Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Oh Lord, kumbaya

These are the lyrics to a traditional spiritual finding its written origin sometime in the early 1900’s and its sung origin likely well before that.  Whether the title lyric is Gullah or Luvale, we know that it means “Come By Here.”  The word itself has taken on its own rhetoric to refer to situations when peace must be forced, such as the forced moment between Clinton and Trump when each asked to say “one nice thing about each other,” their “kumbaya moment.” 

That’s how I was using the word last night.

Our family, the 6 of us, were having our bedtime devotion.  We did a check in with the kids to see how they were processing the national news.  Their news sources are weak at best: a clip shown through public school media and Instagram.  (Can you even get news from Instagram??)  They had a lot of good thoughts, a few immature thoughts, some not-so-well-thought-out thoughts, and some great questions….

“Haven’t we already settled this?” (you would think…)

“Should I feel guilty about this?” (not guilty, but aware and troubled)

“Was the statue that important, or was it about something else?” (it was about symbols)

“Do you think anyone was there peacefully?” 

“Yes,” I said.  “There were voices of peace. 

I know a woman, a church planter, who opened her church to the gathered protesters, who walked arm in arm with other pastors and offered signs of peace and cups of water.  But…there were a lot of people, most people, there with no intentions of peace.  The people who organized the rally were not there for peace.

 People who came with weapons and body armor weren’t exactly there to sing Kumbaya.” (insert eye roll)

...

I didn’t even notice at first.  He sings a lot anyway.  His bus driver says he sings all the way home from school.  But he kept singing last night.  And then he stood up in the middle of us, his parents and his older siblings with all of our words, and he kept singing.  His hands were showing us the words he was trying to pronounce, and as we quieted the tune became recognizable: someone’s praying Lord, Kumbaya…Oh, Lord, Kumbaya.  And when he realized he had our attention, he started praying.

I pondered my oldest son, a white, middle class, protestant, straight conservative kid who loves all kinds of classmates who share few of those demographic traits.  His closest friends do not share those same traits.  I asked him how he had so many different types of friends.  He thinks I’m weird for asking.  He tells me that music and football and xbox connect them… “Mom, they’re just my friends.”

I know.  Friends are precious.

Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.  Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.  Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.  Oh, Lord.  Come by here.

Earlier that day one of my other sons, by means of connection through our area United Methodist Youth Fellowship, became the bearer of news to a girl, a classmate, that her boyfriend had been tragically killed in a car accident the night before.  The girl did not have her phone and her cousin asked my son to go with her to break the horrible news.  When I picked my brave boy up from school he said, “Mom, that could be my brother.” 

I know.  Life is precious.

Someone’s crying Lord.  Kumbaya.  Someone’s crying Lord.  Kumbaya.  Someone’s crying Lord.  Kumbaya.  Oh, Lord.  Come by here.

I giggle at my children as they pick on each other and their dad and beg for a few more minutes before bedtime. Big brothers, little sister, typically abled, differently abled, they’ve chosen to love one another as siblings…and as friends.   “Mom! Let’s just stay and talk some more.”

I know. Time is precious.

Someone’s laughing Lord! Kumbaya! Someone’s laughing Lord! Kumbaya!  Someone’s laughing Lord! Kumbaya! Oh Lord! Come by here!

But I make them go to bed.  Kumbaya is playing in my head.  I’m wondering where he learned that song.  And my thoughts drift back to the headlines of the day.  A precious life cut short.  A nation embroiled in a war of hate and sin and evil.  And I remember another headline out of the global news, a teasing headline saying they have eradicated Down Syndrome in Iceland.  I search my phone and read the article.  Again.  And again.  Did I read this correctly?  Did I read the CBS news report to say that Iceland has eradicated Down Syndrome by means of abortion?  Surely, I’ve misunderstood.  Surely, I haven’t read the whole article.  And now I am frantically searching for a counter point of view saying this is eugenics and this is evil.  But it’s not there.  It’s elective.  It’s choice.  It’s freedom.  (These are all their words!!!!@#!)  But I’m thinking about my sweet boy who just inserted into our very deep conversation about race and racism and hate and evil the prayer for God to “come by here.”  He is sleeping soundly in his bed (or he’s supposed to be…) not realizing that nations are plotting and applauding the “eradication” of people like him from their country.  I am numb.  My mom called, wondering if I had seen the headline about Iceland, wondering if she could come get extra kisses from our guy with extra chromosomes.  “Mama, I’m so so sad and angry and stunned.”

I know.  He is precious.

Someone’s sleeping Lord.  Kumbaya.  Someone’s sleeping Lord. Kumbaya.  Someone’s sleeping Lord.  Kumbaya.  Oh Lord.  Come by here.

And all day today I’ve wondered how to respond.  I’m just not a “jump in the fray” kind of person.  I’ve decided to speak out more than usual.  Add my voice to the cacophony, mostly just as a catharsis for me.  But my primary response will be the same today as it was yesterday as it will be tomorrow.  I will teach my children to love as they have been loved.  I will teach my children to forgive as they have been forgiven.  I will teach my children to be peacemakers.  I will teach my children that the

Lord looks at the heart of a person, so should they.  I will teach my children to be brave because they are not given a spirit of fear.  I will teach my children to seek wisdom over wealth, seek grace over gain, seek peace over power, seek faith over fear.  I will teach them that Jesus is their strength, their salvation, and their song.  And I will pray.  Pray for my world, for the broken and the bitter, the rage-filled hatemongers and the faith-full peacemakers.  I will pray for my children and the people that cross their path.  And I pray for my husband and myself as we try to help them make sense of a world that increasingly doesn’t make sense.  “Oh Lord.  Please help us.  We are lost, and blind, and deaf.”

I know.  And you all are precious in my sight.

Someone’s praying Lord.  Kumbaya.  Someone’s praying Lord. Kumbaya.  Someone’s praying Lord. Kumbaya.  Oh Lord.  Come by here. 

How Running is Like Repentance

"Oh, what joy for those whose disobedience is forgiven, whose sins are put out of sight." Romans 4:7
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us. Hebrews 12:1

Before today I haven’t really run in…I don’t know when.  I was running, a lot.  I ran a half marathon in October 2015 and kept running after that.  But 8 months ago I hurt my hip flexor and walking became difficult—running was a no.  Here’s the confession.  I could have started running before now.  I did try after just resting for about 2 months.  That didn’t go well.  But I could have started running after 5-6 months of resting.  It was easier not to.  Once I stopped, it was just easier to stay stopped.  And the longer I stayed stopped, the harder it became to start.  Then the fear started talking.  “It’s going to hurt, you know.  You’ll probably just re-injure yourself.  You’ve already replaced the time…what could you possibly give up now?  It’s going to hurt, you know.”  And the excuses kept me from trying.  People started asking me about running.  I heard myself talking about the glory days.  [Imagine in creaky elderly voice back in ’15 I was running with the gazelles…]   And then I stepped on the scale and tried on some shorts that fit last summer.  And that’s when I realized I had stopped running, but I had not stopped eating like I was running.  That should have motivated me, but it just added to the already critical and fearful voices in my head: “Now it’s really going to hurt.  It will be worse than starting over.  I bet your running clothes don’t even fit, and you can’t afford new ones.”  (The voices in my head are such mean girl bullies!)

So I started walking.  I told myself I would ease into things.  And walking was good.  But it wasn’t running.  When I was walking I found myself wishing I was running.  And when I wasn’t walking, I didn’t really want to go walk again.  So why didn’t I just run?  Because I was still afraid.  I didn’t want it to hurt.  I didn’t want to discover that I couldn’t get back in shape. 

Then, Saturday, I ran.  My husband has been bragging bragging bragging (ugh! Already) about all his running.  He got new shoes.  He comes in all panting and stinking.  And I’m trying to be all supportive and “go you!” but internally I’m thinking “you stink.”  And I’m jealous because I want to run but I’m still afraid.  But then Saturday I just decided to run.  It was slow.  I think I was creaking.  The next day I was so sore that I considered camping on the center of the staircase because up and down seemed like ridiculous options to my quads and hamstrings.  But my injury didn’t hurt.  I took a day off.  And then I did some weights and told my quads to be quiet.  And then I took another day off.  And this morning I laced up my shoes and I ran.  I ran 2.5 miles in 30 minutes which is very slow.  There were times that I think I was running backwards.  But I ran.

And somewhere in the middle of mile 1 (that spot where your brain first tells you to stop, go back inside where the A/C is on and turn Netflix back on like a sane person) it occurred to me: running is like repentance. 

No, Leanne, it’s not.  It’s the opposite.  Running is what we do when we don’t want to repent (aka Jonah).  Repenting is not running. 

I know.  Let me explain.  Repentance means to stop what you are doing and turn around and go the other way.  But (at least in my life…and in the lives of many people I counsel) repentance is often met with resistance.  “It’s going to hurt.  Things aren’t really so bad.  Lots of people avoid this too.  I really want to avoid the whole crying scene.  I mean, God already knows, so why do we have to talk about stuff that just makes both of us uncomfortable.  It’s not like I’ve killed somebody.  I don’t really need to repent.  I’m good.  I’ll just stay here.”  But then something causes us to look into a self-reflective mirror.  And we realize that there are habits and attitudes that we have put on that are unbecoming.  Our baptism clothes feel a little snug against our resentments.  And, incredulously, the chaffing causes us to think, “I’m going to ignore that.  It’s going to hurt to dig into that and get it out.  I don’t think its really hurting anything just sitting there.”  And that stuff grows.  Resentment and unforgiveness and unrepentance grows on our soul like milkshakes and Little Debbie grows on our hips.

But then one day, you just kneel.  And the glory of God overshadows the fear of the pain.  And step by slow, timid step you lay down the hurts, the habits, the resentments, the fears, the judgments, the anxieties.  At some point your brain (my daughter calls this her little brain) says “stop now…that’s enough.  Let’s tuck all that back in where it is safe and dark and anyway we aren’t as psycho as those people on Stranger Things.”  But something, the right song, the right silence, the right aroma (of Christ) causes you to linger.

In running, the real distance runners describe the high.  It’s when the endorphins kick in once the brain is convinced you aren’t dying or fleeing from death.  Lung capacity grows, heart rate actually steadies a little lower, and the brain just starts firing all kinds of new synapses.  You kind of get this feeling that you could just run forever. 

There comes this moment in worship and repentance where everything else fades.  You lose track of who is around you, how many choruses they’ve sung of that song, how freezing it is in the sanctuary.  Because you are surrounded by a peace that is overwhelming.  Your heart begins to share its burdens with ease.  Tight breath loosens up so that grace and praise are the twin bellows.  You were afraid it would hurt.  Were afraid that every confession of worry or pride would be met with condemnation or disappointment.  After all, that is how you talk to yourself.

But the God who meets us in true repentance is always more gentle, more gracious than any of the voices that live in my head.  Oh, God is honest!  God won’t let me get away with half-truths and lies like “It’s not so bad,” or “Others are worse.”  You see God’s reflection to me is not of me, it’s of Jesus.  When I look in the mirror that God holds before me in worship and repentance, I don’t see a reflection of me to critique.  I see a reflection of the Christ and I recognize how I do or don’t conform to His image.  It’s a truer picture than my own personal reflection.

And can I say in this analysis of the similarities between running and repenting, that the voices in your head matter.  When running, tunes are important.  The right tunes.  Good beat, good lyrics.  Good flow.  Because just about the time that I want to give up, if Crowder or Kim Walker-Smith come on talking about “freedom!” I’m off again.  So it’s not that we have to have music playing when repenting.  Sometimes silence is best for that.  But not my voices.  God’s voice.  God’s Word is all that will do.  Anything less than the truth of God’s word will deflate me.  But God’s word is life, is peace, is joy, is grace, is mercy, is love.

And this morning as I feel muscles that I haven’t used in so long speaking to me, I am grateful for the freedom to run.  I’m grateful for the freedom to run to God with all of me.  I am grateful that I am welcomed with open arms.  With a heart of mercy.  With a plan of redemption already enacted.  God meets me in repentance and  I remember, “Oh yeah.  I love this.”  The temporary pain of letting go of lesser things is nothing compared to the glory of grabbing hold of God’s hand. 

And that’s how running is like repentance.  To be continued…