A Feeding Friendship

friends
These are my friends, Joe and Matthew, on a hike up Cave Hill, N. Ireland.

Last autumn, Jesus told me to open up my heart, that he wanted to teach me friendship.

Nine months later, I’ve barely begun to understand what the concept is, nevermind the actually being of a friend.

All I know is, I have to learn his friendship toward me before I can be a friend to anyone.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asked his friend for the third time.

“You know I love you,” Peter answered, injured that his master kept pressing the question.

“Then feed my sheep.”

What was Peter internalizing after that exchange, after Jesus promises him a painful remainder of his life, and commands him to follow anyway?

I wonder if Peter internalized the same things I’m realizing about friendship.

Jesus isn’t being manipulative–if you love me, then you will…x, y, and z. He isn’t like men, with muddled motive and masked insecurity. He isn’t bossy.
Didn’t he say to his disciples before his crucifixion, “No longer do I call you servants, for the servant doesn’t know what his master is doing, but I call you friends”?
Jesus was giving Peter another chance, based on what he knew about his friend. Peter’s heart had changed since the resurrection. His faith was ripe, his fear of men eradicated.

For the three times he had denied knowing Jesus before men, Jesus gave him three times to declare his love in a newly-resurrected heart.

I feel Peter’s heartbreak. I know what it is like to look Jesus in the face and wish I had never denied him, to try to convey the depth of a new commitment because of the grace he showed.

The funny thing is, Jesus knows even better than I do. No one has explored the depth of my loyalty more than he, and no one is excited for me to discover it myself more than he. He knows how compelling and far-reaching his grace is.

He knew the life Peter would live and the death Peter would die, an upside-down crucifixion. He lets Peter–the man who once, rather, three times, denied him–in on the secrets things is doing. He calls him friend.

And tells him to feed his sheep.

Why? Why doesn’t he respond to Peter’s emphatic I-love-yous with “I love you, too”?That’s what friends usually do, isn’t it?

Nope. Feed my sheep. Not as in, Take-care-of-my-pets-while-I’m-on-vacation-in-heaven, but as in, Give-yourself, broken-body-poured-out-blood-for-the-life-of-the-world.

The bread I give for the life of the world is my flesh, Jesus preaches in his most offensive sermon ever (John 21). 
Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.
Bread of heaven, broken and given for us on the cross.
You are my friends, if you do what I command.
Feed his sheep. Give the broken, redeemed bits of my flesh for the life of a friend, because he did the same for me.

And because I love him now.

For each time I have disowned and rejected him, I have experienced an equal grace to instead love him with the love he gives.

Only from that place can I learn to offer his broken-body friendship to those who are starving.

And only from that place can I receive the friendship I so desperately crave. I just wanna eat you up, so to speak…. Because you will nourish me, help me grow, mature, and change into the glorious woman of Christ’s making.

Because we are made for fellowship, the breaking and partaking of bread. We are meant to partake of one another’s brokenness in order to taste the sweetness of Jesus’ perfect wholeness.

We were made to be friends, you and I.

We are made to be friends, you and I, and Jesus.

 

 

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Homesick

cotton against cloud

Lying under a tree’s canopy,
evening sunlight winking through its collage of leaves,
I see summer cotton
f
  l
       o
      a
           t
              i
            n
to the   ground.

Three clouds drift away,
one
after
another,
like…thought-bubbles beyond the tree’s round top.

As though
the tree is thinking into the endless blue
of its imagination.

Or,
as if the boughs forgot to cover their mouths
before they coughed a cloud of cotton tufts into the atmosphere,
reversing the osmosis
of the crud of my allergic reaction to this broken earth
with its promise of transcendence.

I am homesick
for higher places, beyond these blue spaces,
where thought-bubbles are transportation
to my beloved,
and every white seed is a hot air-balloon ride
into his throne room.

Breaking Limbs and Birdsong

chickadee_silhoutte__by_mcorvec-daxockw
Photo Credit: Melissa Corvec

Last January, God showed me as a tree:

A towering shade tree, green leaves unfurled, branches hanging low.

I had picked the soil I thought I would flourish in, but he supplanted me to an open pasture and put down immovable roots beside a stream.

Here, birds are beginning to flock to my branches for refuge.

Chickadee. She lowers her core temperature to thrive in cold environments, congregating with those of her kind.

She stores her seeds and berries in a cache and calls, chickadee-dee-dee, to the other birds to feed them.

She is not shy to approach a human and eat out of his hands.

Chickadee, he called me. You eat your portion out of my hands and show the other birds where to get bread.

God showed me to a friend as a tree, but this time, “there is a limb growing out of you sideways.”

The limb is a necessary branch to the structure of the tree. It stems from my beliefs about God’s goodness. Rather, it stems from my unbelief about God’s goodness, because it’s growing out sideways.

It’s growing out sideways in the life I think I want to live–my own methods, my own definitions of what is good. I have to send all my nutrients to keep the limb alive, because the Gardener is not going to cultivate a dying branch.

The rest of my tree is suffering because of it. My leaves are wilting and thinning, my branches no longer strong enough to support the nesting birds.

“He wants to prune back, or break off, the limb,” she says, and I’m imagining him grafting the limb into the structure of the tree where it will receive the nutrients of the earth instead of my own effort.

I feel the breaking-off like the snapping of a bone. I feel the grafting of the limb like the resetting of a bone, followed by the slow, slung process of reforming.

If the tree is the integrity of my heart–that secret place where I join the honesty of myself with God–then I have come home where I was walking out on a limb.

excerpt from a yellow Legal pad
February 15, 2017

Unless a grain falls to the ground and dies, it cannot bear fruit, and your death among the snows of winter buried a seed that has grown into a mighty tree. 

He supplanted you in your crystallized desire, broke you off like a dry branch and grafted you back in, to a tree planted by streams of water, for his namesake, for your joy.

Dance, oh feet, upon the muddy pasture! The ground is plowed and ready for planting. Participate in the sowing, so you may reap a harvest.

This morning I woke to the beckoning of a chickadee in the tree outside my house.

It reminded me of the word God whispered to me, the same January morning he showed me my tree: mercy like birdsong.