As Easter approaches, I’m learning to embrace joy in ordinary life
The regular resurrections of our lives are just as miraculous as the big, showy, attention-getting ones
Hi friends,
I grew up and came of age in the western Canadian neo-charismatic movements of the 1980s and ’90s. Small happy-clappy churches of misfits who gathered in the community leisure centre for Friday night services, followed by floor hockey tournaments (families were organized into 12 teams named for the 12 tribes of Israel — it was a whole thing). We clapped and fasted; we prayed, sang and danced, and were so overwhelmed by the Spirit that we fell to the ground. We read the Bible quite literally and simply. And we expected a big “move of God” in our lives and within our communities.
We loved big testimonies of healing. We rejoiced in transformation. We cherished dreams of a big, big God with big, big plans for our lives. And listen, I’m nothing if not a broad stroke painter but basically, oh, we loved a revival. We spoke in tongues, expected miracles, demanded much of ourselves and God, and spoke easily about things like calling, resurrection, healing, powers and principalities.
My original faith provided many gifts. To this day, I am grateful for the sincerity and earnestness, the emphasis on the goodness and faithfulness of God, and our wide-open doors to so many folks who were on a first-name basis with renewal and restoration.
But one of the unforeseen consequences of this approach to God and a life of faithfulness to the way of Jesus was the expectation that our lives had to count — spectacularly — for eternity. It demanded singular focus on sacrifice and heroics. It equated the “move of God” with big numbers, big demonstrations, big movements. We were fed a steady diet for years that we were meant to change the world! To be heroes! To be different than everybody else! To be radical and set apart! To prepare for victory!
Ah, the doctrine of exclamation points(!).
We had to be great because God was great. We had to work hard and harder because there were souls on the line. We were taught to put people who sacrificed everything — their families, their health, their safety, their lives — on a pedestal of faithfulness. We couldn’t do things for fun because we had to do things for The Kingdom of God. We were earnest and sincere and serious from a young age, dedicated to the cause.
There is a lot to unpack there but it also left us tired, burned out and convinced we were always failing to live up to our potential. It created a false boundary between what is sacred and what is ordinary, setting churchy things apart from our daily rhythms. My husband and I jokingly call it our “evangelical hero complex.”
And so perhaps unexpectedly, I found myself decades later grappling with the truth that there are diapers to change and bills to pay, toilets to clean and laundry to fold, timecards to punch and late nights to work. It felt too humble and too altogether ordinary to possibly be God’s will for us. What place did something as frivolous as the daily work of my life have in the midst of God’s glorious plans?
What sort of resurrection existed here in my home, on my street, within the routines and rhythms of our life? How do you learn how to find joy in an ordinary sort of life? What does it look like to set down heroics for faithfulness?
Much ink has been spilled and content created around the idea of deconstructing faith. I’ve worked for almost 15 years in that space myself, journeying alongside folks who are holding up their formative experiences with faith — their origin stories — to evaluate what is worth keeping, what needs to be tossed and what needs to be reimagined. It’s hard work, worthy work, and I think it is deeply faithful work.
Despite the hand-wringing of some folks about whether deconstruction leads to doubt, questioning and critical thinking, I believe this re-evaluation serves us well. It also serves the church and our communities well. It is far from an act of faithlessness; in my experience, folks often find themselves in some sort of deconstruction wilderness precisely because of their faith. They were the faithful ones who really, truly believed. And when they ran out of road or the answers didn’t work anymore or the prayers weren’t answered or they peeked behind the curtain, rather than walk away entirely (which, let’s be honest, is sometimes a wise and good call), they decided to dig in, wrestle with God and hope for a blessing. I love the courage of this, the ordinary stubbornness of holding on to Jesus, asking for companionship in the wilderness of our cynicism and grief, our longings and hope.
In the scriptures, the word for resurrection is usually a Greek one, anastasis. Often used in reference to the resurrection of Jesus, it’s somehow a physical sort of noun to me. After all, it means a rising up, a raising up, a standing up. After a time in the dirt, after our falling, after taking a seat, lying down, even after our collapse, our seeming end — anastasis is our rising. Like Jesus, we are raised up to new life. We find life out of death, water in the desert, hope out of grief. I’ve begun to see a multitude of resurrections hiding in plain sight in my life, far from traditional understandings of revival and grandiose demonstrations.
The journey of an evolving faith, one that has adapted in order to survive, has given me many gifts. But this Easter, I’m feeling particularly thankful for the gift of everyday resurrections. After a formative experience within charismatic movements centred on big “moves of God” with major miracles and revivals, it has been deeply healing to nourish, glorify, notice and bless the ordinary things. The regular resurrections of our lives are just as miraculous as the big, showy, attention-getting ones. This has been a revelation, one that has helped reset and open my heart to God’s goodness already abiding around us, particularly in difficult times….
You can read the rest of this article over at Broadview Magazine.
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I'm about to write my first-ever (mini) sermon, and this is basically what I had planned to say so heads up that you will be quoted in it. haha
I entered a church for the first time at age 34. I was named after a four star general and president, was from an alcoholic family and had become one at 14 as a coping mechanism. I entered a well-known recovery program and five years later, still seeking a “God of my understanding” - church was my evolution. I was baptized at 43. Entered seminary in NYC. Was ordained. Called by God and church to be a pastor and have been so for 25 years now. And yet I am still evolving. Relying on an institutional church system to sustain my hero complex was a non-starter according to my recovery program. There is not a church I know of that I would join. And yet God is there as much as God is everywhere. My spirituality does not run on a monorail. Not church. Not recovery. Certainly not me. Not everything living will be so for long. Including archaic church practices and structures. So be it. Amen. But God remains in wonders we perceive as a child points to an acorn, as the child did in your well-written piece.