Getting Ready For Winter

It's coming.

It's a perfect late-September day. The sun is shining gloriously outside my windows, and the breeze that is dancing in the branches of the trees is soft and warm. A monarch butterfly is winging its way to Mexico past my office windows. The maple tree is showing the merest hint of the glory of colour that awaits it. The students walking past my office windows are wearing shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.

It's hard to imagine that in mere weeks, the scene could look very different.

But winter is coming. It's coming, with its days of cold drizzle, deep freezes, slush and mush and muck, mountains of snow to shovel, bitter winds, and thin sunshine that fails to warm anything in its stretched rays.

It's coming.

It's a perfect late-September day. I got up this morning in freedom. I got into my car, and turned on the Christian radio station. I drove to my Bible-college career. I am surrounded by the murmur of soft voices in various classrooms in which the Word of God is being lifted up and studied with joy. It's the beginning of a new semester in a new year, and there is a palpable air of excitement and joy. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.

But when I look carefully, I see signs that winter is coming.

Here, a clerk put into a position where she is forced to choose against her conscience or go to prison.
There, a bus driver who is chastised for refusing to drive a bus painted in a rainbow of colours.
Here, a Christian elementary school being brought before the courts for holding on to a biblical definition of marriage.
There, a Christian university losing accreditation for the same reason.
Here, the comment sections of newspapers being filled more and more with raging anti-religious sentiment (regardless of religion).
There, a politician saying that evangelical Christians are un-Canadian because they hold to a biblical definition of marriage.
Here and there and spreading fast, the threat of religious fundamentalists pledging to spread their influence throughout the world.

It's no surprise, really. We've been told it's coming. But I wonder if I'm ready. What I hear right now are rumours, murmurings, rustlings, grumblings. Nothing too near. It's still easy to push the noise away. The breeze is not so chill yet that it bites me personally. The world of Marianne is still warm and free and beautiful.

But it's coming.

And I wonder if I'm ready.

I feel soft. I feel addicted to my comforts. I am so used to living in a land where I am free to worship how I want, when I want, with whom I want that I can hardly imagine a life where that freedom is stripped away. I can't imagine my school being forced to shut down by one group or another. I can hardly stand to think that Christians may be told that they can no longer broadcast on the airways of our country. And that's only the beginning.

We are told that if we can't "do the job" we shouldn't take the job. So a Christian can't be a city clerk because that job requires her to dispense marriage certificates that she doesn't feel she can do in good conscience.
A Christian can't be a city bus driver because that job may require him to drive a rainbow-coloured bus.
A Christian can't be a politician in certain parties, because he or she is required to be pro-choice to do so.
A Christian can't be a doctor, because he or she is required to either perform or refer people for abortions and euthanasia, even though he or she believes that makes him or her an accessory to murder.
Apparently, a Christian can't even be Canadian.

It's coming. I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can be that brave. I want to be. I'm not talking about loud-mouthed, fighting-back, foaming-at-the-mouth, God-hates-gays militant fundamentalist bravery. I know I could fight. Becoming the loudmouthed fighter would be easy. It would be easy to get angry at those who would steal my freedoms. It would be natural to hate my enemies. It would feel so good to slam the secular-humanist world that is slowly squeezing away my freedoms. All those traits linger dangerously close to the surface in my ugly, sinful human heart.

But am I ready to stand, as Jesus did, silent before my accusers, without fighting back? Am I ready to love my enemies and pray for those who persecute me? It's easy to talk about that when no one is persecuting me, when my only enemies are those who slip into the parking spot ahead of me even though I've got my signal light on. But it's coming. And I don't think I'm ready.

I want to be ready. I want to stand firm in opposition. I want to stand with grace and love before those who hate me because of what I believe. I want to not be surprised or offended at the afflictions I face because of Jesus, but to rejoice that I am counted worthy to suffer for him.

But oh, that requires courage. That requires a level of courage and confidence in Him I know I have never approached.

It is a gloriously warm, sunshiny fall day today, but a wise person reads the signs, and knows that winter is coming, and uses days like today to prepare for the coming cold. It is the fool who ignores the signs and continues to play as though summer will last forever, only to be shocked and dismayed when winter hits.

I have today. I have today to live faithfully and graciously, to walk humbly with my God. I have today to ask him to change my timid and lazy heart, to fill me with courage. I have today to pray for the enemies I know are coming, not for my sake, so that I can maintain my life of ease, but because they so desperately need Jesus.

And then I will trust that when winter hits, I will be ready.

Facing Fear

I fell off my horse this summer. It was back in June, and it was a significant fall. It was the first time I've fallen off and actually injured myself. It was the first time I've fallen off and wondered if I could get up, let alone get back on. I hurt my back and ended up in emergency, worried that I had broken it. Oh, I knew I hadn't severed my spinal cord; after all, I limped my way back to the barn, horse in hand, got into my car, and drove all the way home before going to emergency. But I thought something might be cracked. I had visions of jarring my back again, and completing what the fall from my horse had begun, leaving me a paraplegic. I imagined I would have to sell my horse, and move from my stair-filled home. I was picturing teaching from a wheelchair, trying to learn to drive with hand controls, never again walking the dog. (I have a vivid imagination.) I was in a great deal of pain, hardly able to move from the hurt. On one hand, the pain comforted me, because it meant I could feel. On the other hand, the pain worried me, because I knew that it meant that I had actually done damage.

It scared me.

I've fallen off my horse before, and walked around for a few days with bruises and strained muscles, so the reality of falling is not a new one. I have always known, academically, that horseback riding is a high-risk sport. I've heard of Christopher Reeve. Every once in a while, I hear stories about people who are seriously hurt while working with or riding horses. I don't hear about it often, but I do hear about it. But I've never been afraid of falling. It was part of the reality of riding, and I just figured to get back on and keep going.

But this time, I couldn't get back on. I could hardly walk, let alone get back on. It took me a week of healing to be able to get back on at all, and another week of healing before I could get back on and actually ride. Months later, I can still feel an ache if I ride long or hard.

So I've spent the summer thinking about, and fighting, fear.

In light of this new fear, I've had to make a decision. I could fall and get really hurt. I really could fall and end up a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Or dead. Is it worth the risk? Sure, I can attempt to mitigate risks and keep myself as safe as possible. I wear a helmet. I don't race, full gallop, across the fields, attempt to leap over stone walls, or transverse raging rivers. But I wasn't doing any of those things when I fell, either. And still I fell and hurt myself. So there are no guarantees. And is it worth the risk?

I haven't been able to fully answer that question yet. But I know this - know it to my toes: life is risky. And if I pull back from this risk, if I decide that this thing that I love, that I have always loved, that has always given me joy and delight, is too risky, then I have begun a journey of pulling back from truly living. I have let fear win. Sure, you say it's a slippery slope, and slippery slopes make for bad arguments, but slippery slopes often reflect a reality. Today, I decide that doing this thing I love is too risky. What do I pull back from tomorrow? What becomes too risky tomorrow?

Because, guaranteed, tomorrow will bring risks.

Risks to love instead of isolating.
Risks to be vulnerable instead of wearing a mask.
Risks to forgive instead of holding a grudge.
Risks to do hard things instead of taking the easy road.
Risks to speak up when what I say may be unpopular.
Risks to stand for Jesus when the world around me howls at the sound of his name.
Risks to remain firm in my faith . . . even if someone threatens my life.

Because that is just as much a possibility as falling off my horse and hurting myself is.

I can't live like that. I can't give even that inch. I can't allow fear to win.

So I've spent the summer getting back on.

And this weekend, I rode back in the field where I fell. You know, it felt good. It felt freeing. Sure, I was nervous. So was my horse. We worked through it. We took the worry seriously, and we dealt with it, but we worked through it, and we rode. And we were both ok. It felt really, really good to be back there again, riding through the fields, surrounded by grasses and good smells and birdsong and sunshine. But mostly, it felt good because it felt freeing. We were putting the fear behind us.

We're not there yet. We've got work to do. It takes time to get over a big scare like that. But we're moving forward, my horse and I. We are reclaiming lost ground.

I don't want to play it safe. I don't want to live fearfully. I want to live with courage. I might fall. I might get hurt. But I can't bear to live any other way. There is too much good that will be missed if I live a cautious, miserly, fearful life.

Is riding worth the risk? I think I think so. But this I know:

Living abundantly is absolutely worth the risk.

Taming the Yeast

Recently, I have forayed into the world of wild yeast. It's fascinating stuff. You take a mixture of flour and water, and you leave it for a few days, and it starts to bubble and grow. When it's bubbling and growing a lot, you save a little of the bubbly stuff for next time, and you use the rest. You add a bunch more water and flour, and some salt, you mix and knead, and you wait and wait and wait. Finally, you throw it in the oven, and out comes this:

I know, eh? It's a thing of beauty. And it wasn't quite as easy as all that. Because taming wild yeast is a tricky thing.

The yeast that leavened this bread is wild yeast that lives in the flour and in the air. In the right circumstances, it propagates and forms a happy colony in the flour and water mixture. It eats the sugars in the flour and produces, as one of the by-products, the carbon dioxide that causes the dough to rise. It's the only leaven that most people before World War II used, because it wasn't until then that the dried yeast that comes in little brown jars became widely used. But once those little brown jars became available, the ability to capture and tame wild yeasts became a lost art. Baker's yeast produces consistent results in relatively quick order. But wild yeast is, well, wild - a little unpredictable, somewhat demanding, fairly finicky, and definitely working on its own schedule.

I didn't even know you could make bread without the yeast from the jar.

And that's when I realised that when I thought about yeast in biblical terms, I was thinking about the round, brown grains that come from the jar. You know, "A little leaven leavens the whole lump," and that sort of thing. I was imagining the brown jar yeast. But biblical leaven didn't come from a jar. It was the wild stuff. And that got me thinking along whole new lines.

You see, I could never really understand why the Israelites didn't have enough time to make leavened bread. After all, they had enough time to roast a whole lamb in its entirety. In that time, I could make two batches of bread using yeast from a jar. But that loaf of wild yeast-raised bread you see in those pictures? That bread took two days from start to finish. Two whole days. Of course they didn't have time to make leavened bread, if it takes two days.

And then there's the whole idea that at every Passover, the Jews had to throw away every bit of leaven. I spent nearly two weeks trying to get my flour and water mixture to bubble enough to raise a loaf of bread. I am diligently saving some starter so I can make bread again. Some sourdough starters are years and years old. They are passed down from generation to generation, and from neighbour to neighbour. One that I read about has been around since the days of the Oregon Trail. But the Jewish people, every year, had to throw out all their starters, everywhere in the land, and start from scratch.

Because the leaven represented sin. And I can kind of get it.

The yeast that lies so obediently in the little brown jar is such a different thing than the wild yeasts I grew in my flour and water. The wild yeast is a living, growing beast. It demands to be fed on schedule, or it turns nasty. And every time you feed it, it doubles in size. One article I read said that if you started with a quarter cup of water and a quarter cup of flour, in 10 days, you'd have enough to fill a full-size swimming pool. It's insatiable. So for a while, my life revolved around my sourdough starter. I named it Gomer, after the wanton but loved harlot in Hosea. Gomer needed to be fed twice a day. I did my best to keep her home, to keep her from springing from her bounds and taking over the counter. I cossetted and coddled her. I fed her of the finest wheat, ensured that her living conditions were optimal, and still she demanded more. At this point, I can somewhat control Gomer, or at least slow her down, by putting her in the fridge and putting her to sleep for a couple of days, but the Israelites didn't have that option. In a warm climate, their wild yeast would have grown with abandon.

And wild yeast is hard to control. I can trick myself into thinking I've mastered the wild yeasts and created this lovely loaf of bread, but the truth is, when you're working with sourdough, it masters you. You feed it. You wait for it. You can't go by the clock. You go by the dough. It could take four hours. It could take eight. It might take longer yet. The dough decides, not you.

And isn't that so like sin. It starts off so small and innocuous. It promises good things. It grows more and more demanding. Its appetite is insatiable. It breaks its bounds and takes up more and more space in our lives, and if we don't meet its demands, it gets nasty and leaves us with a foul mess. And while I think I have control over it, it, in fact, masters me.

So, every year, the Jewish nation chucked it all out and cleaned house. They killed the beast. They cast out the sin. They swept everything clean. They stood under the blood of the lamb, and they were free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Free from the insatiable beast. It was a powerful image.

So, then, I wonder if, when Jesus described himself as the Bread of Life, he was saying more than that he is essential for life. I wonder if there might be some aspect in his statement to suggest that he alone has mastery over the leaven of sin, and that unless we partake of the Bread of Life, we can never hope to find victory. I wonder if he was giving people permission to let go of the tyranny of the wild yeast of sin. And I wonder about the symbolism of the Lord's Supper. Perhaps, when we take the bread, symbolic of his broken body, we sweep away the wild yeasts of sin, stand under the blood of the Passover Lamb of God, and are free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Freed from the insatiable yeast of sin.
 
 Bread of life, indeed.