Jeff Tacklind

Most of the writing surrounding the walking of the Camino warns you that your journey home is really the beginning of the journey. That the weight of all you have lived and experienced on the road has yet to be understood. The experience comes first and then the meaning.

But as I walk this dusty trail, I hear God speaking into these places of fear. Showing me that I can let them go. And I find myself slowly lowering my defenses. Maybe this isn’t a battle at all. Maybe I can stop self-protecting. Maybe I can see that the deeper reality, the way things should be, is really the way things are. The giants really are merely windmills that I can stop “tilting after.”

Walking in this way feels like an accurate metaphor for life in general, if you ask me. Too often I’m looking for some divine message to be written in the stars or declared from the heavens, when in fact it appears in ways much more subtle. An arrow that might go unnoticed unless you are paying attention. Searching for the way. And knowing what to look for.

There is a pilgrim motto for the Camino. “My job today is to walk and be grateful.” And I am, so grateful. For each of you and the gift we’ve had of walking the road of life together. For the consolations of life, and the desolations as well. Knowing that, in this life, we never completely attain the fullness of life. But what we do is press on.

Finding myself at the midpoint of my own journey feels like an opportunity to consider the next twenty years. How is God continuing to shape me? Who does God desire me to be as a husband, father, pastor, a pilgrim? I love how Jesus welcomes us to travel with him on this narrow road and promises to shepherd us as we go. I am hoping to hear more of His voice and heart as I walk.

It humbles us. It should. But it also washes us clean. From all the ways we fail to love and forgive. All the times we respond in impatience and unkindness. This is our king. He has made the way. May we have the courage to follow.

This is the gentleness with which God sees us. His little lambs. His flighty birds. He calls the quivering Gideon his “mighty warrior.” He notices the immense generosity of the widow’s mite. He is not drawn to grandeur and posturing. Instead, He notices the small acts and beams with pride.

My first impulse is always to run to greener pastures. I jump at the opportunity to get out of the difficult work. But God, lovingly, closes the door. He gently bursts my bubble of hope. He insists that I remain in the real work.

In a world full of crisis and chaos, where too often I am drawn to what lies beyond my control, I was reminded of the simple presence that is always there and at work. The gentle whisper of God reminds us that we are loved, forgiven, made clean.

So often we are trying to come up with hope and positivity on our own, but it is never enough. It always falls short. There is simply too much that is wrong with this world. And our self-sufficient hope ultimately succumbs. But there is another kind of love. This kind of love isn’t overcome by adversity. It is a love whose source is not dependent on our limited reserves. It is a love that must simply be received from the one who has done the overcoming.

Thanksgiving is a chosen state of mind. Thanksgiving can acknowledge the brokenness of life but sets its heart on the greater realities of what is ahead. Of the city that awaits us. Of the beauty that compels us to live lives of meaning and sacrifice and generosity.

The impulse in me to defiantly lash back in retaliation masquerades itself in a host of rationalities and justifications. “I’ve been wronged!” “You have no right!” But, deep down, the subtext is more like “No one tells me what to do!”

This is the assignment we’ve been given. To reach a hand of blessing towards those from whom we’ve felt divided. To see the dignity in each heart instead of the distinctions. To extend a hand of blessing not with our meager love alone, but with a love that surpasses our comprehension.

Start catching yourself when you make assumptions. When you rush ahead of where the other is at. When you’re trying to make your point instead of trying to understand. Because your assumptions are most likely wrong, or at least incorrect. And when you continue to press further and further into your position without considering the heart and emotions of the other, it is doing much greater harm to both them and you. You have lost sight of the person behind the issue, and you’ve lost sight of yourself.

Thinking about the good doesn’t mean we bury our heads in the sand. We aren‘t to ignore the desolations. Solving problems, fixing mistakes, preparing for the winter, are all wise steps and necessary. But they are not the bread we consume to give us strength for the journey. The consolations are all around us, and savoring them can feel vulnerable. But that vulnerable place is where God draws closest to us. It is where our hearts are truly fed. And as we dwell on these things, God draws near. Paul tells us that as we do, “the God of peace will be with you.”

How we long for some stability. A fixed point. An anchor. Jesus tells us that such a place exists. But it isn’t what you’d guess. It isn’t some principle or proposition. It isn’t a promise or prophecy. It is found in putting our faith into action. In hearing God’s words and doing them. This is the firm foundation. This is the place that allows us to weather the storm.

To know and be known by the creator and designer. How each of us is “fearfully and wonderfully made.” Knowing and being known is the whole point. And it is so much more than data. It is knowledge of what you truly long for, even when it might look like it isn’t. We have a God who knows us better than we know ourselves. Who shapes a life for us that is there to push us, inspire us, and bring us joy.

This reality should do one thing and one thing only to our behavior. It should soften us. It should make us respond with empathy. With compassion. Because the feelings you’re experiencing today, be it anger, or frustration, or worry, or panic, whatever it is, are most likely underlaid with a deeper emotion of grief. And so is that of your neighbor. It is safe to assume. Regardless of their actions, the root cause of their behavior is probably more the result of pain and suffering than something more sinister or selfish.

This world is longing for forgiveness, desperately, in the depths of its being. Longing for this unimaginable grace. And we are the ones to give it. Those of us who have experienced this humbling cleansing must now cleanse. “As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”

It appears to me that we have three options…either we are serving our own kingdom, the world’s kingdom, or God’s kingdom. And while they aren’t mutually exclusive, the order here is the key. Which of these comes first? How we answer that will describe our behaviors, our values, and our overall state of mind.

Wholeheartedness takes so much courage. It requires us to be seen just as we are, warts and all. It requires accepting and even embracing uncomfortable truths. And only in this place of meekness and vulnerability, can we understand who we truly are in God’s eyes. His child. And He is our Father. Our Abba.

To live with this trust, we must know that we are loved. That God knows our hearts better than we do. And that we can trust His love to heal us, restore us, and set us free.

There are so many things in life that could potentially go wrong! Just open your news feed and take a look. All the headlines predicting the next looming crisis. And the thought crosses my mind, if we could just see into the future a bit more, maybe we could avoid the mistakes, control the outcomes, and prevent the potential disasters looming all around us.

A community that sees the heart of Christ in the very least and strives to live sacrificially, compassionately, and generously, with kindness and tenderness. This is the light we shine into the darkness. It invites others towards its warmth.

This image speaks to me of the life we are called to live. Jesus bids us leave aside the comforts for the journey. To travel with him, even though the way seems unsure. Thomas asks, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” And Jesus answers that “I am the way.” He is the journey and the destination, the map, and the guide.

During Covid, I’ve been reminded just how vital this gathering together is for our souls. Not simply for what we can gain, but what we can give. It is the testimony of God’s love poured out to the world. It is a counter-cultural movement where the one thing that matters above all is faith working through love.

Peter tells us not merely to lay our prayers at God's feet, or politely offer them as requests. He tells us to throw them at God…to cast them, probably like he would have thrown a net. To develop our arm strength as we pray, instead of our grip strength.

Lent is a time to reflect on this quick little blip of our lives on the eternal timeline, and marvel that we are caught up in something so much larger than any of this and any of us. Resurrection has happened. Death has been conquered. And though none of us will escape death, it will not be the last word. And the truest part of us will endure.

But to receive this heavenly peace requires a letting go of the other. To gain the next life we must lose this one…at least our misconceptions and distortions. And that letting go can feel terrifying. Massively destabilizing. Out of control. This is why we rarely, if ever, let go on our own. We just don’t. Circumstances must make it so. This is why growth almost always involves a level of suffering and grief.

Maybe today we can actually address the issues that have been lurking beneath the surface all this time. Now that we can no longer ignore the rocks, maybe it would be possible to pay attention to the issues that we normally gloss over, ignore, and even deny.