My mom likes to tell me a story about a cold November night when her and my dad threw on their tennis shoes, bundled up in their coats and walked four miles. After the walk, they changed into their pajamas and played Yahtzee. They filled up an entire score card that night, crawling into bed well after midnight. The next morning she woke up in labor and I was born just before lunch.
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God isn’t confined to a geographical place. God is the creator of the world. God is everywhere. God is even where you are. And God is pursuing you, wherever you’ve wandered, and drawing you back. God is working to reconcile you. God is moving you towards his plan.
One week ago, we woke up to the news that terrorists had attacked Brussels, killing and injuring people just beginning their vacation, on the subway to work, just going about their every day lives. We can’t escape bad news.
Every window on the east side of our parsonage, offers a view of the church steeple. Standing tall, rising to meet the heavens, it intends to remind me God is in heaven, and I am on earth. This understanding that God is “up there” creates a gap between where I stand and where God sits, a space that must be overcome with an exit strategy.
It’s the age old question.
It’s the question that keeps me up at night, begging me to think of anything, anything else. It turns my stomach into knots, tightening, twisting until I think I’ll be sick. I've studied it. I've dissected it. I’ve theologized it. I’ve shoved it under the rug and washed my hands of it a thousand times.