All Things Are All Things
In the midst of my summer sabbatical, I’ve spent the last 10 days in Maine. This state is nicknamed “Vacationland,” a moniker that has appeared on license plates here since 1936. The primary reason that Maine has long been associated with vacation is fairly obvious – water! Between its beautiful rocky coastline along the Atlantic, over 6,000 lakes and ponds and 73 rivers measuring longer than 20 miles, this land has been a destination for escape since long before it became a state in 1820. The original indigenous inhabitants, the Algonquian-speaking Wabanaki peoples, were believed to have “summered” at the coast and moved inland along the lake shores for the winter.
I’ve spent 10 days staring (marveling, really) at water. I’ve sat in an Adirondak chair and watched the Kennebunk river lazily flow as it drains into the Atlantic, its levels rising and falling with the ocean tide. I gazed at the breathtakingly picturesque coastline at Acadia National Park, listening to the boom as the waves crashed into the rock formation known as “Thunder Hole.” I looked out at the still, glassy surface of Great Pond, largest of the Belgrade Lakes, where I dropped two of my kids off at a summer camp. And I’ve watched the Casco Bay sparkle like diamonds in the morning light as kayakers and sailboats silently pass by. What an incredible experience it is to feel the actual sensation of peace and calm by taking in these wondrous sites. I find myself thinking, “How can anyone not look at this and see God’s handiwork?”
And yet, in these past few days, I have also felt horror, fear and devastation as I read about the precious lives lost due to flooding in the beautiful Texas Hill Country. The photos and videos of the violent, uncontrollable flood waters overcoming everything in their path are terrifying. The faces and stories of the lives lost are beyond heartbreaking. And so I find myself thinking as I gaze as the torrent, “How can this be the same water that I see as God’s handiwork?”
Then I remember. It’s a lesson that I relearn often. On this Earth, all things are all things.
The organic food that nourishes and strengthens the body can also contain dangerous bacteria that harms the body (my spouse is currently hospitalized from such a reality). The medication that saves and prolongs a human life can also end a life if taken in a different amount. The neighbor who extends a helping hand or a kind word can also spew hatred or demonstrate intolerance or indifference. And the water that calms, refreshes and connects me to God can also churn and rage, consuming property and life, and leave us questioning, “Where is God in this?”
Even in the Bible, we see water being all things. The waters of baptism offer a sign and seal of our membership of the family of God, reminding us of our commission to help build the Kingdom/Kin-dom we will inherit as part of that family. Water was also the mechanism God used to destroy the earth and its inhabitants (minus Noah and his animal selections) in Genesis. All things under God are all things. Life-giving and life-taking. Beautiful and terrifying. Steady and unpredictable.
This truth, and the fact that it makes me feel so very small, is both comforting and scary. It beckons me to let go of that which I cannot control. This act of letting go is one of the most faithful things I must regularly do. As a smart friend reminds me regularly, “Safety is a construct.” Despite careful choices and a commitment to the risk-averse life that comes with having young children, all things are all things, which means all things are possible. And here is where faith really comes into play…
My years as a hospital chaplain at a Level 1 Trauma Center and Burn Unit forced me to let go of a theology that held that God is the great puppeteer, simply playing out a predetermined script that included every tragedy, accident, disease and atrocity. As author, podcaster and Duke professor Kate Bowler suggests, it’s not that “ everything happens for a reason,” but that “everything happens.” Everything does happen. All things are all things. And in the midst of all those things – over, above and throughout – is the awesome and persistent presence of God. God the healer. God the comforter. God the One who is able to hold all of the joy, horror, laughter, wails, wonder and terror that all things being all things brings.
All things are all things. That is our reality. The hope that all the scary things can be beautiful and the fear that all that is beautiful can disappear. Guiding and helping us through this reality is our God, the ultimate reality, and I am grateful for the One who rises above all things.
May God be with those who are suffering, surrounding them with the peace that surpasses understanding. May those of us who find ourselves in moments of quiet calm, gazing upon God’s beautiful creation, also find that same Divine peace, even when we might not think we need it, and seek to share it with others who are hurting.
Amen.
