Borrowed Breath

Early this morning, Kenneth Edward Branford II, passed from time into eternity. He was more than a brother-in-law to me. He was a brother. He was a friend. He was the kind of husband and father I would like to be. He was patient and kind and generous. His smile would light up a room. He was genuine and real. He instantly disarmed you and put you at ease with his gentle spirit and attentive ear.

I mourn, truly mourn this loss. I do not know how my sister and my nieces and nephews will navigate this life without his guiding hand.

I do not understand why he is gone from this earth when his legacy was just beginning to gather steam.

Of course, his legacy will live on in his children and in all who were influenced by this amazing servant of the living God.
Ken, above all else, loved Jesus Christ.

Our lives will never be the same because of his influence, and now because of his absence.

Ken, my dear brother, I did not get to say goodbye. But I will see you soon.
I love you and miss you.

Our son loves having books read aloud to him. Lately, one of his consistent favorites is “Away in the Manger.” Yes, I sing it to him. Yes, he’ll probably be scarred for life. But there is one thing that really bothers me about that song. It always has. It’s the following line:

“The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.”

Besides the fact that it’s bad poetry forcing a rhyme scheme that is unnatural, it’s just not true. 

Here’s how I sing it to my son:

“The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
And little Lord Jesus is a baby, so he cries.”

Yes, I know it doesn’t rhyme. But at least it’s not a lie.
Why do we have our children sing this song every Christmas and not address the fact that babies communicate by crying. If they’re hungry, they cry. If they’re tired or their diaper needs to be changed or they need to be burped, they cry. If they want to be held and loved and comforted, they cry. Babies cry to communicate. It’s not sin.

So to sing that song the way it was written is to essentially say that Jesus was somehow able to communicate his needs and desires without crying. Did he use sign language? Did he write down his requests on a piece of papyrus? Maybe he was able to speak Aramaic and Hebrew from birth.

As vital as Jesus’ divinity is to the Christian faith, his humanity is equally as essential.

Thank God that Jesus cried. Thank God that he faced exhaustion and fatigue, and rest and peace. Thank God that he knew what it was like to be hungry and full, to be loved and to be rejected.

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are,  yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Hebrews 4.15-16 ESV)

Thank God for Immanuel, God with us.

I’m thankful for a God who loves this fallen earth
Who redeems the lost and gives them worth
Whose ears and eyes are open
To the hopeless and the broken
Who will not abandon his mission
Of freedom and of abolition
Slaves now set free
Blind who now see
Orphans adopted and given a home
No longer abandoned or alone
Jesus the Christ has ransomed this race
By his death and resurrection and grace

We need you, O Lord,
As a drowning man needs a life rope.
We need you, O Lord,
As those locked in despair need hope.
We need you, O Lord,
As the thirsty ones need fresh water.
We need you, O Lord,
As the orphan longs to be a daughter.
We need you.

Deep in my soul an ember burns,
And my slumbering spirit yearns,
            To know and be known by you.
Lord, fan this spark into a fire
That blazes in one pure desire
            To know and be known by you.
 
Deep in my soul an unspoken plea,
Rises like the tide raises the sea,
            To know and be known by you.
Lord, lay all that is within me bare
And kneel to answer this whispered prayer,
            To know and be known by you.

We need you, O Lord,
As the prisoner needs release.
We need you, O Lord,
As those in conflict need peace.
We need you, O Lord,
As the stranger longs to be known.
We need you, O Lord,
As those forsaken long for home.
We need you.

This kingdom advances not in strength, but in weakness, not in power but in humility.
This kingdom flips the natural order of things on its head.
Servants become masters.
Masters become servants.
The weak are strong.
The first are last.
The king became subject.

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted pictures on here so:

Yep, his shirt ain’t lying. We’re very excited.

Philip’s first of many hikes at World’s End State Park.

Many years ago, there lived a devout man who was convinced that the best way to draw closer to God was to separate himself from others. And so he became a monk. He took his quest for solitude so seriously that he even separated himself from other monks. Time passed, and he was able to draw close to God. But he missed the presence of others. He saw this as a sign of weakness stemming from fleshly desires, and he endeavored all the more to avoid the company of his fellow man.

The other monks often sent him correspondence requesting he break from his life’s mission and join them of their pursuit of God in community. They explained how interacting with each other actually propelled them closer to God as they drew closer together. But he was convinced that his mission was given to him directly from God, and that it was purer than theirs. So he stubbornly continued his isolation and seclusion.

One morning, he became convinced that God told him to jump into a deep, dry well to wait for him. So he leapt, sustaining serious injuries upon his landing. He was sure God would arrive and save him from death. Days passed, and he remained at the bottom of the well. His faith was strong, however, and he steadfastly awaited his salvation.

Finally, when he was so weak that he could barely stay conscious, he heard a voice at the top of the well call his name. He looked up, and instead of God, he saw the faces of his fellow monks peering down at him. They lowered a rope and told him to hold onto it so they could pull him up. But he was too weak to even grip the rope. So another monk lowered himself into the well. He tied his nearly-dead friend to his chest and grabbed the rope. The other monks slowly and laboriously pulled them both to safety.

As the rescued man lay on a bed recovering, the others tried to convince him that it was not the voice of God telling him to jump to the bottom of the well. But he stubbornly held fast to his conviction that it was God indeed who gave him these instructions.

The others, frustrated at his obstinacy, began to leave his room. But he weakly called for them to stop.

He slowly propped himself up and softly said, “I am sure it was the voice of God. But it was to show me that I was wrong all these years separating myself from you. I think God wanted to show me how much we need each other.”

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This story is an adaption of the story of John Cassian’s account recorded in “Conferences” of a hermit named Hero.  In the historical story, Hero actually dies in the end after he is pulled from the well. And he holds firm to his conviction that he was right all those years and that God told him to go into the well. He dies a stubborn, proud man.

I changed the ending for several reasons. First, in my version the monk recovers. I believe this stems from my delusion that all stories should have happy endings. For this, I make no excuse or apology. And I also changed the monk’s conclusion at the end of the story because I firmly believe that we need each other. And sometimes God uses heartache and pain to make this truth clear.

I marvel at how, too often, we define people by what they’ve done. We do it with others and with ourselves. And we sometimes do it with those whose lives are recorded in the Bible. I think the epitome of this error is when we talk about “The Woman Caught in Adultery.” Anyone with a basic knowledge of the gospels is probably familiar with her story. (If not, it’s recorded here in John 8.) And yet when we get to heaven, we will not see her bearing that scarlet letter. In the eyes of God, she is not “The Woman Caught in Adultery.” She had a name in life, and now she has a new name. This is how we will know her.

From this day forward, I’m going to call her “No Longer Condemned.”
This poem is written from her perspective.

Caught in the act,
Without defense,
Too late to retract,
This latest offense.

Pulled from the bed of my illicit lover,
Frantically grabbing a sheet to cover
My naked body from the leering eyes
Of lustful men in religious disguise.

They wrongly believe their self-righteous zeal
Will appease the lust and guilt that they feel.
So they lash out, condemning, accusing,
Oblivious to the grace they are abusing.

And yet I cannot deny
I’m guilty of this crime
I confess I did not try
To even resist this time

Self-loathing swarms,
And overtakes me.
Self-pity storms,
And nearly breaks me.

They drag me before a rabbi from Nazareth,
I feel like bait in a trap they have set,
Caught so they can try to catch him,
Accused so they accuse him of sin.

Confusion mixed with humiliation,
No way out of this shameful situation.
How did I ever come to this place
Of such dishonor and disgrace?

Just an adulteress without a name,
I feel the rising blush of shame,
My nakedness runs deeper than skin,
Dark passions lurking deep within.

Defenseless I weep,
As each accusation rips
And pierces deep
Like arrows with poisoned tips.

But in my disgrace,
Here in my fears
I find a safe place
From these verbal spears.

This man, this teacher
This prophet, this preacher
Looks upon me with love, not lust
With eyes that invoke hope and trust

And in the midst of this chaos and din
The noise and mayhem don’t seem to faze him.
He calmly traces his finger in the sand
Absorbing all their raging demands

When he looks up, his gaze pierces each heart
And his soft, yet firm, answer tears them apart,
“Let any one of you who is not a sinner
Be the first to throw a stone at her.”

As this truth takes hold,
The clamor dies down
Stones once held
Now fall to the ground.

And starting from the oldest man,
They quietly, slowly leave,
Convicted that their scheming plan
Revealed their own hypocrisy.

I find myself alone
With this new-found friend
I find myself known
And no longer condemned

His hand and his love raise me to my feet.
My shame is lifted and my fears retreat.
My accusers have dispersed like my guilt
And finally all my defenses wilt.
With love in his voice and in his eyes,
He peels away my thin disguise.

He asks, “Where are your accusers?
Does no one condemn you?”
Timidly, I reply, “No one, sir.”
Though I can hardly believe it’s true.

Then with a voice soft and sweet
That bids my fear and shame retreat,
I hear the words like refreshing water,
“Neither do I condemn you, my daughter.
You are redeemed and restored,
In my grace, go and sin no more.”

Love sweeps in and floods my soul,
For the first time ever, I feel whole.
Forgiveness and redemption are mine,
Mercy and grace, surreal and sublime.

No longer broken,
Or compelled to pretend,
Jesus has spoken,
I am no longer condemned.

Dad, you have always been
A safe and secure place.
Your legacy lies within
Your gentle, warm embrace.

Your heart and arms form
A safe and secure place,
A shelter in squall and storm,
An incarnation of grace. 

Happy Father’s Day, dad.
We love you so much,
and thank the Lord for you.

Branches that are pruned
Will never fully grow back
But fruit will flourish