“The Lord said [to Elijah], ‘Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountain apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper” (1 Kings 19:11-12).

Last week, I took a week off at the Haven to take students to a Younglife camp called Lake Champion in southern New York. While physically away from the Haven, one particular idea travelled with me and swirled around my head during this brief change of scenery. As I wrote about earlier in the summer, I experienced one moment with a dollar bill that brought out the idea that God resides in the innocuous. Rather than revealing something profound, God “takes the mundane and makes it miraculous.” While the surroundings changed, this thought did not, but rather grew more prominent in my theological process. Outside of my normal circumstances, these seemingly unimportant moments were even more noticeable as acts of kindness, concern and care led to monumental changes in the lives of those who experienced camp. Camp became somewhat of a theological laboratory in which I could not only participate but also observe as students interacted with one another and participated in theological thought for potentially the first time together.

Utilizing Ekblad’s practice of using the stories of the Bible pragmatically in the context of our own lives, this section of 1 Kings came to mind in relation to interactions at camp. God does not reveal himself to the prophet Elijah in the monumental moments of the wind, earthquake and fire. Rather, God comes in the quietest of whispers. Why? What is the purpose of this meek, personal depiction of God that is clearly contrasted with the tremendous and powerful forces of nature? God came to Elijah in a whisper not because he had to and not because it was the only way, but possibly to teach Elijah about how he interacts with us. The brute force and pageantry of the natural forces at work were not where God resided but rather in the everyday, ultra-personal intimacy of a whisper. Perhaps that is how God looks at the small. To the average person, the grandeur of one large, sweeping gesture is valued infinitely more than the humility of a thousand small gestures. But what if God sees the inherent faith of the small? While we invest our time attempting to repeat and conjure meaningful moments, maybe God honors the small leaps of faith and kindness found in the day to day.

Often times, I find that God seems to delight in taking my preconceived notions of what is possible and flipping them on their head in the most unlikely of ways. The Bible is full of stories in which people from all walks of life are exposed to this seemingly paradoxical nature of God including Elijah as shown above. Entering my internship, I believed that change in the world came from a desire to accumulate “big moments.” Every week, I depended upon these moments to consistently fill me with inspiration to write posts and learn countless theological concepts in grand explosions of inspiration. While that may happen on occasion, depending on these moments will only let us down. Instead, God resides in the whispers in our lives. They infiltrate in the small acts of kindness shown from high schooler to high schooler at Younglife camp. They thrive in the warm welcome that guests receive with breakfast at the Haven. These whispers penetrate every commonplace interaction we have with another human being. Rather than focusing on the presentation of a “big moment” God chooses to connect a million small whispers together to transform the lives of everyday people of all backgrounds, ethnicities and socioeconomic statuses. The only challenge is that we must be brave enough to sit quietly and listen and notice when they occur.

With all of this in mind, how does hospitality reflect these seemingly unimportant instances emphasized at camp and in 1 Kings? Why is this important for the Haven and a theology of hospitality? To me, the intake shelter at the Haven is full of these small opportunities. In the same way that Younglife camp gave high school students an opportunity to enter a time of theological reflection, the volunteer has that same opportunity in the kitchen and front desk of the shelter. In both situations, the volunteer and the student sit in spaces where small, seemingly insignificant acts are used in God’s in-breaking work. Just like Elijah, we could be expecting the wind to roar, the earthquake to shake the Earth, and the fire to consume our problems, strife or doubt. Instead, God comes in whispers of hope in the most innocuous of encounters that lead to relationships, friendships and transformation. Our expectations are shattered by the God of the small things, and we are left with a better understanding of God’s presence in our daily lives.

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A few weeks ago, the women of Rebirth went on a grand adventure to the mountains of North Georgia. The seven-hour drive to get there might as well have been a trip on a rocket ship; for the majority of these girls, this was a whole new world. As the roads narrowed, the strip malls turned to farmhouses, and the rolling hills grew to looming mountains, the warm feeling of familiarity and comfort that always accompanies this landscape filled me with joy and excitement. At the same time that I was being reminded of the other place I call home, Virginia, my passengers were awestruck with the utter newness of it all, marveling at a part of creation they had never before seen and couldn’t yet comprehend. They all really wanted to know what a mountain would feel like to touch, and they were a little afraid of our cabin being too high because they thought we might slide down. I’ve always had a deep love for the mountains and would’ve been content had I been driving through them alone, but something about the juxtaposition of my familiarity and their discovery made that moment so much sweeter.

One of the major themes of the weekend was learning how to step outside of your comfort zone and trust God in the unknown. For me, the seven hours straight of rap and R&B music in the car was somewhat of a new experience. For the girls, the simple act of leaving Jacksonville was enough of a step outside comfort, as it was the first time for several of them being away from their families for a whole four days. But the stretching continued throughout the weekend, as we pushed the girls to try things they never thought they would, like going hiking, swimming in a waterfall, and eating a casserole with broccoli in it. (That one didn’t go over so well, but they all survived.)

The stretching worked both ways. The girls, by letting me into more of their stories and their lives, in turn pushed me to reframe what “normal” life is like. As I learned more about the harsh realities of their world back home, where just going to school each day is a “risk,” I found myself spending a lot of time thinking about where to find God in the face of the heavy darkness and oppression that these beautiful, spirited, and passionate girls encounter every day. I also meditated a lot on what my role might be in all of this. I must admit, I questioned my purpose and relevance in this ministry at several points this summer, mostly because of my own set of insecurities, and my questions came up some on the trip as well. I believe that God has created in me a heart that cares deeply for each of these girls, and wants to see them succeed and flourish, but I often find myself at a loss for what to do about any of it. My comfort zone is where I feel equipped and useful, and often I felt so utterly unable to provide these kids with anything important and unsure of what constituted the “right” thing to do or say in certain situations to be doing a “good enough” job. Much of this summer I have felt far outside my comfort zone, and the trip was no exception. I wanted so badly to be living out the values of justice, love, and reconciliation that I care so deeply about, but I felt paralyzed and unequipped to do so at times.

And then I read this in John Perkins’ memoir: “This is what makes the gospel so unique. It’s how beautiful are the feet of him who brings it – that’s the lowest part of the body. The purpose of the gospel is to burn through racial and social barriers. And how beautiful are the feet of those who carry the gospel. It’s not just tell, tell, tell – it’s love. It is the creative witness and the manifestation of that witness…When we need each other’s service we have meaning to each other. And when we understand the gospel, we see each other as equal. That’s reconciliation” (210).

So where I was worried about saying the right thing, or making the trip just right for them, or being fun enough for them to like me, the gospel meaning of it all was staring me right in the face even when I didn’t notice it. Every time we demonstrated our need for each other, our actions had eternal weight and pushed God’s Kingdom further into what was once ruled darkness and oppression. Any time I helped prepare a meal for them, or drove us to one of our activities, or they let me into their lives or showed me new dance moves, we helped each other see the humanity in the other, revealing God’s love in a real, tangible, and creative way. Whether we were hiking or dancing, how beautiful were our feet that brought the gospel to each other as sisters in Christ.

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They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. Psalm 1:3

It’s tempting to value a tree only for its fruit. That is, arguably, the best part, at least in terms of what is the most beneficial for us. What we tend to overlook, however, are the roots, the very source of life for the tree, and thus the reason we get to enjoy the fruit it produces. Like the tree in this first Psalm, I know of no tree that is able to thrive and produce fruit without a robust system of roots to provide nourishment to the rest of the tree.

We are much like trees: designed and created to bear fruit as a gift and blessing to others, but only through a rootedness that provides access to the nutrients necessary for life and growth. As a Christian, I believe the true source of life for us is found in the saving work of Jesus Christ through his death and resurrection. Planting yourself firmly within that truth leads to flourishing and enables God to produce good fruit through you. Once we know that the source of every good and perfect gift is a rootedness in Christ, the pressure to try and create that fruit on our own falls away. In the seasons God sets for our lives, he will produce good things in and through us.

While our eternal, life-giving roots are found in Christ, we all have earthly roots that play an important role in shaping the nature and type of tree that we become. This week I’ve been reading about noted civil rights activist and community development leader John Perkins. In reading his memoir, Let Justice Roll Down, I am drawn towards this idea that an exploration of where you came from can not only help determine where God might be leading you, but can also help illuminate the paths, often just as crooked and tangled as a series of roots, that God used to bring you where you are. For Perkins, getting back to his roots was crucial in both of these aspects. Perkins explains that even though he took the first chance he could to escape his upbringing in racist and impoverished rural Mississippi, it was his very experience growing up where and how he did that eventually led him back there as a witness to Christ among a group of people dealing with the same struggles he understood firsthand. God did not let Perkins uproot himself from the land God had prepared for him as the place where he would bear the most fruit.

The fruit of Perkins’ life is evident by the various ministries, organizations, and movements this faithful servant has either started or been a part of. As I read through his memoir, the most powerful aspect of his life story is how he brings to light the necessity of his roots in providing soil rich enough to produce such abundant fruit. In telling his whole story, roots and all, he is trusting that God will use it to fan out and touch people who may not be moved by the testimony of his fruit alone. In revealing even the most painful memories and darkest moments, he is surrendering his past to be a tool for building and expanding God’s kingdom.

In many ways, Mo’s approach to sharing his life and ministry with others is akin to Perkins’, which isn’t surprising considering Mo has had the privilege of meeting and learning from Perkins himself. When I first sat down with Mo at the beginning of this summer, one of the first topics of conversation was Mo’s past: his upbringing in the Deep South, his experiences with poverty and straddling the racial divide, his theological training, and the undeniable call to urban ministry that landed him in New Orleans for over fifteen years and then led him to Jacksonville where he started Rebirth. For Mo, and Perkins as well, his life story is a testimony to God’s power, provision, and utter sovereignty. A deep awareness of their roots was essential for both men to understand and recognize the call God had for where they were to go next.

I see this rootedness at work in them in another way as well: both Perkins and Mo, upon hearing God’s call, responded by planting themselves firmly in God’s will for them and refusing to be swayed. Despite financial setbacks, despite threats to the safety of their families, despite times of loneliness and frustration, neither Perkins nor Mo have turned from their call to love and serve the poor and hurting.

There’s a lot for me to learn from taking in these men’s stories. For one, I think it calls for a deeper exploration of my own roots, asking God to reveal the way that he very intentionally laid out my past, twisted and knotted as it may seem at times, to bring me to a place where I am planted by living streams of water. I also see from their stories the seriousness with which I must approach the call to the rootedness these men both possess. A part of me wishes I already knew what that call was going to be, so I could get going on preparing the best plot of land for me to take root, ensuring the most abundant produce possible. I think, however, that my uncertainty as of yet is another manifestation of God’s grace, teaching me yet again how to depend on him and rely on his timing, because realistically it is God who does the work of preparing the soil and leading me there. So until God reveals where his little plot for me on this earth is, I will “walk in [Christ], rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as [I was] taught, abounding in thanksgiving” (Colossians 2:7).

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By design, God created us to marvel at the grandeur of his creation. Who among us has not gazed upon a mountain range, or looked up at a canopy of stars, or contemplated the vastness of the ocean, without feeling overwhelmed with awe and wonder at these beautiful mysteries of the universe? Something deep within our being craves that immensity of the created world that reveals to us our incredible smallness. For in this smallness we understand our right relation with creation and the Creator, the immensely unequal yet perfectly balanced bond between human and God. God has shown in his revealed Word his love for the small, the overlooked, the lowly. God fashioned the most glorious, majestic, infinite universe, and yet looks at us, cosmically insignificant as we are, and knows every hair on our heads (Matthew 10:30). Just as God sees our smallness and says it is very good, he also looks at even our smallest acts of love, compassion, and obedience, and is well pleased with his faithful servants.

Rebirth, by most standards, is a small ministry. For the past two months as I have been feeling my way around this young, growing ministry, by learning from the staff and getting to know the kids, I have gotten a pretty good picture of its ins and outs. Though small in scope, it is vast in the riches of love and obedience. My time of serving and observing has revealed an immense faithfulness in everything, even the smallest acts: in the tireless and seemingly endless routine of picking kids up and dropping them off for church and Bible study; in the weekly preparation of delicious, nourishing meals that only sometimes are met with outward satisfaction; in the extra hug or word of affirmation for the girl who just seems a little down at Bible study; in the birthday parties thrown for student and leader alike.

None of this is easy, and most of it is thankless in many ways, but the eternal weight and value of these acts are tangible. For in every single way I have seen the leaders pour themselves into Rebirth, I know that it is out of obedience to the divine command, as Barth would call it, or the outward piety required by God in Mo’s terms, all for the sake of the glory of Christ. In every word spoken, in every hour worked, in every trip made and meal cooked, I see that the point is always Christ, working and active as the Word of God made manifest to us. Every leader lives as a man and woman “to whom grace has come in Jesus,” making that known to these kids to whom they have dedicated their time and, in the case of Mo and his family, their lives (Barth, Church Dogmatics, 539). Whether their acts are big or small, I have seen them to be good, not by worldly standards that measure success in numbers and dollars, but by what God has said is good: “to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). May God bless the harvest that the leaders of this ministry have so faithfully sown for the kingdom. As it goes, all it takes is a tiny seed of mustard to grow into a mighty tree, providing rest and shade for all who need it (Matthew 13:31-32). Breathing life and refreshment into dry spaces through the imitation of Christ, planting seeds to be sown in due time, that is the ministry of Rebirth, small now though it may be. Bigger things are yet to come.

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Oftentimes, I find that theological reflection is like trying to navigate terrain that I have never visited before. It can seem that whenever I make progress in one direction, something from miles behind me draws me back to the start. A multitude of forces can inspire this reconsideration, which continually renews my perceptions of the world around me. It is both infuriating while at the same time the reason that I have always been drawn to this form of inquiry. What is unique about this “theological reset button” is that it can be pressed by even the slightest suggestion found in an email from one of your advisors. It was curious how this one piece of advice slowly crept into every thought since I read it, making it impossible to write about anything else. On its own merits, this small idea has shown me the nature of theological reflection as it slowly takes my mind to depths I had never considered. Theology is like a slow cooker. If you rush too fast for inspiration, the theological dish will come out incomplete; however if you give it plenty of time to cook, it will become richer, deeper, and easily connected to our own personal histories. I feel that I didn’t give this cooker enough time when I submitted my post two weeks ago. Eager to write and naïve to the slow nature of theological development, I let my mind run wild. Inspired by the words of one email from Shea, the PLT staff member who directs the internship program, I would like to return to the idea of my Haven routine originally presented in the post on washing dishes with Lee.

Before I begin, I still stand by everything I learned before, which I described in my original post. My new reflections on this topic in no way negate what I learned the first time around. That moment on its own pushed me outside my comfort zone into new theological ground to map out. It was because of the bursting of my comfort bubble that it is even possible to expand upon the ideas of the routine. That being said, I fear I have swung too far to the other side of the argument. In lifting up the spontaneity of moments with Lee, I wonder if I have downplayed the importance of routine. The email I received from Shea had one simple question: “how might [the routine] be forming you?” For two weeks, that question has swirled around in the slow cooker, and I hope now that my theological feast is more “well done.” My post did a good job examining the harmful effects of what Shea referred to as “dry ritual.” Rather than being perceptive enough to see the theological implications of my work, I let my ritual lull me into a theological slumber where I was preoccupied by the exoteric job of dishwashing and not with the more esoteric lessons of working at the Haven.

But what would completely discounting a routine look like? An anarchic volunteer schedule with zero consistency? Rationally, that is not a practical way to run an intake program that requires consistent volunteering to function. Along the same line, if I came at regular times but jumped around from looking for encounters and chasing the next theological breakthrough, I would be a nightmare to the kitchen supervisor and the other volunteers who would pick up my slack. Obviously, a synthesis is in order. How can Dorothy Day and Peter Maupin open “houses of hospitality” that operate on a strict schedule but still give Day the feeling that “there was to be no end to my learning” (Loaves and Fishes, 14). How can the Open Door Community stave off the temptation to be complacent in what they are doing? Has Ekblad ever experienced a Bible Study where he felt like he was going through the motions and there seemed to be no theological value to the discussions? Even while meditating on these questions now, I see their weighty significance.

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place when I met with Professor Warren. Sitting at a table on the outdoor patio of the Bodo’s on Main Street, we discussed the physical division of a church into the sacred characterized by the altar, the pews of humanity facing the sacred and finally the middle aisle that creates a bridge between the sacred and the everyday. A physical representation of a mental and spiritual space, this middle ground is where humanity is receptive to the spiritual while God reveals himself to the people. It is in this conception that a routine becomes so vital to theology. A weekly or daily routine sets up this “aisle space” where theological work can occur. Whether this comes in the form of receiving communion on a weekly basis or having a schedule of work at the Haven, this routine gives the human a chance to enter into the aisle, navigate the terrain, and fire up the slow cooker. I just have to be patient and observant enough to notice when the sacred breaks into my routines and reshapes my theology. Lee and the washing of dishes didn’t just come out of left field to change my outlook and refocus my eyes on what is important. The routine of being in the Haven kitchen every morning opened up the possibility of the divine in-breaking that reformed my theological thought. As a result, theological reflection becomes a response to the lessons presented to me in this routine rather than an inconsistent yearning for the next profound moment. Furthermore, the burden of theological creativity is shifted away from my finite mind and onto the God of the universe who educates me through Lee and washing dishes, a dollar bill, the words of Henri Nouwen and tomatoes.

For updates about the PLT Summer Internship, click here. We also post updates online using #PLTinterns. To get these updates please like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter at @LivedTheology. To sign up for the Lived Theology monthly newsletter, click here.