You could try telling me that there’s some big difference between the sacred and the mundane, but I wouldn’t believe you. Is it sacrilegious to claim that there are sacraments of a sort all around us? That God stoops close and cradles our hearts through common means every single day?
By the strict definition of sacrament, it probably is some kind of profanity. But I’ve seen God work miracles through booklists, of all things. I’ve seen him beckon hearts toward him across narrow tables in a crowded lunch rush. I’ve felt the wholeness of the world to come stoop close to this old broken one when the sun sinks low in the west, and each breath draws in a still, gold shimmer. And if the priests and pastors all agree that he can come near to us through things like bread and wine and water, then surely there’s a hallowed element to the ways he speaks into our lives now.
There have been so, so many of these in my life lately: tiny, treasured moments of peace in this tilt-a-whirl COVID-19 world. And one of the most tangible signs of the invisible reality of God came about through bikes, beer, and babies… and that’s a good story for another day. But it’s because of this that one of the holiest things I do these days is ride my bike with my friend.
We’re a sight, that’s for sure. Two mamas and three babies, pedaling away, taking up the whole width of whatever bike bath we’re on. We stop often for snacks and to stretch little legs tired of being confined to a bike seat, and our conversations are interrupted frequently by one thing or another (those things being ages one, two, and three). But in between the baby babble and sometimes-unintelligible toddler speak, we give each other the great gift of our time and presence.
The summer sun shines on our backs. Sweat beads on our foreheads. Sometimes the wind dances along with us, and sometimes we fight against it. Our legs ache and we pedal and the world certainly doesn’t go away, but for a time we come to a thin place, and in the reality of that physical moment, the presence of the loving Father hangs sweet and heavy over us.
I wish I could take that peace with me always.
This season has been, for the world at large, an unbelievable one. I doubt I’m the only one who looks at photos of six months ago—of a year ago—as if I’m looking at images of another world. I see a picture of Caleb and Eleanor from February, and in the background is a stack of library books that ended up sitting on the bench for months. For some reason, those books send a shiver down my spine, because I had no idea that a pandemic would shut down my little small-town library… and with it, much of the world. But it did… in more ways than one, didn’t it?
We broke apart when we needed most to stand together. And how ironic, isn’t it, that in this big old world, the spark that kicked off the chaotic flames was something that’s physically so tiny? A virus? And then economies tumbled and riots burned and politics cracked even farther apart than ever, and all the cynics cackled because wasn’t this what they’d been saying all along?
And like most people, even the ones who hide it best behind a façade of confidence, I walked my days burdened with questions that had no answers until one morning I saw the writing on the wall.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.
There, at the end of the hall, the words of a poem I have scrawled across a canvas were lit up in a shaft of morning sunlight. And it occurred to me that, in the flood of information and opinion and facts, this was the wisest thing I’d read all year.
The speaker in the poem is declared mad, though by whom it isn’t said, and I suppose the cynics of the world would agree with that assessment. But pessimists and cynics always claim to be wise, when in reality, they’re the naive ones: “For all it’s supposed sophistication, it’s cynicism that’s simplistic. In a fallen world, how profound is to see the cracks?” (Ann Voskamp) Doesn’t it take more intelligence to see the whole picture that the fractured pieces belong to?
And as it turns out, St. Paul is of the same mind as my mad farmer. He writes in Philippians 4:4-7,
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Did you catch that? It’s so important he says it twice: rejoice! Rejoice always. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. Be reasonable, do not be anxious about anything, and laugh. Expect the end of the world, and in everything, give thanks. And you will have peace.
And what I’m finding in all of this is that when I laugh, God draws me close to his heart. The bitter cackles of the cynics are silenced, and you know what I hear in the space they leave?
My baby, kicking her legs and clapping her chubby hands on the back of my bike. My little boy, singing to himself and then asking the rest of us to join in. My friend, her heart beautiful in her eyes as she smiles and calls to her son. And him, grinning back at her and giggling. The peace of God, surpassing all understanding, stooping near to us in this everyday holiness.
