I didn’t get to sleep very early last night. And while my escape led to a “tv” hangover of sorts, the grey cloudy morning did not help my melancholy as I stumbled through my morning prayers. I’m reading a book this month by AJ Swoboda called “A Glorious Dark” which is actually about passion week — but the holy Saturday, waiting and doubt section is incredibly timely for me. We are waiting to hear who will be president, we are waiting for a vaccine or cure to Covid-19 — we are waiting for resurrection. 

The weather this week in Oregon has been truly remarkable for November. Not wet and miserably gray or cold but clear skies and sunshine. Yesterday was even a bit hot, getting up around 70 degrees. I took full advantage of getting some additional yard work done at my parents farm in the sunshine. Limbing trees, unearthing fallen trees that had been buried under black berry bushes, and clearing space for our new parking zone. It feels good to work with your hands, to be outside, and to see progress take shape. I was at a stopping point and came back to the house for a break when I noticed my grandpa’s car in the driveway. He jokingly said his car needed some exercise — so Papa (as we call him) drove out for a visit. 

We sat around the dining table and began talking. I’m pretty sure we talked for close to two hours. There was the election at the start but we moved on from that discussion to the more interesting — eternal life. Papa and I “sparred” as he called it about the meaning of church. How churches could more fully empower us to live as witnesses for Christ in contrast to being black holes that suck all of our energy and attention. We spoke of personal experiences of how knowing Christ has changed our lives. And I realized how beautiful testimony and witness can be. Sharing how in the tragedies of Papa’s life he has come to know and trust that Jesus is the Christ the Son of the living God.

The evidence this 90+ year old preacher gave for the existence of God was personal experience. 

During my morning prayers I read Psalm 46 and 47 as well as the Beatitudes again.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God”

This has haunted me for years. My high school years I spent living in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam where we were part of a charismatic church. The pastor spoke in tongues, and they had a “spirit-filled” worship service where other gifts like prophecy and even (from a friend’s account of visiting it once) a slaying of sorts in the spirit. We got a long pretty well with the pastor even though we come from a tradition that is considered “cessationist” (meaning many of the “gifts of the holy spirit” like speaking in tongues or other things ceased after the first Apostles). I actually don’t believe in cessationsim —even though I have some serious questions about those who practice “spiritual gifts” today. I grew through my relationship with these charismatics who did and said things I was hesitant about or questioned. They spoke of seeing visions or hearing the voice of God…there’s been a yearning in my heart to “see God.” 

I know the story of Moses desiring to see God’s face and being told it would kill him…I’m not asking for that kind of intimate moment here and now — I trust that when Jesus Christ comes we will “see face to face” and “know even as we are known” as the Apostle Paul puts it. But Jesus says there’s something that makes the pure in heart happy and blessed — they get to see God. As we sat “sparring” about faith, church worship practices, and how to discern what God’s Spirit is up to in our lives and neighborhood’s — I realized my quest for purity has been a distraction from seeing God. 

Today I am thankful for candles. This may be the point where you take away my man card, which is totally fine with me. I am Mr. Mom now, the stay at home dad (still working on learning to cook and keep up with the cleaning chores). I love candles. They smell good, the scents of different candles like the cinnamon chai wafting through the room. The sound of burning wicks (some of our candles even crackle like a small fire). The light flickering side to side. The warmth if I put my hand close by. I am thankful for someone years ago inviting me to use a candle as a tool to help children understand that Jesus is with us and when we pray we are talking to Jesus who is real. What first was a tool I put in my back pocket for children’s ministry and the eventual arrival of my own children has instead become a spiritual practice for my own soul. 

Sitting across from Papa as he choked up, tears welling up in our eyes as we heard him tell of the loss of his son or the last moments he sat with his first wife who died young of lung cancer (after never smoking) — I saw God. Jesus says wherever two or three are gathered in the name of Jesus, he is there among them. I used to think that the candle was meant to be a visual for the kids to say “let’s pretend Jesus is this candle” and we are lighting the candle so that we have something to associate this unseen presence with. But what I have come to realize is I do not see Jesus in the candle. I do not see God in the little flame. I saw God in Papa. I see Jesus in my little daughter. I saw God in the homeless guy I met at the Plaza hotel lobby in San Diego. 

The candle reminds me that the presence of God leaves an aroma and scent in my life. The aroma’s of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, and self control. God speaks, sometimes in the silence like the candle I am burning today which is a silent witness in a room full of noise from a toddler, the news, and dogs; but also through the voices of people long ago, in scripture and the Christian tradition. God speaks through the cracks and crackles of broken people, people who have had loss like my grandpa. Jesus is the “true” light of the world, but there are a lot of bright lights distracting and overpowering the light of Christ. Like the bright LED’s in my home the candle reminds me of the small, seemingly insignificance of the kingdom of God —of God’s presence, which Jesus compared to a small mustard seed and yeast. I rarely wake up before the sun rise, with the windows open and the lights on in the house, the little candles do nothing to add light. I have to choose to see the candle burning, I have to choose to see the light it gives off as a gift. And like we talked around the table yesterday, trust (which is another English way to translate the greek words used in our Bibles that often are translated into English as “believe or faith”) is a choice. We choose to trust Jesus and then find the evidence compelling and encouraging. As we live our lives practicing trust we experience the warmth of God’s presence, but we must “draw near” to notice. 

I am thankful for the imagery of the candle and the way it reminds me to pray and trust in Jesus even in my waiting and doubts.

At times something will cause my candles to nearly go out (maybe it’s just a faulty wick, too much wax, a draft…or toddler) I find myself reminded that part of the Christian is waiting, there is a grave in the story. In the Old Testament the two themes of Exodus and Exile (wandering in the desert and living in Babylon) carry a similar waiting and doubt. Holy Saturday is another invitation as AJ Swoboda is walking me through. For me the candle is my symbol — as I wait for my face to face conversation with Jesus I sit with Jesus beside me watching the candle flicker. Some days, like yesterday, we spar and time seems to slow as the conversation is rich. Other days I feel alone with the candle, which seems to be almost extinguished. Wherever you find yourself today may you find ways to practice the presence of God every day — for as my charismatic pastor growing up used to say “feelings are a terrible measure for faith.”