Doxology
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After 12 Days of Christmas: Epiphany!
As a grown-up, I don’t think I’ve ever taken the Christmas decorations down before today, and that was true before I knew Epiphany was even a thing. At first, I’d say it was just me dragging my feet about allowing the “most wonderful time of the year” to end. As far as it depended on me–I declared by lingering decorations–we would have our full 12 Days of Christmas even if the rest of the world around us was ready to move on into New Year’s Resolutions involving less clutter and fewer cookies.
The New Year celebrations in Thailand overshadowed Christmas, almost swallowing it up: the numbers 2024 were displayed in red and green almost as if it were synonymous with “Merry Christmas.” There are plenty of Christmas decorations around Chiang Mai, in keeping with the city’s intercultural flair. The last time I was anywhere a Christmas tree had been erected, it was still up…and I like that. 2024 is the year of the dragon, a tradition Thailand shares with other Eastern cultures: the red and gold New Year décor blends right in with the glitzy glittery sort of Christmas décor that seems to be favored here. [Sidenote: I’ve probably seen more of the puffy sort of tinsel garland this year than in the past 20 years of Christmases in America combined. It reminds me of my Grandma’s Christmas tree in the late 80s/early 90s…you know, around the same time in history that we rolled our jeans at the ankles so they poofed out like MC Hammer pants.]
Yes, our Christmas tree is still up. Christmas was truly lovely in all the most important ways for us this year. We had a joyful celebrations with the ZOE family, and hosted a Christmas party for the ZOE Child Rescue Team.
At our international church service, we heard scripture read in a multitude of languages I didn’t know existed and worshipped with believers from all over the world. We took our annual Christmas church service photo in front of palm trees instead of a Christmas tree, void of fancy dresses or sweater vests.
However, I admit the coziness of the days between Christmas Day and News Year’s Day left me wanting. I still snuggled under my “Joy to the World” blanket, drank my coffee hot (even though iced is more appropriate to the climate), and tried to bask in the glow of the Christmas tree in our living room for some heavy hours of reading and reflecting. But I missed my fireplace, the snow outside, the sound of the wind howling, and reddiwhip to put on my coffee.
I was today years old when I really realized just how culturally bound my “feeling of Christmas” has always been. Snow wasn’t a part of the first Christmas. There was no bedazzled Christmas tree beside the manger. Stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care on the night Jesus was born in the stable. Of course I knew that … and yet those things have always been a part of how Christmas “feels” to me. Realizing that, Epiphany carries new weight for me this year and is more beautiful than ever before.
Traditionally, Epiphany is the day the church has set aside to remember the wise men coming to Bethlehem to find “he who has been born king of the Jews” (Matthew 2:2). The wise men came from the East. I am a Westerner, I think according to Western ideas and have been shaped by my Western culture. I now live in the East and am daily becoming accustomed to Eastern ideas and the deep-seated customs of Eastern culture. The men who came to find Jesus came from this side of the world. Buddha walked the earth hundreds of years before Jesus and so I wonder: were the wise men schooled in Buddhist thought like the kids here in Thailand are today?
The wise men were astrologers or magicians: wealthy men who accurately discerned a message written in the stars. They came to worship, but they were not Jews waiting for their Messiah: they were Gentiles from a foreign culture, with totally different ideas, practices, traditions, and culture. A lifetime of astrological study, a very long cross-country journey, and their diligent search for one bright star culminated as they “rejoiced exceedingly with great joy” over finding young Jesus (Matthew 2:10). They bowed in worship to a tiny king and lavished gifts upon him (Matthew 2:11). This wasn’t at the manger, but I am glad the wise men are a part of our nativity scene anyway…we need them in this story.
After the gifts were given and received, the wise men’s part in the greatest story ever told just ended: in a quiet, anti-climactic finale we are told they chose to “return home by another way” (Matthew 2:12). The wise men’s experience of Christmas brought exceedingly great joy and—also—complex feelings of a darker nature (fear? Anxiety?) that caused them to act in caution and secrecy. When they chose to “return home by another way” they were choosing to disobey the local government official’s direct orders (see Matthew 2:8). This, in part, led to the “Massacre of the Innocents:” the tragic deaths of so many innocent children at the hands of a power-hungry government. And so Matthew’s account of the Christmas story ends with weeping and lamentation that could be heard miles away (Matthew 2:18).
I scanned the Christmas accounts for emotive sort of words that give us clues to how that first Christmas may have “felt.” Here are a few of them, in no particular order: shame, resolve, contemplation, fear, rejoicing, great joy, warning, lamentation, weeping, refusal to be comforted, greatly troubled, fear, power, holy, wonderful, blessed, rejoicing, exaltation, mercy, great fear, great joy, haste, wondering, pondering, glorifying, praising, peace, marveled, give thanks, “and a sword will pierce through your own soul.”
Christmas is beautiful, as we celebrate our God who took on flesh in the most extraordinary way through the most ordinary of miracles. Christmas is complicated, for all the same reasons and more.
The celebration ends, after 12 days of Christmas, with Epiphany. Epiphany recognizes that Jesus is a gift not only to a specific people, but a gift unto all the world. The celebration of the coming of our LORD is one that transcends culture, and it has done so from the very beginning. Upon entering the world, Jesus radiated love so bright and so bold that the whole world could see. Those wise men from the East traveled far in search of the glory of God with lavish gifts and hearts of worship. Jesus came for the children of Israel AND for those in the East. He came for you. He came for me.
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Simple Joys, Learning from the Birds.
We have an Acerola Cherry Tree. We didn’t plant it. We didn’t know it produced fruit. When it did, we had no idea what fruit it was. Thanks be to google, we now know our home to be equipped with an Acerola Cherry Tree.
They aren’t like any other cherry I’ve ever tasted. Somewhere between the flavor of a tart peach and maybe a crabapple crossed with a grape, yet with the texture of a soft plum, shrouding three triangular seeds, and encased in a vibrant red color, these little delights are delicious to snack on. I often grab a handful whenever I see their spectacular reds contrasting against the even toned green leaves surrounding them like ornaments on a decorated Christmas tree.
I dove into the depths of the interwebs, trying to identify this mysterious fruit tree in our front yard. Not quite a cherry, but also not a crab apple, how does one begin to search when the identity is difficult to describe? But google didn’t let me down. I learned some impressive facts about these little beauties. The Acerola Cherry is PACKED with Vitamin C. One cup of these sweet nuggets has the same amount of Vitamin C as THIRTY cups of oranges. Take that Florida! They also have a significant amount of antioxidants to help ward off….er….oxidants.
The little factoid that I didn’t expect was their shelf life. They last maybe two or three days being the reason you probably won’t ever see them in a store. A couple days. That’s it. I thought it was the birds stealing my snacks, but the reality is, those cherries just need to be eaten when you see them. You mustn’t wait or you’ll miss out. Maybe the birds know that too as I’ve seen plenty of red in the morning and not a cherry to be found in the afternoon. While that seems depressing, the reality is, this tree continually produces more and more cherries. I’ve picked the tree clean one day and harvested a heaping bowlful the next afternoon.
Having grown up on the heart of farm and ranch country, I’m all too familiar with the cycle of planting, tending, harvesting and canning. Harvest comes but once a year. A late frost, a stray hail storm, heavy rains, droughts, and the like, all drastically impact that one time of year where all hands are on deck to collect and store the bounty so we can enjoy it until next year. A continually producing tree seems more reminiscent of the Garden of Eden than anything I’m familiar with from my past.
When the Israelites meandered through the desert, the Good Lord provided daily manna (keyword: daily). They collected in the morning, enjoyed it through the afternoon and started the process again the following day. Some Israelites didn’t like the idea of a daily harvest. Apparently it’s too much work. Being lazy-minded yet disguised as prudence, some tried to store several days worth only to discover the manna didn’t keep. Maggots and worms rotted the daily bread, requiring the chosen folks to make a choice every day: harvest and eat, or sleep in and starve.
The parallels between mysterious manna and my mysterious cherry-like fruit are readily at hand. The Lord provides daily. And like those “prudent” Israelites, I can dupe myself into thinking I can get my fill of Jesus in bountiful harvests to last me through the week, month, or year. The reality, however, is Jesus is my DAILY bread (daily cherries). His unique flavor, subtle yet contrasting beauty, and necessary nutrition are experienced daily. As good as flavor can be, it is a fleeting experience. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. To experience the nuance, depth, and specific characteristics of any flavor, one must consume the food again to relish in the experience.
Jesus is all around me, inviting me to partake in his simple joys. Those subtle flavors of His goodness, His mercy, His grace, joy, love, peace, and tenderness are best experienced daily rather than periods of abundance and famine.
I’m okay sharing with the birds. God feeds them daily too. Why shouldn’t we both eat from a life giving tree? Maybe my winged friends know more about daily bread than I do.
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Dance, Friends, and Fun!!😁
I went to a camp called Discovery Youth Camp. The camp was hosted by people who came from Hong Kong to Chiang Mai. The camp started and 8:30 a.m. and ended at 5:00 p.m. every day for one week. In the morning, we went in for worship and a message.✝️
After worship we had a snack that was usually watermelon and yogurt with cereal in it. Next we came back inside and divided into groups. Before the camp started we got bracelets with different colors to tell you which group you were going to be in. I got red. In our groups, we talked about the message and got to know the people in our group. Then we would head back outside for lunch. For lunch there was always something spicy, something not spicy, and rice. After lunch we had free time, though for me free time was just waiting for free time to be over to we could do breakout sessions😏. The breakout sessions were by far the best part of camp!
The breakout sessions were the reason I wanted to sign up for camp in the first place! When we signed up for camp, we got to pick which breakout sessions we wanted to do. There was drama, vocal training, worship band, and urban dance. Obviously I picked dance!😉 The dance was really fun to learn and really fun to perform. The teacher was a man from Argentina who was a competitive dancer. It made me feel special that he put me in the front of the formations and gave me a special part! Here is a video ⬇️ (I am the one in the braids):
(If you like this video, please make sure to give it a thumbs up and subscribe to our YouTube Channel!)😋
After the first breakout session, we would eat another snack (this one was usually just a bag of chips and a juice box) and then we would head out to our second breakout session. Instead of the same breakout session every day, this one was different every day. The first day I did arts and crafts, the second day I did bracelet making, and the third day I did arts and crafts again. I was expecting to do the same craft both days but the last day we actually did a different craft so I was lucky.
That’s how it went for the first three days, but the last two days were a bit different. On Thursday, we watched a movie instead of our breakout sessions (I personally would have rather done breakout sessions but it wasn’t my choice). That night we stayed for dinner and a worship concert. I was able to invite friends and all of these friends were able to come with me!
On Friday afternoon, we did rehearsal for the show. On Friday night, my family and friends came to watch me perform (that’s why I have a video that you saw earlier). These are the people that came to my show!
I had a lot of fun at camp and I am really glad I went. I think my favorite part was performing since I haven’t performed in awhile and I LOVE doing it!!!😍 But I also think that one of the coolest things about this camp was that about 75% of the kids who came to camp were from another country where they aren’t supposed to worship God. When I asked people were they were from, I found out that some of them came to Thailand just for this camp. Even though English is their second language almost all of them were fluent in English: FLUENT to the point where I couldn’t even tell that English was their second language! Even the 8 and 9 year olds! That really inspires me to work on my Thai so that maybe some day will be able to speak Thai like they spoke English!
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Lay Down Your Old Chains. Pick Up Your New Name.
It’s still June. You’d have to be living under a rock at the depths of the Mariana Trench to not know about Pride month, which in essence is an entire month dedicated to identity. While I have plenty of opinions on the merits or lack thereof regarding an entire 30 days dedicated to the discussion of orientation, I’m more drawn to the idea, the concept, the value of identity and its implications on our individual lives.
Several years ago, I pondered the impact of a name. When something inanimate, or even a typically mundane creature gains a name, the level of importance, value, and dignity changes. A dentist hunted a lion. No one cared. But that lion had a name: Cecil. And suddenly he wasn’t just a feline anymore. His death subsequently gained worldwide attention when before we’d be hard-pressed to think of any other time a lion was hunted became noteworthy. A law in Colorado is referred to as the Samson Law because an archery hunter killed an elk. Not just any elk, an elk named Samson. I ruminated on the idea of abortions and what their prevalence would be if we first called the “clump of cells” Rebecca, Stephen, Megan, Quinton, or Sarah. Would we toss their small bodies in trash cans if they had names? I’m not certain we’d be so cavalier about the procedure if we named the “fetus” before executing them.
What is the value of a name? If you have kids, think about how difficult it was to name them. How many names did you discredit because of negative experiences associated with a person bearing that same name? In many cultures, names are given or changed later in life to further describe the character or calling on the individual. Simon became Peter. Saul was renamed Paul. Here in Thailand, people are often given names but later given nicknames that help define who they are. A translator I knew was nicknamed Shopping because after a rather abusive and demoralizing encounter with his father, his mother took the young boy to a mall where the big letters SHOPPING were displayed above and whispered in his ear, “Someday you will be as big as that mall.” She was trying to keep Shopping from identifying himself as the victim of abuse and to call him to rise above it into something great.
Our names convey identity. We all want to be known. We’re in a constant state of tension between wanting to stand out and yet not be alone. We want to belong. We carry the burdens of past labels: whether someone had spoken them aloud or they were descriptions we placed on ourselves. We’re in a never-ending battle to overcome those false identities. Do we believe we’re stupid, incompetent, ugly, childish, insignificant, or afraid? Where do those identities come from? Why do we think those thoughts and believe those identities? Are they even identities in the first place? Have we elevated a lie and given it authority to define us?
It seems so many self-imposed identities are not identities at all. We drop a plate and suddenly we’re clumsy as if we’ve never been able to carry a single object without breaking it before. We make a mistake in a 4thgrade spelling bee and suddenly we identify as stupid. Our bodies haven’t grown at the same rate as our peers so we believe we’re ugly, gangly, and unworthy. It’s remarkable really. Honestly, it’s so easy to see how others live their identity lies yet we’re blinded to seeing our own.
What if we had a given name? Not just a name our parents may or may not have labored in vain over. But a true identity given to us by the One who actually formed us? Is it possible that He who knows the hairs on our head cares about speaking our true name? The Great God of the universe, the One who SPOKE everything into existence. The One who devised the greatest caper of all ages to rescue those who could do absolutely nothing for Him by sacrificing himself on a Roman cross. That God, who took on flesh, walked this earth, dined with friends, laughed, cried, and told stories, is the God who speaks and calls us by name. Not the name on our birth certificate, but our real name. The name that conveys our true identity, the one He crafted.
What if we knew THAT name? What if we lived THAT identity? I asked myself those questions and honestly, the implications of the answers fired me up. If our great God who sent His only Son to lavish abundant grace on us calls me by name, why don’t I know it? Why can’t I hear it? It seems like a cruel joke. But then, what if I could hear it? What if I discovered and knew my given name? What if the God who speaks calls me by name and I actually hear it? What then? The excitement was powerful.
I believe we all crave an identity. Everyone. All of us. We desire to be known. We know we aren’t just another fish in the ocean, a zebra among a pack of stripes or bird in an indistinguishable flock. We’re more than that and deep down, we know it. But where does our identity come from? From ourselves? Are we sifting through personality profiles, feelings, and experiences? Are we trying to find our individual identity by placing ourselves into various groups, classes, orientations, clubs, and races? Or, is there a way to actually push through the noise, the junk, the lies, the hurt, shame, and chaos to find our true selves? If the God who created you as you and me as me, did so on purpose—with all our nuances, quirks, shapes, sizes, colors, and hair patterns the way He saw fit—is it too much of a stretch to think He actually has a name specifically for you? An identity? A real, authentic, and individually chosen identity?
I know mine. I just discovered it a few weeks ago. God didn’t just now give me a new name. It’s the name he gave me when He created me. It has always been there but now, I was given the tools to reveal it with intention. This discovery has transformed me. The transformation is not the same as going one way and now going another. Rather, it’s more like an expansion. Forgive me for the reference as it’s been years since I’ve seen the movie but maybe the experience is like Jim Carrey’s character in the Truman Show. His world was real inside that dome, but that wasn’t the real world. When he finally discovered there was more than what he’d always believed to be his whole world, things changed. He saw differently. He needed to see who he really was. But unlike a fictitious character in a marginally humorous movie, I have seen the lies, broken free, and found my true identity. I didn’t create my identity and it isn’t the one I would have chosen for myself. But it’s mine. Spoken to the deep crevices of my heart by the God who speaks.
I’ve been going to church all my life. I’ve heard all about having a “personal walk with Jesus.” I know about “praying without ceasing,” and “Love the Lord with all your heart, mind, soul and strength.” I’ve been taught to read my Bible daily and pray so I can be close to Him. But I’ve never understood it the way I understand it now.
Maybe our lives are disconnected, lacking purpose, blown around, and shallow because we haven’t been taught how to be known by the one who knows and made us. Doesn’t it stand to reason that if you can truly know God and experience being fully known, just maybe some power or entity who detests God would want to prevent that heavenly orchestrated relationship from flourishing? The same evil that rejoiced when Jesus died on that cross is the same evil who got his teeth kicked in three days later when the tomb was empty. If the Father of Lies comes to steal, kill, and destroy, what makes you think you’re not on his list of targets? Why wouldn’t he make you believe a lie and draw up an identity for yourself through your own power? The last thing he wants is for you to be known by the One who created you.
If any of this pings deep down within you, I’d offer a book recommendation that guided my transformation:
Click here to purchase “Living Fearless” by Jamie Winship.
This is not a casual read but it isn’t some scholarly read for doctoral candidates either. Read it cover to cover over a dedicated course of a few days. Make the time to get away. Turn off your phone. Grab a notebook and a pen. Eliminate the distractions. When you’re done, I’d love to hear your name, that true identity given by the One who speaks.
Let’s lay down our old chains and pick up our new names.
(The title photo is just a beautiful photo I took on the beach in Penang, Malaysia where I read Jamie’s book and uncovered my identity.)
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MORE IMPORTANT THAN A FILTER
I was explicitly told to by my manager at work to always relate whatever project I’m working on or the changes I’m suggesting back to the Scriptures. Let Jesus be THE authority, not Rodney Keim “The Missionary.” The Thai people by nature and culture, are very deferential. Even if they fully disagree with everything I might say, my position as a missionary from America, places me in a position of authority, whether it is merited or not. They might know a better way or have more experience than me, but they will very likely acquiesce to my position simply because their cultural upbringings tell them my status is greater than their’s. We as Americans don’t have a problem verbally battling for better ideas. However, observing our cultural differences is critical to moving forward as a team.
My job title at the moment is “Facilities and Agricultural Advisor.” My current role is to look over the property with fresh eyes and seek out areas of improvement, research how these improvements can be made, and make efforts to implement my research. An area I stumbled upon that didn’t look quite right was the tilapia and catfish farm. ZOE raises their own fish for consumption, but it hasn’t gone as smoothly as they had hoped. The fish have either underperformed, taken too long to reach consumption size, or simply died off. I have no training when it comes to aquaculture, but I do have a knack for spotting things that don’t seem on target. My first look at the fish farm tanks immediately piqued my curiosity as to a potential problem. The water looked like chocolate milk. A general rule I learned many years ago was “animals under stress don’t perform.” Regardless of the animal in question, if they are stressed because of poor handling, extreme temperature, the presence of pests, or low-quality environment, they simply won’t thrive. They won’t eat right or enough. They’ll get sick. The problems pile on top of each other ultimately leading to death.
There are over 300 white and orange Tilapia in this tank. Where are they? I could have explained all my training to the Thai staff, but it likely wouldn’t have landed with the weight with which it had bothered my conscience. Fish in Thailand are raised in dirty water all the time. The large ponds and lakes around are all murky and yet people still catch seemingly healthy fish. Plus, they’re fish right? Who cares about a stupid fish?
Remembering my manager’s imperative to allow the Bible to be the supreme authority, I believe God sparked my creativity. I asked a couple of the Thai staff in charge of the fish farm to picture what the water looked like in the garden of Eden. When everything was made perfect, could they picture what type of water the fish were swimming in? Of course, they said the water was clear and clean. This isn’t a revelation. No one needs to be told what perfect water looks like. We all intrinsically know that water should be clean. Furthermore, I told them to think about the air quality we were experiencing. I asked if they felt healthy, strong and motivated to work. I asked if they thought the air in Eden was smokey. Again, they knew immediately it wasn’t. I explained how we all felt off-balance breathing the smokey air and knew we would feel better when the rains come and clean the air. Would it be hard to imagine that the fish would feel the same way, that the water they live in has a direct effect on their wellbeing like the air we breathe? The lightbulbs clicked on in their heads and got excited about solving the problem.
For less than $60 USD, we were able to build 2, double barrel fishpond filters utilizing a lot of materials already on hand. The one Thai staff member who has felt demoralized by the failures of the fish project, has had a renewed sense of purpose, taking pride in his work. He knows healthy water equals healthy fish, which in turn equals healthy food for rescued kids. He knows his area of responsibility is directly related to restoring trafficked kids and orphans. The pride I’ve seen swell in him as been a joy. He stands taller, smiles brighter, and looks forward to making his area look better. We’re still tweaking and adjusting the fish farm, but the Thai staff have a joy about the process which I hadn’t seen before.
You can actually see the bottom of the tank which is more than 2′ down. Had I not been emphatically told to relate all my projects back to God, we still would have likely installed filters at my recommendation but the joy in my co-worker’s heart would most assuredly be absent. Could it be God cares more about His children’s hearts than fish? I think so. I’m slowly learning to do things His way, but learning nonetheless.
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Bloom where you are planted.
There is a tree growing in the empty lot next to the home we are renting, and I love it. It has more flowers than leaves, and the color is striking against the blue sky.
Trees like this one are growing all over our Muubaan (neighborhood), standing here and there to bless me each day on my morning “walkabout”. Last month, there were yellow trees in bloom. With the onset of rain and the appearance of blue skies, these orange ones now shine.
I have always been drawn to the simplistic beauty of the adage “Bloom where you are planted.” I like the idea of a master gardener placing each seedling right where He knows it will do best. I like that a tree’s job is simply to put down roots and keep reaching up. I like that the tree reaches for food, sunlight, and water but can do little more in the way of providing for itself.
When Rod and I bought our first home, one of the things I remember stood out to me about the older neighborhood we moved into (as opposed to the newer subdivisions we visited), was the trees: they stood tall above the homes and shaded the roadways.
When we moved to the ranch, I fell in love with the ancient tree in the yard…
…the one with the baby raccoons and the tire swing.
When we moved to town, there was an old tree to greet us there, too. This one blessing us with seed pod helicopters in lieu of the cotton that “snowed” each summer at the ranch. It sheltered a fairy garden and held the tree fort that became the water slide.
Each home gave us a tree, each tree, a blessing.
The trees around me now inspire me because of their resilient growth.
They bend, adjust: growing around power lines and avoiding snares. Always beautiful. Still blooming bright.
I love that these people bent their wall around the tree. And the tree, in turn, bends out from their home, leaning over the road to provide a canopy of welcome shade.
And then there is this one. While standing tall and strong, it still finds a way to lean toward the water: drawn to its refreshing stillness and abundant source of life.
In each place I have lived, I have worked to put down roots, reaching deep and holding tight. Torn up, replanted, pruned, I admit I feel lost some days. I have been busy reaching, growing, dreaming in one direction: but if that way is cut off, I too must grow in another direction. Like these trees, I am doing the slow work of bending. Like these trees, I lean into the still waters where I find refreshment for my soul. Always, forever, finding new ways to reach up.
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“IT COULD BE WORSE” IS NOT THE SAME AS BEING “GOOD”
It’s amazing to realize how fast I can adapt to new surroundings and at the same time fail to understand the impact of that ability. If you have been following us, you’ve likely seen us post about the air quality in Chiang Mai (like Alisha’s post from a few weeks ago: https://ourparadoxology.com/breathing-paradox/). From mid-January through late April or May, villagers in Northern Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar routinely burn the jungles, fields, ditches, and rice paddies. There’s debate as to the reason for this practice but the results are the same. Due to the mountainous terrain, lack of seasonal rainfall, and shortage of wind, the rising smoke has nowhere to go and subsequently hovers like a suffocating blanket over Chiang Mai.
Having lived on open prairies of North Central Nebraska, I never once thought about air quality. We were always breathing fresh air. “Bad air” was how we might have referred to seasonal pollen, but, even then, the pollen signified vibrant and healthy ecosystems all around us.
The Air Quality Index (AQI) has six color ranges: Green 1-50, Yellow 51-100, Orange 101-150, Red 151-200, Purple 201-300, and Maroon 301+. The air quality in Atkinson, NE, regularly hovers in single digit territory, or comfortably Green. When we stepped off the plane in Chiang Mai, the air quality was about 125 – orange. By mid-April, we had air quality readings in excess of 500. Just this week, it has dropped for the first time since we’ve lived here to below 100 – yellow. Comparatively, we now feel incredible, and yet, we are still a long way from the air quality we’re used to.
What I am learning through all of this is how easily I adjust to circumstances around me, regardless of if they are positive or negative. When adversity becomes normal, I adjust to the new normal without regard to the consequences. It is like the slow boiling frog analogy. I think It is easy to understand the metaphor of the water increasing temperature just like the air quality getting worse. Just like the proverbial frogs, I acclimate to the harsh environment around me. One might argue to be an enviable dexterity of personality. What I don’t as easily recognize is that when the environment starts to improve (the water temp drops or air quality cleans up), I become excited and thankful for the relief, but don’t even realize that the new present conditions are still worse than what I should expect or desire. A water temperature of 120 is far less than 212, but not remotely close to the temperature a frog would normally be expected to thrive in.
While it’s a skill and positive attribute having the ability to function amid turmoil, tribulation, adversity, or hardships, the danger is being content with the new normal, or adjusting to a dangerous situation that isn’t as bad as it was at its worst, but still worse than it was before the situation arose in the first place. To put it another way, a child may start off clean but when he finds an irresistible mud puddle and proceeds to cover himself head to toe, the first action is to hose him off. It’s true that he’s cleaner than he was when the mud was caked in his hair, but it’s not the same as being clean.
My spiritual journey is the same. I may not be as flagrantly bad as I once was, but that’s not the same as being as clean as I should be. My ability to adapt is not a strength when it comes to getting comfortable to the sin around me, even when I experience great relief from previous degrees of sinful bondage. I think Satan uses the skill of contentment as a weapon against improvement: I’m better than I once was, but that is not the same as being as good as I should be. It’s not an argument for effort. I can’t clean my sin away more than I can make it rain to clear the smoke. My ability to adjust easily to new situations can subsequently be a barrier preventing me from experiencing the necessary cleansing only Jesus’ blood can offer.
