike’s row where two grim-faced elderly people made it perfectly clear that they had no intention of joining my row of potential screamers.  I decide to make the best of it.

The husband turns to me and asks if this is our first time to Cabo, and I tell him no, my husband has been many times.  His mouth falls open.

“Your husband?!”  he replies.  “Oh my gosh you must be newlyweds!  You look so young!”

“Actually we’re not,” I answer, because I get this reaction all the time.  “We’ve been married for three years, and I’m 26 years old.”

His whole demeanor changes.  “That’s fantastic!  We’ve been married five years and we come here every year!”

I look at the three children surrounding them and realize this couple has had three children in five years.  My mind reels.

“Oh and we’re pregnant so we have one more coming!” he adds.

Suddenly I felt the need to defend our lack of children.  This also happens often.

“Oh wow!  That’s amazing,” I tell them.  “We don’t have any kids yet…we’re just having too much fun!  I mean, once you have kids you can’t just jet off to Cabo…or…um…” I stop myself mid-sentence because jetting off to Cabo is exactly what they are doing — with 3.5 children.

The wife smiles at me and leans in to give sister-to-sister advice.  Suddenly I feel as if we’ve been friends for a decade and we’re discussing family matters over margaritas.

“You know what?” she says.  “Your kids are the ones joining your family.  You didn’t join theirs.  Once you have them, you have to keep living the way you want to, and they just come along for the ride.  You don’t suddenly lock yourself in your home and orbit around your kids.  Believe me, we are still loving our lives.”

I wanted to kiss her.  Or hug her very hard.  Her words were like a happy birthday present from Jesus straight to me.

I don’t discuss it often, but one of my biggest fears about having children is that my life will turn into a scene from The Shawshank Redemption — starring me as the prisoner.  I’ve just met too many moms who complain about how fun their life used to be.  But meeting this woman punched that notion out of my mind.  She’s right; Mike and I are going to continue to live our lives even if little people are in them.

…though it may be slightly more complicated; after all, they were carting approximately 57 pieces of luggage.

And then it dawned on me: my sister-in-love was doing the exact same thing.  She was meeting us in Cabo with her three kids.  She didn’t have to stay at home in single-digit temperatures to appease her kids; she packed her bikini and got on the plane.

The point was really driven home with her next question.

“And how long are you guys in Cabo?” she asked.

“A week,” I replied.  “And you?”

“Three weeks!”

Blink.  Blink blink.  You have to be kidding me.  This woman isn’t just my hero, she is officially my idol.

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Happy New Year!

In the words of Death Cab for Cutie: So this is the new year.

Wednesday evening, as the sun went down, I couldn’t help but hear the holiday-themed hum in the back of my mind.  Sure, it’s not January 1; it’s September 8, but on the Jewish calendar it’s the High Holy Day of Rash Hashana — the first day of the year.

I’ve mentioned before that I married into a family who celebrates all the major Jewish holidays.  We observe whatever holidays Christ observed while on Earth.

Who wouldn’t want more holidays in their year?  Who would say, no, thank you, I have enough feasting and togetherness in my life?

In my limited years of celebrating I have learned that many of the Holy Days are, how should I say…somber.  Yes, there is always eating and togetherness, but there is also internal reflection, sacrifice, and repentance.

Rosh Hashana, however, is a hope-filled, joyful entry into fall.  It’s a celebration; apples are dipped in honey to remind us of God’s sweetness.  I can’t think of a happier autumn act.

“Shanah Tova” is Hebrew for “a good year”.  I always feel like a bit of a fraud when I say it, as though Jews around the world are cringing as it comes out of my Christian mouth.  This is why I tend to stick with “Happy New Year,” lest I offend.

This Holy Day, also known as the Day of Remembrance, is about remembering the Lord’s kindness before embarking on a ten-day journey of repentance ending on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

I asked my father-in-love to break this down for me — what’s involved in ten days of repentance?  He explained that you not only repent to God, but you fix all of your broken relationships on Earth.  You make amends with everyone before Yom Kippur.

And there’s a bonus:  you tithe generously to immediate family members.  Of course he had no sooner said this then we around the table started looking at him like he was about to whip out the checkbook.   Unfortunately, he did not.  Apparently it’s not just parents to kids; I think  I stopped listening when I realized it might be me that has to tithe.   (Judge all you want, but like you would have jumped in, eager pay your sibling 10% of your income?  Right.)

Traditionally during this dinner we would blow the shofar (ram’s horn), which is supposed to be blown each morning as a reminder that we are in a period of reflection and repentance.

We don’t blow it each morning, however.  We live in a condo building.  I’m not sure what we would say to the neighbor knocking on our door at 7AM, angry at the noise.  “Oh that?  That’s just our ram horn.”

What’s most incredible about gathering with the Rephs for these holidays is that the ritual and regard serves to move us all into a different state of mind.  Around that table, it’s as if we have pressed the elevator button for “Penthouse” because we move so much higher than our normal head space.  From that height we press our heads against the glass windows of the room and look down at the things of our lives: the decisions, the hurts, the exclamations, the minutia.  It’s much easier, from that standpoint, to examine with our binoculars what is worth focusing on.

I am mesmerized by my in-loves perspectives on faith and life.  My father-in-love can explain his thoughts on the Lord using scripture passages from memory, but he does so in an approachable way, not a scholarly snooze-fest.  My mother-in-love has such a grasp on faith in its truest sense; on what it is to wait for God’s direction.

All of our talks are peppered with Rachel’s and my persistent questions that force the theology to be tangible.  Neither of us is really satisfied by platitudes (not that any are necessarily offered at the table) and we insist on being taken seriously.  Lucky for us, everyone else around the table allows for this.  We always walk away with more to think about then when we began the meal.

And the meal is central, no doubt.  I don’t think there would be the conversation if it weren’t for the plentiful steaming dishes being passed between us.

I am overwhelmed by this heartfelt exchange with each passing Holy Day.  Though it is an apt reminder of God’s kindness, I find that it specifically reminds me of His kindness in providing this family for me, even though I already had a fantastic family.  Some of my girlfriends have married into less-than-ideal in-law situations, and each breaking of bread in the Reph clan reminds me that they are second to none.

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I’m Searching for the Word that means “Honored AND Embarrassed.”

This was Monday night at a ceremony honoring my mom as Bellevue’s Volunteer of the Year.  She had no idea anyone knew about the event, so when 25 of her nearest and dearest showed up, she was totally pissed (in a good way).

I’m pretty sure the city council meeting hasn’t seen this much action in, well, its existence.  I’m also pretty sure it was unprecedented when all of us virtually emptied the room after her item on the agenda concluded.  There was audible laughter as we all scampered out of the room before the mayor could begin the discussion on traffic congestion on 4th Avenue.

We high-tailed it to John Howie Steak House to raise a glass to a woman who quietly works to improve the lives of the disadvantaged.  Let’s emphasize the “quietly;” she was mortified to be recognized.  And she’ll be just as mortified that I mentioned her here.

Sorry, Mom, but you ARE the Volunteer of the Year.  The cat’s officially out of the bag anyway.

In case you’re interested in the speech that was read to introduce her:

The City of Bellevue Volunteer of the Year Award is designed to recognize volunteers who have not only made a significant contribution to the community or to an individual, but have also gone above and beyond the call of duty, shown leadership, innovation, creativity, collaboration and partnering.

Tonight we are honoring the City of Bellevue Community Volunteer of the Year, Alyson McMurtry, who serves at the Jubilee REACH Center.

The Jubilee REACH Center provides community based programs to meet the needs of the diverse and underserved Lake Hills Community of Bellevue, Washington. All services at the JRC are offered free of charge and rely heavily on volunteer support. The Jubilee REACH Center serves families and individuals in the Lake Hills community regardless of age, gender, religion or ethnicity.

Alyson started a no-cost English-as-Second-Language Program (ESL) with 5 adult students in a church Sunday school basement room.  The program has grown to 186 students, 53 volunteers and operates 4 days a week in 7 classrooms.

Building close relationships with their students, Alyson and her volunteers saw deeper needs and connected students to support services at Jubilee REACH Center.  As a result of her efforts, her  ESL students received free dental and medical care, counseling, legal assistance, Christmas gifts, rent and utility assistance, eye glasses, computer classes and computers, before school childcare, after school care, job search help, parenting classes, exercise classes and winter coats.

Furthermore, Alyson has given untold hours as an active volunteer at First Presbyterian Church of Bellevue and throughout the Bellevue community. Among other accomplishments she has:

  • coordinated preparation and serving of annual Thanksgiving Dinner for 450 neighbors for 10 years;
  • served on the Hunger Ministry, feeding hungry Bellevue neighbors;
  • coordinated the Alternative Gift Market, raising money for local underserved families and the poorest people of the world; and
  • taught English at Hopelink for 5 years.

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The Liturgy of Yoga

I think it would be fair to say that my experience with yoga has been somewhat of a stretch.  Pun most definitely intended.

It simply isn’t in my nature to submit myself to quiet focus, non-vigorous exercise, or anything that can be perceived as wishy-washy.  That’s the technical term, clearly.

As it turns out, yoga has been none of those things and sometimes all of those things.  I usually go through a range of emotion and physical exertion so broad that its like I’m standing on the stage at The Price is Right spinning the giant wheel to see how I’ll feel next.

One element of yoga that has remained slipperier than a wet fish has been its connection to God.  Initially I believed all of the stereotypes about this “Eastern practice” — that it was all Buddha, breathing and channeling my chi.  And it may be that for some people.  But largely the studio where I practice is void of any spirituality.  It’s much more focused on exercise, peace and doing whatever works for you.

On my first day in January, I walked across the hardwood floors of the serene room with my walls up, however.  I was determined not to let anything other than Christ be the focus of my practice.  I decided that I would do my breathing and my movements out of worship and discipline.

But it was hard.  I had a difficult time reminding myself to pray, to focus, to move in mindfulness.  It was easier to think about my day at work or an argument with a friend; or really, nothing at all.

Which is why when the studio offered a three-part series called “Practicing Yoga with Jesus” I nearly did a hand-spring across my mat.

It promised to teach how to incorporate Jesus into a practice that has traditionally left Him out of it.  I couldn’t wait.

Last Friday I walked across those same hardwood floors with my walls lowered, a bit.  I still felt apprehensive that the instructor might weaken the Lord into a nice “teacher” with flowers and sunshine and smiles for everyone; in technical terms, wishy-washy.

Imagine my surprise then, when the instructor announced that he was a very serious Catholic.

My jaw did a very limber stretch when he said that.   Then two of the four students said they were also Catholic, and I was elated.  Even though I am not Catholic, I honestly thought this class would be filled with people who had little regard for solid truth about Jesus, and here was a group from one of the most doctrine-focused churches on the planet.  Surely this wasn’t going to be wish-washy!

The instructor introduced himself and told a bit of his journey to incorporate Christian faith into a non-Christian practice.  He used the Psalms as an illustration to show that we are supposed to use our bodies, not just our lips, to worship God.  Sharing with us that his mother was dying, he pointed out that as her range of motion decreases, he is ever more aware that our ability to move is part of what makes us alive.  Not to use that ability is akin to rejecting the life He gave us.

This made perfect sense to me.  I honor God when I run.  I honor Him when I bike.  I show Him gratitude when I hike, or swim or walk a mile.  Yoga is another extension of that.

As we went through the motions of exalting God through yoga, I couldn’t help but smile at the fact that a Catholic Chinese man was teaching an Eastern practice to a group of Christians in the most atheistic city in the US.  I took this as further proof that only in the Kingdom do these gatherings have any chance of occurring.

About halfway through I hit a snag.  We were supposed to do 12 sets of a motion that reflected the Doxology (see?  Liturgy in yoga!) and while I loved the concept, I just couldn’t break through.

“How is this going for you, Abby?” the instructor asked me, in a thick Chinese accent.

“Um, I’m having a little perfectionist’s problem,” I replied.  “I know I’m supposed to be thinking about God but all I can think about is my posture.”

“Ah, yes, we all do that,” he replied reassuringly.  “What you need to remember is that ‘Always, we begin again.'”  His twinkling eyes smiled at me behind circular, wire-frame glasses.

I stared back at him with a small smile.  Of course.  The phrase meant as much to yoga as it does to anyone who knows God.  As far as I think I have moved toward Him, as close as I think I am to Him, every single day I have to begin again.  I have to choose Him again.  That is why it is so hard.  But the fact that He promises always to choose us is what makes it so easy.

Normally at the end of every class the instructor bows, hands palms-together and says, “namaste” which is a term of respect and gratitude for having practiced together.  I have always withheld this word out of the fear of tip-toeing into non-Biblical territory.  I usually whisper “thank you” which is directed at both God and my teacher for instructing me.  On this Jesus Yoga night, however, I was lead to recite the Lord’s Prayer, complete with movement to represent each petition in the prayer:

Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil

For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever.

Amen.

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To my Grandpa on his 88th birthday

Last night I returned from a long weekend in Pennsylvania where I celebrated my grandfather’s 88th birthday.

He is not a man who seeks attention of any sort, but in this case he had no choice — all of his baby birds were flying home to the nest whether he asked them to or not.

And there are quite a few of us: four children (plus a spouse), seven grandchildren (plus 3 spouses) and three great-grandchildren.  It was semi-controlled chaos.

We grandkids gathered around the birthday boy and his darling wife for a multi-generational photo.

It’s easy to gather around the man who for nearly forty years has gathered his arms around his grandkids.  He’s the epitome of engaged; during our childhoods he intentionally orchestrated specific events that would be easy for our memories to grasp hold of.

My earliest days with him were long summer days spent at his and grandma’s house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  The fact that they moved within five miles of my sisters and me is demonstration of his dedication.  That he also made those long summer days a total kick in the pants is the icing on the cake.

For starters, he bought me a Powerwheels red Corvette convertible.  Any child of the 80s just read that and said to themselves, “Stop right there.  No need to continue!  He’s obviously the greatest grandparent alive if he knew to buy you the most royally awesome gift of all time.”

And it was! …right up until he was crusing through Toys ‘R Us one day and spotted a red Jeep Powerwheels that could not only seat two, but also had two speeds.   Needless to say, I was soon upgraded and flying across his backyard at mach 2.

But lest one should think all he did was spoil us, I offer this illustration.  A couple times a week while my parents were at work, Grandpa would take us on walks down the retired railroad tracks, where we’d skip along the iron rails and jump between the wooden ties.  This was particularly fun because we were usually fresh off the latest episode of Shining Time Station (Ringo Starr as miniature magic train conductor?  Of course!).

These walks always happened to land us at the local ice cream shop at the end of the tracks, where Grandpa would treat us to two scoops.  Hmm, this story was not supposed to be about spoiling the grandkids…let me try one more.

When we’d run to the grocery store to pick up something for Grandma, we’d stroll the candy aisle and he would lift the lid on a couple of the jelly bean canisters and tell us to grab one.

“How do you know you want to buy them if you don’t taste them first!?” he’d say as justification. We felt like we were being given permission to rob a bank — it was glorious.

But let’s be honest: any man who served in World War II deserves a few free jelly beans.

That’s him on the left, Mr. James McMurtry, Jr.  Quite the stud, right?

GP, as we call him (short for Grandpa…this isn’t complicated) taught us about life mostly by example.  I can’t recall him ever giving me a lecture on finances, but I watched him save and spend wisely.  From what I hear he was fairly frugal most of his life, but even that has its limits:  he’s been known to buy a new car rather than have the oil changed on the one he owns.  He’s owned ten Cadillacs in as many years.

When I got married a little over two years ago, he didn’t pull me to the side for some marriage advice.  He didn’t need to; his marriage of 65 years spoke for itself.

In 2004 when I was headed to D.C. for an internship, he and my grandma dropped me off and helped me get settled in my new dorm on Georgetown campus.  We quickly realized the dorm room didn’t come with plates, cups or utensils, so we headed to the store to buy some.  He and grandma started filling the cart with far more than I needed, and I said, “You don’t need to get some for my roommates!  Let them get their own supplies.”  He turned quietly from filling the cart and said, “That’s not a very good way to  start a friendship, is it?”

I couldn’t reply.  I honestly thought he’d be proud of me for trying to save him some cash, when instead he taught me that generosity is far more valuable than saving a dollar.

When I got into town last week, there wasn’t much for us to catch up on; we never let enough time pass between calls.  Most Monday or Friday mornings you can find me blithly breaking the law as I chat with GP and GM on my way to work.  That’s how it’s always been for us: casual, close, best buddies, really, rather than distant, formal family.

The most I can say is what he’s done for me is all I can hope to do for my grandchildren.  I’ll keep them close while letting them find their way.  I’ll never let them doubt that they are loved beyond their knowing, but that the world does not revolve around them.  And one day, when they ask me about when I was a kid, I’ll be sure to tell them about this man, this Grand Father, this patriarch of our family tree.

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Roasted or Dyed?

Last Saturday night the Rephs gathered around the table and dipped matzo into fresh horseradish to taste the spice that brings tears to our eyes.

We celebrated Passover with the Seder, as we do every year.  We join the Jewish community in their practice of remembering God’s provision for His people, and in our case, we recognize that God already honored His promises by bringing Christ to be our ultimate Savior.

We read the Messianic Haggadah, dip our parsley in salt water, hide the matzo from the children, and raise our glasses of red wine in love of the Lord.  It is a tangible, intentional ritual that leads its participants in worship filled with verses read aloud and the sharing of food and drink.

Passover is as solid as the lamb bone shank on the Seder plank; you can rely on it, count on it, because it’s never going to change.  I believe that is my favorite thing about Passover — in that way, it mirrors the character of God.

My mother-in-love (synonym for in-law in our family) enjoys inviting extended family and friends to share in the delicious food she’s made while following my father-in-love’s lead in the reading.

As I’ve mentioned before, Mike’s family believes (as now do I) that we should celebrate the same holidays that Christ did when He walked the Earth.   In fact, the Last Supper was a Seder, and that evening is crucial in the story of Christ’s death and resurrection (known today as Easter).

Ah, Easter.

On Sunday afternoon after the Bergers get back from church, we gather with 18 close friends for a day of elation, rejoicing…and wine tasting.

Be honest: you were expecting me to say egg hunting.  If so, you were right — there is also an egg hunt.

On the afternoon of Easter we run, adults all, through my parents house scouting for 36 hidden eggs, which have been carefully numbered and colored the night before by my younger sister.  It’s a mad dash that is taken incredibly seriously — if you end up with just one or two eggs, you may as well have one on your face.

Then comes the wine tasting contest.  Every guest (or couple) brings a bottle of wine that pairs best with the Easter ham.  Then we host a tasting, take notes, and vote on the finest wine.  One year, Phil and Rachel brought Manischewitz, a joke which was lost on those who don’t also celebrate Passover.

To my mom, and to all of us really, Easter is the perfect day to welcome people into our homes in warm hospitality and celebration as we recognize that we serve a most wonderful God.  Many people who attend our Easter don’t know much about Jesus at all, and we’re hoping they may see a glimpse of the freedom and joy we have from knowing Him.

We’ve had atheists, agnostics, even a Buddhist monk.

Come on in!  Find an egg, have some wine, and feel free to say “Cheers!” when one family member says, “He is risen!” and ten more holler, “He is risen, indeed!”

Our president started an unprecedented tradition of hosting the Seder in the White House, despite being a Christian.  Later in the week he also hosted the White House Easter egg roll and hunt.  I identify with this dichotomy.

Where Passover is reflective, reverent and focused, Easter is triumphant, explosively joyful and full of freedom.  Three years of celebrating the two together has, for me, begun to turn the key in a door that has always been locked.  As a follower of Christ, I’ve never been sure of which attitude to embody: should my face be down-turned in reverence or upward in thanksgiving?  Should I solemnly acknowledge the immaculate perfection of my Creator, or stomp my feet and clap because of His shocking insistence on loving us?  Should I hone my discipline out of honor to Him or embrace my freedom to live outside of rules?

Celebrating Passover and Easter have shown me that it’s both.  Both holidays are about humbled gratitude.  God is not about either/or.  His capacity to be worshiped isn’t restricted to a single method.  I’m excited to carry on the tradition of showing gratefulness in such complimentary ways.

“Next year in Jerusalem!”

“He is risen, indeed!”

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