Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

The Divine Palindrome

I’ve always had a weak spot for palindromes. When I learned the word from Mrs. Strukel in fourth grade, I became a little obsessed. I’d sit at my desk daydreaming up all the palindromes I could think of (mom, dad, race car, taco cat), and I’d secretly get a little giddy whenever the digital clock hit a magical number like 12:21.

My love for these quirky words hasn’t abated much over the years. I was ridiculously excited about my 33rd birthday, because after all, palindromic birthdays come only once each decade. I made it a point to ride in my Civic and a Toyota that day, and although I didn’t add random people named Hannah or Bob to my guest list, I will admit the thought crossed my mind.

It never occurred to me until recently, however, that God was a fan of palindromes. Then I read this quote by Eugene Peterson:

The way we come to God is the same way that God comes to us. God comes to us in Jesus; we come to God in Jesus.
Eugene Peterson, The Jesus Way

Do you see the palindrome there? Us-Jesus-God. God-Jesus-us.

In the Old Testament, people longed to see God face to face. But Scripture was clear: a mortal could not look at a holy God and expect to live (Genesis 32:30). The esteemed prophet Moses saw God’s presence pass by, but even he wasn’t allowed to see God’s face (Exodus 33:20-22).

Yet in his radical grace, God didn’t leave us alone and wishing for connection with him. Instead, he sent us a divine palindrome: Jesus, who mediates between us and the Father. Jesus, who enables us to see the Father’s face and not die. Jesus, who takes on our sin so we can stand in the presence of perfection. Jesus, who intercedes on our behalf before a holy God.

We have access to a gift the ancients longed for but did not see.

I tell you the truth, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but they didn’t see it. And they longed to hear what you hear, but they didn’t hear it.
Matthew 13:17

So we dare not miss this rare gift—this divine palindrome that allows us to come into the presence of Love himself.

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What’s your favorite palindrome? Please share so I can add it to my collection!

Unveiled

It’s there in every look, every conversation, every relationship—that gauzy veil that separates us from each other. We talk about safe things—the rain, how busy we are, how we can’t wait for Friday. But the moment things start to edge toward vulnerable, we blush over the nakedness of our souls and gather the veil a little tighter around us.

This isn’t a new thing. It’s been the human way for a long time—all the way back to Adam and Eve. They tripped, they fell, they shattered their perfection communion with God. And immediately they looked for a covering, something to hide behind (Genesis 3:8). But our God—he delights in uncovering. They tried to hide from him, but he pursued them, found them, loved them.

Then there was Moses. He kept his face veiled before the people because they couldn’t handle the radiance that reflected from his face. But God didn’t want a veil to separate Moses from him. He alone met with Moses face to face, with nothing between them (Exodus 33:11).

And then there was the greatest unveiling of all, on a Friday some two thousand years ago. As Jesus hung on the cross, he felt the weight of our separation from God. He saw how we are veiled from the Father, how we long to meet with him face to face, but we’re held back by our sin, our shame, our fear. And so, as Jesus breathed his last, he tore away all that keeps us veiled from God. The Temple veil sliced open, and in that single moment, he invited us to meet with our God face to face, without fear (Matthew 27:51).

So what can pull back a veil? It is love—only love.

At that critical moment when people say their wedding vows, it is the one who loves who pulls back the veil of his beloved. Like a groom who lifts the veil from his bride’s face, Jesus comes close to us, peeling away each gauzy layer until we are intimate, exposed . . . until he’s so close we can feel his breath on our cheek.

And we tremble, fearing what he’ll say once our flaws are laid bare before him. But when we finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, we see only love on his face. Pure, unstoppable, unquenchable love. It has been there all along. We just couldn’t see it until the lifting of the veil.

So what is holding you back today?

It’s scary. I know. But I urge you to begin this journey toward vulnerable love. Come close enough to let him pull back the veil. Love is waiting on the other side.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
—C. S. Lewis

On Judy Blume, Burning Bushes, and Timelessness

Tiger1The first time I read Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes, I was just a little younger than Davey, the fifteen-year-old narrator and heroine. Now, some two decades later, I’m just about the age of Davey’s mom. Interestingly, the characters on the pages haven’t aged a day since our last visit.

 

On Saturday I heard Judy Blume speak about the debut of the movie version of Tiger Eyes, released last Friday. At the end of her talk, she opened the floor for a Q & A with the audience. To my astonishment, dozens of young girls stood up—from grade schoolers to middle schoolers to high schoolers—to let her know how her books had connected with them. Superfudge, Freckle Juice, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret: the same books that kept me company some twenty years ago.

 

“We read to know we are not alone,” C. S. Lewis said. And sure enough, Judy Blume’s books were there to let me know I wasn’t the only one wrestling through the crazy-making emotions that come with the territory of growing up.

 

At one point near the end of the Q & A session, a teacher took the mic and asked Judy why she thought her books had held up for so many years.

 

Judy thought for a moment and then said, “You know, I write about people, about feelings. And as much as technology advances and the world looks different in a lot of ways than it did when I wrote the book in 1981, people are still the same. They still experience the same emotions.”

 

Tiger2

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The next day in church, the message was about Exodus 3, where God shows up to Moses in the form of a burning bush. In this scene, God reveals his name to Moses, and it’s kind of a curious one—a verb where we’d expect a noun: I Am. “Say this to the people of Israel: I Am has sent me to you” (Exodus 3:14).

 

God didn’t reveal himself as “I Was”—citing a track record of things he’d done in the past. He didn’t reveal himself as “I Will Be”—claiming what he’d do one day in the future. He was saying, in effect, Wherever you find yourself in the timeline of history, I Am there.

 

Generations come and go. Traditions change, culture fluctuates, technology thrusts us ever forward. But we humans, at our core, are still the same. We love and we lose, we laugh and we cry, we mourn and we rejoice. And in the midst of it all, God and his Word remain relevant, timeless.

 

Even more timeless and more timely, I dare say, than Tiger Eyes.

 

Tiger4

 

Note: For more on the burning bush artwork, visit http://fineartamerica.com/featured/burning-bush-anne-cameron-cutri.html.