(Originally posted on December 10, 2010)

I spent some time in the attic last weekend. It was time. Stuff accumulates.

Empty boxes saved in case something breaks. A broken string trimmer saved in case someday I know how to fix it. Mugs saved because someone gave them to me . . . from events that are over . . . at institutions that no longer exist.

I don’t like cleaning, in part, because it reminds me of my failures. Forgotten commitments. Wishful promises. Neglected relationships.

The problem, of course, with cramming all that stuff in the attic is that the ceiling of the garage is sagging a bit. The ladder that hung straight when we moved in 14 years ago is now a bit crooked. My unwillingness to deal with stuff is causing actual damage.

David talked about cleaning in Psalm 51. He says,

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

We often read things like that, talk about God crushing bones, and we think, “See, he’s horrible.”

But then I think about cramming stuff in the attic and I realize that often, it is my unwillingness to deal with what is wrong that results in the crushing. There is a dull ache from ignored conflict. Sin, for that is what it often is, hurts. Until I address the reasons I stuff things out of sight, the ceiling will continue to sag. The bones will be crushed.

The point of cleaning is not the pain, it’s the result. Cleaning, cleansing, results in freedom, in restoration, in space and simplicity.

I must confess that every time I deep clean, whether the attic or my heart, there is emotional pain. Facing failing God and others hurts.

But my bones always feel better.

Ruthie married an immigrant.

His parents, hungry, had left their country. There weren’t many close relatives, wasn’t much holding them back. It was mom and dad and a couple sons, off to make the best of things.

Ruthie married one of the sons. She, in her own land, crossed her culture, and his, to marry. I have no idea why. I wonder how marginalized she was in her own country. I wonder how compassionate she was for refugees. I wonder why it has to be one or the other, why looking up from the bullied or looking down in pity.

What if she was just Ruthie?

What if you are just you?

You meet a guy from over the border and you marry and then he dies. And his dad dies. And his brother dies. And you live and grieve. Every day.

Until one day your mother-in-law decides to go home and you passionately, dramatically, gut-wrenchingly say that you will abandon your country, abandon your gods, abandon everything except your relationship with her.

Suddenly you discover what matters.

Ruthie’s great-grandson by her second husband became a king. After being a refugee. After growing up at the margins. After showing compassion. But when Ruthie was standing one day talking to Naomi, she didn’t know that she would have a child. She didn’t know she would have anything at all. She just knew that as her mother-in-law was going back home feeling a failure, she had to go too.

Sometimes, even when we don’t know why, even when we don’t understand, even when there is no promise of a better day or of a hopeful future or of assured success, we are presented with the opportunity to throw our lot with the God of a person that we don’t want to leave.

A friend and I were talking the other day. I said, “Remember, you already have a pastor.” My friend hadn’t thought about that and said, “I think I’ve never had a pastor that I had any relationship or friendship with.”

I understood. And was saddened.

I’m sitting at a conference of pastors and church leaders. Our speaker this morning said,

If all we do is teach and tell people things, they aren’t disciples. We need to have relationships of trust, people who are shaped by the WAY we believe, by our life.

He talked about a conversation he had with God.

God said, “He who doesn’t love you isn’t really your disciple.”

Edwin said “So how do I make them love me?”

God said, “Why do you love me?”

Edwin said, “Because you gave your live for me.”

God said, “So give your life for them.”

Those two thoughts have been kicking around my heart: the importance of relationships and the absence of relationships. It’s the heart of the model and the action of Jesus. Have conversations, develop relationships, listen, care, heal bodies, work hard, be exhausted in the work, be emotionally involved. Then die sacrificially. Then come back and live in and through people committed to him.

I can’t do the dying instead of part. But then, I don’t have to. I don’t have to be everyone’s savior. That’s covered.  But when I heard Edwin this morning, I confess, I wept a bit. Teaching is easy. Living alongside is way harder, way more vulnerable. It involves working out answers to hard questions rather than giving hard answers to easy questions.

But I’m guessing that my friend isn’t the only one who has never had a pastor as a friend. I’m afraid that there are lots of pastors without friends.

That’s the verse that I wrote in my notebook.

I was making a list of things to write about, having spent the whole day writing posts for the conference I’m attending. Sometimes when you turn out words all day, it’s hard to process thoughts, to find your own voice. I have a long list of things to think about when I have the time. (Or make the time).

So as I’m working on what to write about I wrote “Jeremiah 14:37.”

I’m not linking to that verse for a very good reason. Because it doesn’t exist. There are only 22 verses in chapter 14 of Jeremiah.

I could, I suppose come up with some Jeremiahic statement and write Jeremiah 14:37 after it. And some people would take it at face value because it came from the Bible. And some people would discount it completely, because it came from the Bible.

So I won’t.

But I do the equivalent often. I refer to what I’m pretty sure is in the Bible without looking it up, without checking it out. And you do the same. You and I (and her over there) identify something that we heard someone say came from the Bible and we repeat it and then agree or disagree vehemently.

Why do we do that?  We don’t know where to look, I suppose, or we remember where it was on page but can’t remember what page.

Or, I’m guessing, we’re pretty sure about a point we want to make and we just need something that sounds biblical to help us make it.

You know, I get really frustrated when people do that to me, take my words and twist them around and then get mad at me. At least be mad at what I actually said.

God’s probably the same as me in that.

You’ve been sitting quietly in that corner for a long time.

At first it seemed that you were not connecting, not really interested. From the look on your face and the way your body turned away from everyone, it seemed like you just didn’t want to be part of what was going on. You were showing up, but not really here.

It wasn’t always like this. At one point in your life you were engaged. You chatted, laughed, danced. But then something happened. Your back stiffened. No reason. Nothing you lifted. And there was a burden on your heart that was just the same. No reason. But there was a cloud.

So you show up every Sabbath, listening to teaching, being present for the community, but not part of it.

Then today Jesus came. And taught. And looking between the people sitting up straight, sitting like people are supposed to sit, Jesus saw you and decided to make a spectacle.

“Come up here,” he said.

To the front of the crowd. Moving slowly. Looking at the floor. Rolling your eyes to see Jesus til your head hurt.

“Woman,” he said. “You are set free from your infirmity.”

Just like that. In front of everyone. Jesus talked about freedom and you.

And then he touched you. In front of everyone he put his hand on your waist-level head, straight out from his waist, no need to raise his hand. And whatever it was that was keeping you bent was gone. You stood up. You praised God.

You cared little for the subsequent debate over how best to use the sabbath. The abstract religious arguments of the Pharisees were of no interest any more. You were bent. Now you stand.

Freedom indeed.

For the body and heart bent double, release is sweet.

Luke 13:10-17