Last summer, I made an impulsive decision to buy tickets for the Greater Homeschool Convention here in Rochester. It’s not often that two of my favorite writers, Andrew Peterson and Douglas McKelvey, come to town so I took my chance. The convention was exactly what I expected it to be: eccentric. A sea of jean skirts and single braids, begrudging dads carrying little Ziploc bags of banana chips, fidgety kids, single moms moving through lines and crowds like guerilla soldiers. Textbooks and panels galore. Needless to say, I felt a little out of place, but in the best way. Despite my aversion to jean skirts, these are my people, embracing their right to learn what and how they want. Choice is a beautiful thing. And so on a Friday morning at 8:30am, I sat in a dingy conference room and listened to Douglas McKelvey speak on liturgies. He opened the talk with this: “What if we begin with the end in mind?”
We all have our own daily rhythms and none of them are arbitrary. Any action we take is a result of being anchored in something, a purpose or ideal. Were success my purpose, I’d place my career and all factors associated with its improvement as my highest priority. I’d get to work early and I’d stay well past office hours. If my reputation were my aim, I’d be constantly networking or trying to portray myself as someone who should be respected, feared, or admired. Ultimately, as Christians, the ideal is for none of these worldly pursuits to be our goal. They are idols made by man, wrought in brokenness, and will never satisfy. We’re almost halfway through January of 2020, so maybe you’ve noticed this in regard to your resolutions. But which of us aren’t excited about a new year, a new decade? As Anne Shirley said, “Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.” Possibility gives us an electric sort of hope. We can change. We could be better. But while we’re naturally afraid of failure, there’s a more terrifying thought in the wings: What if we make it? Everything will change. There will be further to push.
Kierkegaard pointedly wrote, “It is so hard to believe because it is so hard to obey.” When we surrender to stronger faith, we are called to obedience. This is the process of love for the Father, obedience as a natural response instead of a bargaining chip. But the fear of going “further up and further in” means the shedding of old wine skins and the removal of old garments. We struggle with doubt because we struggle to die to self, and the hesitancy we exhibit as a result is a symptom of that war within. Christ is the author and finisher of our faith and He has promised to bring His work to completion. Surrender and obedience are only possible by the prompting of the Spirit; such tension is not going to improve by constant temperature-gauging. Self-forgetfulness is key here. Amy Carmichael once said, “Do not fight the thing in detail: turn from it. Look ONLY at your Lord. Sing. Read. Work.” How do we make the Lord the anchor of our liturgies? McKelvey advises us to begin with the end in mind. We could settle on the idea that our obedience to God’s commands is our “end”, sure, and that would be a sufficient place to rest. But I’m willing to risk an eschatological look at it. For the Christian, the end of all things (the 32 flavors of how/when/what aside) will be this: the triumphant return of Christ Jesus, the judgment of the living and dead, the supper of the Lamb (the bride united with her Bridegroom), and the restoration of all that is made. What would our daily life look like with THAT in mind?
When I remember the Supper of the Lamb to come, the table I share with my friends and family today is a foreshadow of that. And I know our partings are soon never-partings, when we’ll break bread together again in glory. When I remember the day of judgment, I walk solemnly and prayerfully into the choices I make, the habits I develop. When I plan for the week, I think of Christ’s command to stay sober and vigilant, to steward my lamp oil well and keep watch for His return, which changes how I structure my priorities and my attitude as I approach them.
All liturgies and rhythms operate from a fulcrum. If that fulcrum is our own spiritual development, we’re not going to make it. If the root is our worldly desires, we are bound for the grave. But if the Lord is our foundation and His return is our vision, we can sing, read, and work deeper than before. Christianity is a relationship as much as it a dogma and a mission. So as I continue to stretch into the new year, I don’t want to hesitate for fear of uncharted landscape. I want rhythms steadied in hope. I want to see as Gerard Manley Hopkins did when he wrote, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”
“The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”
- “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins