By Serena Lee

“In such a time as this…” my professor emphasized to our class last Thursday. We had just found out that our classes would be converted online and all of a sudden had to prepare to say goodbye to our classmates until next fall.

“In such a time as this, you have to remember why you chose to become a social worker. Right now, people are panicking. They are losing jobs, their homes, the people they love. Though tragic, you have a very unique opportunity to be the help you chose to become.”

For some reason, I wasn’t panicking. I felt grounded and filled with hope and inspiration, even though the world around us was turned upside down by the novel coronavirus COVID-19 pandemic, and life as we knew it would completely change. This prompted me to reflect on my own seasons of darkness and hopelessness, as if recalling memories of my despair was an attempt to empathize with others in their deep pain. I remembered feeling such severe anxiety that my body would shake violently like I was trying to crawl out of my own skin. I remembered the depression that clouded my ability to see any choices other than the choice of death and destruction. I remembered how much of my brain capacity was occupied by existential dread and the longing for my existence to be annihilated.

Still, I somehow have not succumb to the darkness. Right now, I almost feel guilty that I am feeling light. And then it dawned on me: I survived my experiences of darkness because others around me were beacons of light. They did not succumb to my darkness, but held me as they demonstrated that life could be different, filled with hope and laughter and joy and celebration. Their lightness helped carry me forward so that when I was hopeless, I could at the very least hope in their hope of God’s promises. 

It is a strange time to discuss the spiritual discipline of celebration. I had a difficult time reflecting on how I might share my thoughts on celebration during this season of Lent…and especially during this season of social isolation, fear of uncertainty, and disorientation of routine. What is there to celebrate now? Our world is collapsing from the weight of human pain and weakness, evil intentions and selfish greed. We fight with those we love and remain indifferent to inequality. Our planet is dying and still we grasp for more. What is there to celebrate now?

For several years up until I was prompted to write this blog post about celebration, I have been a champion for ushering in the genre of lament into the Church. I saw celebration as empty and fake because there was so much to lament and I felt that celebrating in such a time as this would be inauthentic and dismissive of people’s darkness. How dare the Church celebrate as people fall by the wayside, hidden under the shadows of our steeples? How can I celebrate GOD when I don’t feel like God has intervened in the way he has promised? Is this a God worthy of celebrating? 

I’ve come to the conclusion that celebration is only made empty when you do not acknowledge darkness, are blind to the world in pain, and ignore blatant evilness. Celebration in its truest form is a proclamation of victory, like a battle cry of strength and resilience knowing not whether you will make it out alive. Celebration is the recognition that the Church knows the end of the story: Jesus wins. For all that he bore on the cross, we know that his silencing of sin and death through the resurrection is all the more powerful, meaningful, and victorious.

So here we are, the Church, living through the Lenten season, lamenting our sins and yet waiting in hopeful anticipation for Resurrection Sunday. We are the “already-not-yet.” We inhabit a liminal space that is sacred and messy and full of God’s love all at the same time. We have the unique privilege of being able to entangle our lament with our hope, our joy and our sorrow, and our celebration and mourning because church is where heaven and earth collide and Jesus is called God With Us. I hope that in this pivotal moment of our history that we will celebrate God—not to trivialize the decomposition of our societies—but to demonstrate the alternative way of life that God has offered us to partake in. 

I end with an example that the slaves of the South in the 1800s exemplified for us. What came out of their pain and struggle were songs of praise. They understood how heavy it was to suffer and be victims of injustice. Yet, their spirituals and hymns portray that beautiful dance with Darkness because the dance itself is how you make darkness into light. Church, hope so that others may borrow your hope. Rejoice so that the sorrowful may feel joy through you. Laugh while others argue with rage and dividing accusations. Celebrate when you feel like complaining. In such a time as this, may we exemplify the same spirit and celebrate our lives and God and all that he has done, is doing, and will do. Glory Hallelujah!

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
Nobody knows but He knows my sorrow
Yes, nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
But glory, Hallelujah

Sometimes I’m standing crying
Tears running down my face
I cry to the Lord, have mercy
Help me run this all race

Oh Lord, I have so many trials
So many pains and woes
I’m asking for faith and comfort
Lord, help me to carry this load, 

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
Well, no, nobody knows but Jesus
No nobody knows, oh the trouble, the trouble I’ve seen
I’m singing glory, glory glory Hallelujah

No nobody knows, oh the trouble, the trouble I’ve seen
Lord, no nobody knows my sorrow
No nobody knows, you know the trouble
The trouble I’ve seen
I’m singing glory, glory, glory, Hallelujah!

By Meridith Mitchellweiler

In light of what the world is currently facing, the beauty of the spiritual discipline of service is striking. I don’t know about you, but when I think about service, I often become stymied. I feel like the troubles of this world, of my community, are so big that anything I do is merely a drop in a leaking bucket. As I reflected on service as a spiritual discipline, I was reminded that service is not about what we do, but rather about who we are. We are a people loved by God, who, out of response, want to show that love to those around us.

Acts of service gently guide our hearts towards humility. When we become servants, as Richard Foster says, “we give up the right to be in charge.” We become “available and vulnerable.” Jesus, as our ultimate example of what it means to be humble and vulnerable before God, made his ministry on earth all about the “other.” Jesus served because it was what he was called to do, it was part of his very nature. 

There are many ways we can practice the spiritual discipline of service. We can volunteer at medical clinics, serve meals to those in need, or take a neighbor to the grocery store. These types of service are all conducted in the open where we can see our impact, which is meaningful and rewarding, but what struck me the most this week is what Foster calls “hidden service.” This type of service is conducted in the background and often goes unnoticed. Foster says, “It is a ministry that can be engaged in frequently by all people. It sends ripples of joy and celebration through any community of people.” I can certainly attest to the fact that when someone goes out of their way to show kindness to me, I’m inspired to go out and do the same. Service doesn’t have to be out in the open to be impactful. If service is about the other, about humility, it doesn’t matter how small or unnoticeable the act is. 

With the fear and anxiety surrounding the coronavirus, I keep thinking about how we are uniquely positioned to serve one another. The simple acts of washing our hands thoroughly and staying home when possible can quite literally save the lives of those around us. By engaging in these hidden acts of service we can protect our grandparents, a friend with asthma, or the stranger going through chemotherapy. At this unusual point in time, our small acts of service have the capacity to change the world. What a poignant example of what happens when we all put each other first. 

Mother Teresa captured the essence of service when she said “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.” I invite each of us this week to ask, how can we leave our neighbor better, happier?

By Michelle Chung

The spiritual discipline of simplicity is in its essence the refocusing of our attention on the things of God and away from the many enticing things of the world. The practice of simplicity can take many forms. For example, it can be the practice of being content with what we have, holding loosely to our material possessions, and uncluttering our lives from the noise, excess, and unnecessary distractions that make it difficult to see God and remember the great wisdom, peace, and freedom He offers us. 

As some of you might know, one of the things I’ve chosen to give up this Lent is Instagram. In an unexpected and unintended way, my decision to fast Instagram has become a small way that I have been able to practice the spiritual discipline of simplicity. 

Instagram is one of the only major social media outlets that I still use regularly. I’m often browsing new and suggested posts on a daily and sometimes hourly basis (depending on the day), usually when I’m waiting for something, have downtime at work/home, or am just bored. My feed is full of photos of friends, cooking recipes/tips, celebrity gossip, workout videos, news, cute puppy videos, and travel recommendations, among other miscellaneous things. 

All these things on my Instagram feed are not intrinsically bad things. But as I take time during Lent to reflect on my use of Instagram over the past year, I have realized that my constant and unbridled viewing of these things throughout the day/every day, had led to an addiction that I didn’t realize I had until I gave it up.

I had joked on Ash Wednesday how I had accidentally browsed through my Instagram three times that day without even realizing I was doing it! Though somewhat funny at the time, it is also kind of frightening to think about how deeply addicted I had become to this brightly colored app on my phone, to the point where my hands, without thinking, would automatically take me there when I would unlock my phone. 

Giving up Instagram this Lent (and writing this blog post) has given me some time to step back and reflect, and I am reminded that we are constantly being shaped and influenced by the things we look at each day; and the more we look at and focus on these things, the more they preoccupy our minds and influence our desires, often times allowing addictions to slowly creep into our lives unnoticed. 

From looking at Instagram multiple times each day/every day, my attention and desires were constantly being directed and focused on consumerism through ads and achieving happiness through instant gratification. On a smaller scale, Instagram has allowed ideas like YOLO and FOMO to creep in and preoccupy my mind on a perpetual basis. All these things, when given free rein, can contribute to greater feelings of anxiousness, impatience, envy, discontent, fatigue, among other unpleasant things, and ultimately can cloud our vision and purpose as Christians aspiring to follow Jesus. 

As I remove Instagram from my daily routine, this has opened time and space to reflect and remember that God’s love for us is uncomplicated and abundant; God’s wisdom is sure and unwavering; He teaches us how to live a life that is good, beautiful, and true; and He provides us with purpose and a path to genuine peace and freedom to choose what is good. 

In my small step of removing Instagram from my daily routine (and undo my addiction), I have been able to exercise simplicity by slowly uncluttering my mind from some of the noise, excess, and distractions of the world; and by removing even just a little bit of distraction from my life, I have been able to see God a little bit more and a little bit better in my day-to-day. 

I share this blog post with you all, first to acknowledge that it’s not easy to practice simplicity, particularly in this day and age, where there is just so much stuff around us, vying for our attention at all times (I often found myself replacing Instagram with some other form of distraction, e.g. online shopping, podcasts, etc.); but also I write to encourage you to try and challenge yourself in taking one small step toward practicing simplicity this week (or longer if you choose!). And in your practice of simplicity, I hope you can unclutter your life/mind from some of the distractions that surround us, redirect your attention to God, and experience God’s abundant love, peace, and freedom, in small and big ways. 

— Tips/References —

Some ways you might be able to exercise the spiritual discipline of simplicity this week:

• Buy things for their usefulness rather than their status
• Reject something that might be producing an addiction in you
• Work on giving things away
• Enjoying things without owning them
• Express gratitude for the things you have

Footnote 1 – A quote Ken shared with us a long while ago, that I really like, defining freedom:

“Freedom means knowing how to reflect on what we do; knowing how to evaluate, which are the behaviors that make us grow. It means always choosing the good… being free to always choose the good is challenging, but it will make you persons with a backbone, who know how to face life, [and live as] courageous and patient persons.” – Pope Francis. 

By Andrew Tai

Submission is the spiritual discipline that frees us from the everlasting burden of always needing to get our own way. In submission we are learning to hold things lightly. We are also learning to diligently watch over the spirit in which we hold others— honoring them, preferring them, loving them. 

Submission is not age or gender specific. We are all—men and women, girls and boys—learning to follow the wise counsel of the apostle Paul to “be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ (Eph. 5:21).” We—each and every one of us regardless of our position or station in life— are to engage in mutual subordination out of reverence for Christ. 

The idea of “submission” as a spiritual discipline is about choosing others’ interests above our own, demonstrated most dramatically in Jesus’s submission to the cross out of love for us.  It is I think core to what it means to be a Christian, and yet it’s an often uncomfortable idea for me to think about because I’ve most commonly heard it weaponized by those in power to force others to do what they want.   

Because of how it’s often been used, it makes sense that nowadays “submitting” is often viewed as weakness, since the submitter is most commonly doing so out of fear.  Yet Christians throughout the centuries have recognized submission as a critical spiritual practice, especially in a world where we are increasingly taught that our needs are more important than others’; that we “win” in relationships by getting our way.  Christian submission is not borne out of weakness, fear, or respect for hierarchy, but out of reverence for Jesus and love for one another.   

I have been privileged to see this type of submission lived out in our community.  In fact, I think submission has become so core to our community’s shared life together that many of you perhaps don’t recognize how deeply sacrificial and remarkable your actions are.  I don’t say this to pat ourselves on the back or imply we are without fault, but simply because I think there is a power in translating feelings into words, and I want you all to know and reflect on the type of people I see you all becoming. 

A few weeks ago, my family decided we needed to move my dad’s bed downstairs since he was having trouble going up and down the stairs.  Unfortunately, the only room that would work had been used by our family as a study for over 25 years, and so had accumulated mountains of junk and trash, along with heavy desks, bookcases, computers.  I worried that to get the room prepared would take several weeks of cleaning, rearranging, and moving.   

On Super Bowl Sunday–literally, during the Super Bowl–about ten members of our community came to come help us with the move, and in less than two hours had completed the lifting, cleaning, and rearranging work necessary to turn the study into a new bedroom.  These folks came and helped out even though they could’ve been munching on wings, chips, and beer, not because I offered them reward or recognition, but because they were willing to choose another’s interests–namely, my family’s–over their own.  They did so because they believe Jesus has called us to love and support one another not simply with thoughts and prayers but with real, concrete acts of love and service.  That they did so on Super Bowl Sunday, a day which in many ways exemplifies our culture’s obsession with desire, greed, and excess, is simultaneously ironic and perhaps entirely fitting given these folks’ desires to live out of the example of Jesus.   

I look around and see these types of things happening all the time in our community–not necessarily always in huge gestures, but in the day-to-day goings on of a people I am proud to call my family.  I see submission out of love in folks’ willingness to sit with and listen to one another; in others’ choosing to confront conflict with each other; in others’ attempts to live more simply that they may give more generously.  I see these things and want to name them not simply as nice things that nice people do, but as remarkable things that I have seen as part of folks’ following of a remarkably loving and giving God. 

As we continue during this Lenten season, I pray we might continue to have in mind our Lord Jesus, who chose and continued to choose the interests of imperfect people like us over himself.   

Amen.