Men, women, mountaintops, Jesus

A blog post has been circulating among many of the women in my social network, which skews decidedly evangelical (not always the horrid version of that, currently in vogue). It’s shared as a post of encouragement, inspiration, which is clearly its original intent.

My simple summary of the original post: we women often miss the mountaintop experiences with God because, well, somebody has to stay at home and take care of the kids, the house, the bills, the garden/field, etc. But we should be encouraged, because Jesus meets us there. In the mundane, in the everyday caregiving that we do, Jesus comes to us. Take heart, therefore.

And I get it. (Cue the customary caveats.) I get the point. It has encouraging merit. “You are seen and known and remembered and met, where you are. You don’t have to work toward the mountaintop in order to meet the Lord.”

And it’s true. Jesus – so kind, so generous – does meet us wherever we are: changing a baby’s diaper or in a committee meeting or visiting a parent in a nursing home or buying candy for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt. He meets us in the mundane and everyday. If we can’t get away from our responsibilities, he meets us in the middle of them.

Yep.

BUT.

I have two questions. First, why is it we women so rarely have the transcendent metaphorical  mountaintop experiences with Jesus?

Second, doesn’t Jesus meet men in their mundane, too?

When I read a blog post like this, this is what I hear: “Hey, real sorry that you can’t ever leave home, but you should be happy, because Jesus will come to your house. Yay!”

And I want to scream. Because here’s the honest-to-God truth, and I have zero shame in saying it out loud: I WANT IT ALL.

I want to see Jesus in my mundane life…and I want to experience Jesus in the glory of a mountaintop.

I want to know his presence when I’m unloading the dishwasher and making a grocery list and taking the dog on a walk. And I do. I love the satisfaction of an empty dishwasher, and the feeling of provision I have that I can even make such a thing as a grocery list, and the giddying scent of honeysuckle as Milo and I trek to the dog park.

And I also want to know his presence on that mountaintop – I want the transcendence of the beautiful place that took honest effort to arrive at, the glory of the Lord passing by, the uplift to my soul of being fully immersed in his Spirit, no distractions, no other thought but to sit, stand, kneel, raise my hands in wonder and surrender. Oh yes, I want that, too.

Here’s the thing: I’m pretty sure Jesus wants both for me too. I was not designed – no one was designed – to spend all my days in the mundane, any more than any of us was designed to spend all our days in the transcendent mountaintop. We’re made for both. Men and women are made for both.

Ain’t it a shame that, as the blog post correctly points out, so few women get the mountaintop opportunity? And why is that? Because somebody has to take care of things back at home. You know my next question, right? Why does that have to be the women?

Like can’t we take turns? It’s really not asking that much. How about this time the daddy stays to take care of things back at home, while the mommy goes off on a spiritual mountaintop journey? (And news flash, daddies: you don’t get a bronze medal for this; it’s called just being a good partner. Additional aside: I’m married to a stellar example of this, for real.) How about this time the men put the women through seminary? How about this time the men do the food drive while the women take – or teach! – the theology course? Are we not all capable of both? Yes, we are.

On the flip side, can we point out that Jesus meets men in the mundane, too? He meets them when they’re mowing the grass, and on the morning commute to work, and at the sports bar, and while they’re shaving, and when they’re reading the news over lunch.

The truth is, Jesus always meets us where we are, whether we are male or female, whether we are slogging away in the daily or pausing on a peak.

But just because Jesus meets us wherever we are doesn’t necessarily mean we’re in the right place…or that we should stay there.

So the truth must also be that we seek him in all the places. Men, and women, in the everyday, and in the special.

Dear sisters, let us be grateful our Jesus comes to us even if we can’t go somewhere special to meet him. He is kind that way, and I am so grateful, so glad. It is the heart of the Incarnation.

But let us also seek him in the special ways and times and places. Let us run after him everywhere; he will be found.

And dear brothers (and sisters!), do not say, “Jesus can meet you gals at home, so be content.” No. Be bigger than that. Do your part to make the space, the room, the time, the active encouragement, to the women in your life to seek Jesus in the special ways and places. Wherever you have influence, use it for this good. Counter-culture the patriarchy, though it seems to benefit you.

In the end, we would all benefit – men, women, children, and the kingdom of God on earth – if there were a culture in which everybody, everywhere, got to meet Jesus everywhere.

 

Easter walk

I took a right into the unofficial path of the woods, the river on my left. From gravel to grass, and from the open parking area to the sudden dark of green shade, like entering a muffled tunnel. The air was cool and my brown shoes were soon dark with dew.

And I thought about the women of Easter morning. I heard the flap and swirl of their robes, their low voices edged with raw grief. I felt their fear: What if they were caught by soldiers? What if the Romans had done something with the body of their dear Jesus? Who would roll away the massive rock that sealed the tomb? Had they brought enough spices? What would his precious body look like, bruised and torn and jagged in those angry places where he’d been skewered?

In three seconds flat I was weeping. Those dear women – my sisters – walked through the woods and hills and deserted streets of Jerusalem, overwhelmed with grief, and without hope. They walked that cool morning, when it wasn’t yet really light, and their hearts wept with every step. They did not know what I know this morning, as I walk through the woods on Easter. They had seen their hopes die the ugliest, most shameful death, without even the dignity of being laid to rest properly. Their delight and joy lay cold on a cold table behind a cold stone.

I don’t know how much of their grief had to do with the fate of Israel. Not nearly so much as the two men on the road to Emmaus two days later: “We had hoped that he would be the one to restore Israel.” Not as much as the inner circle of men, now cowering in their homes in chicken-hearted fear that they would be the next carrying a cross to a hill. (James and John: “Will you now restore Israel, Lord?”)

No. I suspect these sisters of mine – Mary and Mary and Salome and Joanna – despaired over a far more personal loss.

Jesus wasn’t just the Messiah of Israel: he was their friend. No one had ever treated these women like Jesus. A man who let them sit at his feet for teaching, took their questions seriously? A man who let them minister to him? A man unafraid to be alone with them (see John 4)? A man who saw them – even those among their company who were bleeding, grieving, sick with fever, thrown into mock public trial for secret sins?

No, they’d not encountered a man who would be such a friend. No wonder they stayed at the cross – unlike the big strong disciples. No wonder they were walking in the dark morning with baskets of spices, to bind the body of their friend properly, though a stone and Roman guards lay in their way.

The cardinals and sparrows and mourning doves chirp around me. The air smells fresh and fecund and moist and green – spring in the South. The grass is up to my ankles, and the logs and twigs and tree roots that snake across the path are damp. It’s peaceful but not quiet. And it’s unsettling, a little, the shade, as I imagine walking on a brisk morning to a tomb of a friend.

So much grief. So much heartbreak. Such a sense of loss, powerlessness, finality. How could they make that journey, my sisters?

They didn’t have what I have. They did not yet know the joy & freedom, the utter, unfathomable, fearful glory, that awaited them.

Jesus said that they would be blessed, those who had not seen and yet believed. I suppose I’m one of those, by his grace. How blessed am I!

I walk this morning with all hope.

I walk this morning with freedom. I know this Jesus, too, and I’ve not had to endure the utter horror those sisters did – watching him die, going to his grave 36 hours later with naught but grief. I know this friend, too, though I’ve not seen him in the flesh.

But hallelujah I live in hope, and freedom, and light, and joy – in the glory of the new covenant, purchased with the body and blood of the same Jesus whose earthly form they went to anoint – only to find him gone: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not HERE. He is risen!”

So I stroll to the river. I find the set of wooden steps that lead to the water – off the path, installed there to reward those who wander just a little and explore. I sit two steps above the river, sip my hot tea, watch the moon set behind the pines across the way, listen to all the merry birds, let myself be startled by the occasional plop of a fish out in the cold depths, and mesmerized by the dancing reflection of the water on the overhanging tree trunks on the other side. It looks like fairies twirling once more before full daylight.

I sing the hymns. I listen to songs of power and glory and victory and freedom. I think about those sisters, baffled at the empty tomb, but then living the rest of their earthly lives in the glory of having seen a risen Savior. They walked that morning in grief, but walked the rest of their days in absolute assurance.

Like me. Here at this cool river, me and the birds and fish and dancing reflections of water….free. Loved beyond any possible doubt. Able to delight in sunshine and water and moonlight, because there’s a peace that grief can’t touch.

My sisters. One day I’ll meet you and hear about that walk to the tomb, and I’ll tell you about my walk to the river, thinking about you and our Lord, and maybe we can sing together by a river.