A Year of Lent

We are about to reenter the liturgical season of Lent (which begins next week). In many ways, it feels like we’ve had a year of Lent. A year of deprivation and simplicity. A year of sacrifice. A year of keen awareness of our mortality, weakness, and sin. I wrote last year that our Lent wouldn’t end with Easter, and (sadly) how right I was.

I’ll be honest with you. The thought of “giving up” something for Lent this year makes my eyes glaze over a bit. The younger me might have felt guilty about that. But today, I’m making space for the reality that this has been a hard season. It’s been a season where I’ve needed a discipline of celebration and delight—and a discipline of hope—to counteract life amidst ongoing transition, life amidst sickness, life amidst a pandemic. If you’re in a similar place today, I can at least offer you the assurance that you aren’t alone.

Something I have long appreciated about the season of Lent is its insistence on making me slow down before jumping ahead to a “happy ending.” Before the shouts of resurrection victory on Easter Sunday, we walk through a long season of sitting with the reality of suffering and sin. This rhythm shapes us, and I believe it makes the hope of the resurrection grow that much deeper in our hearts. We sit in the dark so that we can glory in the light.

This is true of rhythms and disciplines in which we voluntarily put ourselves in that place, but it’s also true for seasons when lack and suffering and brokenness in all its forms are thrust upon us. In that sense, this long Lent need not be wasted time. This dark, too, can make us glory in the light.

Saying such things does not remove the pain of this season, just as the resurrection did not remove the pain our Savior suffered on the cross. But it does anchor us in one of the deep truths of our faith: we worship a resurrecting God. Nothing else can speak to our sorrow and grief and uncertainty like the Risen Jesus. And sitting with sorrow, grief, and uncertainty makes us rejoice all-the-more that those realities are not the end of the story.

So as we enter this season of Lent, instead of feeling as though you must engage in a particular form of Lenten practice, ask yourself what will cultivate the power of that Story in your heart. (As with so much else, it may look different this year than it has in the past.) What will help you to slow down and be ready for joy when it comes? What will help you be aware of suffering and sorrow and sin—but also rooted in hope? What will prepare you to glory in the Light?

Because this Lent will not last forever. Resurrection is coming. Thanks be to God.

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If you’re looking for a few ideas for how to mark the season of Lent, my friend Kristen has a helpful guide with some resources and links. You can find it here.

Hope Is An Audacious Thing

Over the last several months, I’ve been meditating a lot on the nature of hope. It may seem ironic, really, that a book about depression would spark such thoughts, but as I’ve told and retold the stories of the Companions, I can’t help but circle back to what kept them alive in the dark.

If, in the midst of our suffering, we had nothing to turn to that was bigger than our pain, no reason to expect an end to our agony, no whispers of the possibility of redemption, we would have much reason to be pitied. In a world like the one we live in, where pandemics strike and justice goes unmet, I need hope to be more than wishful thinking or a spiritualized cliché. I need a hope that’s deep and robust enough to withstand the darkness.

I’ve returned often to a story I heard too late to include in the book. Martin Luther, the great Protestant Reformer, struggled with depression on and off throughout his life. One of those seasons came after his teenage daughter, Magdalena, died in his arms. It’s a heartrending scene. As you can imagine, Martin and his wife Katie were devastated. But as the carpenters were nailing the lid on Magdalena’s coffin, Luther yelled, “Hammer away! On doomsday, she’ll rise again!”

Every time, it sends chills down my spine.

When I hear a story like that, I can’t help but think of hope as an audacious thing. It plants itself in the darkness and defiantly insists that, in the end, light will have the last say. Hope stands in the midst of burned out ruins and refuses to accept a blackened shell as the end of the story. And it can stand by a graveside, as the hammers still ring, telling death not to be proud.

Such hope does not remove our pain. (And it does not cure depression.) But it does prove strong enough to sustain us in the midst of the greatest of suffering. Hope gives us the strength to stare the darkness in the face—and still defiantly insist, “This is not the end.”

There will come a day when sorrow and suffering and sin will forever be undone. A dawn will rise where there is no more death, no more tears, no more sickness. There will come a day when our joy will be complete, a day when nothing will take that joy away from us.

Hope reminds us of this Day. Hope sends roots down deep, to keep us tethered when we are battered by life’s storms. Hope gives us the courage to keep breathing, to keep loving, to keep seeking joy where it may be found, even in the valley of the shadow.

My friends, I know so many of you are bearing your own weight of grief. It may be the death of a loved one or an unresolved illness. It may be chronic depression or anxiety. It may be unemployment or disconnection from your loved ones. There is a fair share of suffering.

But yet there is hope. Defiant and audacious hope. And that hope will not disappoint us.

My Savior Isn't An Insurrectionist

This is not the post I’d planned to write today. I’d planned to muse on how the the reset of the New Year, though in many ways arbitrary, kindles in us fresh hope that maybe this year will be different. Then, we woke up on New Year’s Day to a car that wouldn’t start. Our dryer broke this week. And now, making them seem childish in comparison, yesterday we saw a disgraceful attack on the U.S. Capitol and the democracy it represents. Gone are those thoughts on naive optimism. We’re back in the land of the living.

As I started to see the events in Washington D.C. unfold, I sat watching live updates on Twitter with tears streaming down my face. It was a day, sadly, I was not shocked to see, but it was one I had hoped and prayed would not come. Look at what has happened to us, I texted my dad. Look at what we’ve become. For all of the calls for “law and order” over the last months, “law” transferred to the whims of a mob, and order descended into chaos. And I grieved.

Above it all, one picture set me over the edge, sent the tears flowing, and made me beg, “Lord, have mercy.” Amidst the mob pushing up the Capitol Building steps, entangled with the Trump flags and the American flags, there it was in florescent yellow: JESUS SAVES. I saw others later, including a small wooden cross, with the words emblazoned in white.

And this is why I’m writing today. Because what we saw yesterday is not the way of the Jesus I follow, and yet violence has been baptized in His Name. This is not the first time this has happened in the history of the church or the history of our nation. The events of yesterday were not an unforeseen or unpreventable anomaly, but rather the natural overflow of the language and actions of both political and religious leaders. In this case, we are well past the point of holding space for different political applications of our theology. We have passed the point for finding unifying common ground in the midst of diverse views. (I do believe, for the record, these things are of incredible value.) We, in the American church (specifically the white, evangelical, American church that raised me), once again must take a good look and a prayerful reflection on the way of Jesus and of His Kingdom.

I’ve been thinking today of two moments in the last day of Jesus’ life. The first is the moment when, as Jesus is being arrested, Peter draws his sword and cuts off a man’s ear. It’s not a violent moment in a vacuum, just as yesterday was not a moment in a vacuum. It was the culmination of a misunderstanding, even among the disciples, about the type of Kingdom Jesus brought and the type of King He would be.

The Jews who longed for Messiah to come expected someone to come powerful, strong, victorious, and defeat their enemies. They expected a King on a war horse, bearing the sword, bringing Rome to her knees. But instead Jesus came asking them to love their enemies and pray for their persecutors. He exalted those who were lowly and overlooked—and even those who were hated. As we just rehearsed throughout the Christmas season, He came in a humble way, in a quiet way, setting aside His power to become a servant.

Jesus wasn’t interested in political power then. I don’t think He’s much interested in political power now. But Peter, bless him, didn’t understand this. And so he drew his sword, as if Jesus needed defending. Jesus chastised him and told him to put his sword away, and then he healed the man who had come along to take him to what would become a brutal end.

“My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus would tell Pilate in the hours to come. “If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews” (John 18:36). Jesus’ Kingdom and power were not the type the Jews expected nor the form Pilate could recognize. It was not a kingdom of strongmen or brash shows of strength. It was not a power held by destroying or dehumanizing his enemies or by the size of an army. It was—and is—a kingdom where the lowly and weak are called blessed. It was a kingdom of peace and of service.

But this is not the sort of kingdom the Jews were looking for—and based on the events of yesterday, it’s not the sort of kingdom some who claim the name of Jesus want today. This leads me to the second episode I’ve been reflecting on—and I have the Bible Project to thank for that, as I heard them discussing it recently in a very unrelated podcast episode.

When Pilate found no cause to kill Jesus, he offered the Jews a choice for prisoner release: Jesus or Barabbas. Barabbas, which literally means “son of the father,” was an insurrectionist. According to the Gospel accounts, he had committed multiple crimes including robbery, insurrection, and murder. He was a freedom fighter, one dedicated (we can presume) to freeing Israel from her foreign oppressors. He fought in the way the Jews longed for the Messiah to fight—with the sword, with violence, to gain power. And on that day, when God’s people were offered a choice between these two “sons of the father,” they chose not the Son who spoke peace but the one who bore the sword. The true Son of the Father, who offered the way into the Kingdom of God, was sent to His death.

So, we come back to the current events at hand. If the mob yesterday had been faced with the same choice, which “son of the father” would they have chosen? In spite of their signs, there is no doubt in my mind. Though many of them, I am sure, would profess to be Christians, as would some who, though not present, cheered them on from afar, they show by their actions that they would rather follow the way of Barabbas, and not the Jesus they claim to follow. They want political power and expediency—at all costs. They think violence will bring about peace. And they do it in the name of God.

Thus we come face to face with the ugly, natural end of our failure in discipleship. This failure extends beyond the events of yesterday and the people who participated in them. We have sold ourselves out to the violence committed yesterday with a thousand tiny steps and silences, quietly supporting or ignoring the ideology that has allowed it to blossom. It has appeared time and time again throughout the history of the church, when we have lost sight of the suspicion Jesus teaches his followers to have towards earthly power.*

The church has failed these men and women, who see no incongruence with erecting a cross and a noose on the same lawn. She has failed her people when they pledge allegiance to a political party or a human leader above the Savior they claim to follow. We have failed when Christians cheer for a man who dehumanizes his enemies, who mocks those made in God’s image, who refuses to bend from arrogance, who incites violence, and who has the blasphemous audacity to suggest God needs his protection. We have failed in our discipleship when people do not have the ability to discern truth from lies or conspiracy theories from reality, no matter how many voices join in telling the same tale. We have failed when disciples of Jesus lose sight of a Kingdom that is infinitely larger and more precious than any nation or people group.

The answer for this will not come in trading one political party over another. It will not be remedied with a new administration or even with the prosecution of wrongdoers. The answer comes by taking a long look at our blind spots and graciously listening to our brothers and sisters who are trying to point them out. (For example, the white evangelical church in America can learn a lot from the Black church and the church in the Majority World. I have benefited greatly from diversifying the voices I listen to and developing friendships with people from different traditions and perspectives than my own.) It comes as we lament and repent over the ways we have played a part in this discipleship failure. And it comes as we humbly ask Jesus to show us the way of His Kingdom.

Today, many of us are grieving, and it feels appropriate to do so. But then we need to get back up—because we’ve got a lot of work to do.

*This is a longer conversation for another time, but as a student of church history, it becomes clear that increased earthly power and “influence” in culture is dangerous to the faithful witness of the church. This does not mean that Christians must alway forgo traditional power and influence, but it does mean they should always be held extremely suspect. We would do well to be aware of the dangers they have posed in the past and of the negative things that have resulted. The church is not the empire, and we would do well to remember this.

Advent Hope for a Weary World

A few weeks ago, Companions in the Darkness released into the world. I suppose some might say it’s strange to talk about depression during such a season of the year, one purportedly filled with “comfort and joy.” But I beg to differ.

This is not only because many people struggle with depression during the holiday season. It is also not only because of the weariness many of us are feeling after all 2020 has brought our way. Though both of these things are true.

No, for me, it is the season of Advent that makes space for conversations about depression during this time of the year. Advent gives me the space to be honest about the dark and to sit with it for a while. Advent invites me to be honest about the pain and the brokenness I see and taste in the world. For it was into this darkness and because of this brokenness our Savior came—and will come again. Advent offers me hope that as dark as the night may become, it will never be the end of the story.

I wrote about this hope earlier this week over at the Vere Institute:

“If all we had were the questions, weariness, or pain, we would be worthy of pity indeed and dwelling on such things would truly be depressing. But here in the valley, here in the dark of winter, we are met with a spark of hope. We sing of it: "A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices." Why? Because the valley—and all it brings—is not the end of the story for disciples of Jesus.

“In this Advent season we are reminded of the hope that offers to sustain us no matter what valleys we may be asked to walk—or how long they may endure. We are reminded of a God who stooped low to enter our world for our redemption. Of a Savior who took on flesh and all its pain and became one of us. We are reminded that Christ joined humanity in the mundane of every day life, of work and play, of dirty diapers and sawdust, of celebrations and funerals. He stepped into it all and in everything invited His disciples then, and us today, to follow Him.

“But in the season of Advent we also remember Christ's second coming, the one His people wait for today, when He will restore all things. We find hope as we long for this yet-to-come advent, when all of creation will be remade and there will be no more tears or sorrow or pain.

“This promise of the Kingdom fully come offers us hope as we walk through the valley today. And even more—it offers us a pathway to find joy in the midst of suffering, to stare into the darkness yet not be overcome. We can walk through the valley—and speak honestly of it—and yet not fear. We can walk with another through the valley and not be dismayed. For even the deepest of valleys can become a sacred place when we are joined by Immanuel—God with us.”

If you are finding joy in this season, thanks be to God—may you rest in the joy of His presence. And if you are weary, as so many of us are, may you know the quiet thrill of hope offered to weary souls—for our God keeps company with you there.

A blessed Advent, and a Merry Christmas to you all.

Why I Wrote Companions in the Darkness

I’m asked often why I wrote my book, Companions in the Darkness. The stories in it are unusual, I’ve heard. It’s not often we hear about depression and faith or about the struggles of our spiritual heroes and mental health. What led you to this?

I suppose the short answer is that Companions in the Darkness is a book I needed. I needed these stories in the past, when depression first took hold of me. I need them today, as I navigate (with all of you) a season of lingering uncertainty and stress. And I will need them in the future, regardless of what it may hold.

When I first struggled with depression, I did not know the stories in this book. But how I wish I had. It’s impossible to know looking back, but I can’t help but wonder how the stories of the companions may have encouraged me, how they may have assuaged some of the guilt that came with depression, how they may have pointed me towards small steps I could take as I journeyed back into the light.

I heard the first of these stories in a seminary classroom, and in them I heard something I recognized. These heroes, these saints, had struggled with depression much as I did. So I set out to learn more about these companions and found others along the way. They became stories I treasured, stories I learned from, stories I needed to share.

“I’ve come to realize that the stories we choose to tell communicate something. Ignoring a struggle like depression in the lives of people in church history—those we still talk about today, those we may call heroes—communicates something. It says those stories don’t matter, or, worse, that we should be ashamed of them.

“That is why this book exists.… [The stories in this book] need to be told so that we can be heirs of the wisdom and comfort these brothers and sisters have to share. They need to be told so that we find the courage and freedom to tell our own stories. They need to be told so that we are reminded that God can still use us, that depression will not be our life’s epitaph.”

I am delighted and honored to finally be able to share these stories with you, as Companions in the Darkness finally releases next week. I pray they shine a bit of light for any of you in the dark.

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Want to hear more about Companions in the Darkness?

Join me at an event on launch day. You have two options!

Nov. 24, noon EST - Diana will be the featured guest at the next InterVarsity ESN Conversation. Sign up here.

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