1 Kings 17:1-7

We all have experiences, interactions, and conversations which, unbeknownst to us, shape our trajectory early in life and become a regular source of our development over time. Whether positive or negative, each contributes to who we are and who we’re becoming. I grieve with you any early trauma, harsh words, or mistreatment, and I pray that those are being redeemed under the power of Jesus for your own beautiful and purposeful identity as God’s child. 

God’s work of using His Word in my heart began before I had a choice in the matter. I was born to first-time parents, Bob and Carla, in the early 80’s and given the pre-meditated name, Cherith.  Growing up, I knew I would never walk into a store and find a pencil or a keychain with my name on it, although I would always scan the C’s, just in case. 

But my parents made sure that I knew the backstory for Cherith, found in 1 Kings 17. Elijah the prophet had informed the wicked king Ahab that there would be no rain for three years, a terrible plight for an agrarian society.  God told Elijah to run for his life - probably from both the king and the famine - to the brook Cherith, where he could hide near a water source and be fed by ravens for a while.  

From this scene, my parents set a vision for me to be, what they defined as, “a provider of encouragement” like the brook Cherith in a desert season.  I didn’t know then what a gift they gave in speaking a purpose statement like that over me. I owe so much to them. As I grew older and fell in love with Hebrew, I learned that Cherith means cutting, a separation. Hmm. That doesn’t sound encouraging. 

Cuts 

Valleys

Ravines 

Crevices 

Gouges in rock

Deep slices in the earth

These are the places, broken and opened, where a source of water could be found in a time of famine.  

And so it is with encouragement: it flows best out of those parts of our lives that were once whole, then split in two. Out of these crevices, carved and scarred, God can miraculously sustain someone else if we’re willing to invite them to the riverbank. May your valleys shape you into a deep source of encouragement in another’s famine, even if you feel you're just a trickle of hope.

What friend, colleague, or child could you inspire with a vision for their life, like my parents did for me, by pointing out a truth that “has their name written all over it”?

Matthew 6:19-34

I remember looking out my window during the early days of Covid, watching the birds pecking at the ground in tireless expectation and noticing the flowers blooming once again, just as they always did every spring. How normal our backyard seemed for them. The worries of the world hadn’t changed their routines, and I found myself longing with King David in his fifty-fifth Psalm, “Oh that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest.”

But I don’t have wings, so there is no escaping anxiety by fleeing to a fantasy world. The real world threatens, so I busy my hands resolving worries with work: investing, gathering, saving, making, learning, planning, earning, spending, fixing, beautifying, perfecting... and all this effort brings me face to face with my limitations.  

Whether it’s abilities, gifting, or season of life, there’s a limit to my activity, and limits often seem disadvantageous to existence in the world. Beyond that, living for kingdom priorities of heavenly treasure instead of earthly possessions, and of generosity instead of self-absorption, intensifies the question of how will I survive? Do I even dare ask, is there a chance I can thrive?

Jesus answers the first anxious question by pointing to the birds. These tiny creatures are limited to life without hands to plant, harvest, or store away, but their Creator, whose design for them was intentional, feeds them their daily portion. Every worm plucked from the ground is an act of God’s provision. He doesn’t father the birds, yet he feeds them.

But is mere survival all we can expect in kingdom living? Interestingly, Jesus does not continue to use utilitarian design in order to illustrate the Father’s concern for us.  If the basics of food, water, and shelter were His strict parameters for care, Jesus could have continued His speech with, “And don’t you see how fluffy the birds become in winter? They have all the protection they need to survive, so don’t worry about clothes.”

Instead, He asks us to consider wild lilies whose lifespan and contribution is limited, but whose adornment is unrivaled by royalty. Their flourishing indicates something more than brand names and gold rings can indicate in our human world: it indicates thriving from the inside out. Jesus refers to these wildflowers as evidence that the body is more to Him than just the fabric we layer on top of it, and our obsession with externals is backwards. God doesn’t father the flowers, yet he provides for and delights in their brief and genuine flourishing. Imagine his delight in ours. 

God is not just Creator, but Father to His children, those of us with a little faith and countless limitations. He is fully aware of what hinders us and of the limitations we wish were not ours, but it’s often those that point to His care.  When we are as diligent as the birds in our daily pursuit of His kingdom and as dependent as the wildflowers to flourish with His character, we operate within the kingdom ecosystem. Our surviving and thriving, as a result, will be to our Father’s credit and delight.

Do some bird watching with Him, and notice the wildflowers.

Matthew 6:1-18

There are a few chapters in the Bible that I come back to regularly, no matter the season, and they always seem to apply, no matter the situation. They’re the chapters that have, over time, most deeply shaped and reshaped my view of God, myself, and my place in His kingdom on earth. When I question if God cares for me, doubt my identity, battle anxiety, forget the priorities, think it’s all vanity,...they’re the chapters that center me. I might call them my personal formation chapters. 

One of them is Matthew 6. If you skim through it, you might notice how many times the word Father is repeated, a sure sign that this is a theme.  I counted twelve times, the most famous found in verse 9, when Jesus teaches his disciples to begin their prayers by addressing, “Our Father in heaven…” He used a similar phrase in the first verse of this chapter, which means He’s told us twice that our Father is in heaven. 

There is certainly consolation in that. Our Father is in a place above all things, so nothing is outside of His authority. Our Father is in a place of perfection, so our future with Him will be whole. Our Father is in a place of eternality, so His existence is unending. 

But is heaven the only place to be assured of our Father’s presence? So often, heaven seems like a land far away, somewhere over the rainbow. Where on earth is our Father when you’re quietly working a side job to support someone in need, thanklessly changing diapers and treating fevers at midnight, regularly showing up for a friend with cancer, achingly praying for a spouse?  Is the Father loftily observing from a distance?

Verses 6 and 18 whisper the answer, doubly emphasizing another place we find our Father, calling Him “your Father who is in secret.” The very Father who is in heaven, is your Father in secret, unseen moments. If I believe what Jesus repeats twice about our Father in a heavenly place, then I lean into what He repeats twice about my Father in a hidden place. He is invisible, and the invisible is what catches His eye. 

Your unannounced giving, unobserved praying, and unnoticed fasting are where your Father waits to reward you.  But maybe it’s because those are the moments we linger in least and publicize most, that we don’t experience His presence like He intends. Maybe it’s because we hate to feel invisible, that we aren’t transformed to His likeness as He intends.

Giving. Praying. Fasting.

In which of these practices are you joining your Father’s invisibility to enjoy His presence more fully?