Cliches

What do you do when push comes to shove? When you have to put your money where your mouth is? When the rubber meets the road?

I recently listened to Dallas Willard speaking about the Kingdom of God. He reminded his audience about the passage in the gospel of Matthew, chapter 6, in which Jesus admonishes his disciples to "seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness" and all other things will be added to them. Jesus clearly warns against putting trust in money and material possessions, a common human foible. In fact, Willard points out that trusting in money is a problem even for people who don't have any, or at least not enough. It is difficult to come to grips with the sayings of Jesus when the everyday needs of life seem in jeopardy. Seeking the kingdom of God and his righteousness can seem ethereal, nebulous, a luxury for someone who is struggling to make sense out of the cataclysms of life, but  Jesus clearly calls his followers to shift trust from the resources of the world to the resources of God. So how do I seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness? How do I shift my trust from the resources of this world, which I obviously need, to the unseen resources of God?

It's easy to listen to a sermon or give space to prayer regarding this idea of seeking God's Kingdom and depending on God to provide for all needs. It's more difficult to live it out, to put your money where your mouth is. Is a sermon about seeking God's Kingdom and not trusting in earthly resources just a pep talk, a mind game? Where is the reality, the power in the message? Can I give myself to that sermon, entering into the words of Jesus with faith and hope, jumping off the cliff, in effect, trusting that there will be a safety net at least for my soul? Willard contends that the person who is well off is the person who is alive and functioning in the Kingdom. What does this mean? How do I get there?

Matthew, chapter 6, comes on the heels of Jesus famed Sermon on the Mount. He is speaking to people who live on the margins of society economically, socially, politically. Most of them probably lived a day to day existence without access to the best food, health care, economic opportunities, or political connections, and whose survival could be threatened in an instant. Jesus does not offer them solutions to their earthly problems. Instead, he offers them identity and a Kingdom in which to live out that identity. Jesus proclaims how blessed are the poor, the meek, the merciful, the hungry, and goes on to tell his disciples, "You are the salt of the earth...You are the light of the world." Wow! Does this mean anything when push comes to shove, when I am feeling hungry and poor? Will I believe this, or would I rather have the security of earthly resources? Will I take seriously Christ's command to let my light shine? Will I allow the light of Christ to shine through me, rendering me the light of the world? Will I keep this in the realm of some esoteric or philosophical discussion, or can I have the courage and imagination to take this message as a way to move forward in my life? This is the great struggle, the place where the rubber meets the road.

These cliches might seem trite and silly, but they are where I am living right now. The ball is in my court. I can listen to the revelation of the Divine Trinity from the love of the Father through the words of the Son and the illumination of the Holy Spirit, or I can choose the logical, rational way of the world and scramble through my own efforts for the resources I need to survive and thrive. God's Kingdom is an upside down Kingdom, a Kingdom of paradox. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." When my influence is diminished and my security is threatened, I still have an identity--I am the salt of the earth, the light of the world. I can live today in that identity, seeing God's light all around me and letting that light shine through me.

Truthfully, if I can't live out this Kingdom way of living, the gospel I claim to believe has no power for the suffering masses of the earth. I have no message for refugees languishing in camps or struggling through arduous and dangerous journeys to reach safety. I have no message for girls held in sex trafficking, their souls and bodies ravaged. I have no message for those who suffer hunger and thirst, who fear for their lives amidst the violence of their neighborhoods. I have no message for those in cancer wards or at grave sites or in unemployment lines. If I cannot live this message when it demands my total attention, then I have no message to bring to the world, no light to shine in the darkness.

Money and possessions aren't the problem. It is how I perceive money and possessions and where my trust is placed. Inasmuch as my life is focused on securing material resources to the detriment of living a Kingdom life, I forfeit my influence in the Kingdom, forfeit the brightness of my light in the world. This might be hard to parse out in the nitty gritty, but my effectiveness and joy in the Kingdom of God depends on it.

This too is the Kingdom of God.

I blessed a dog today
on my solitary walk.
His owner said, "He's getting old.
He's twelve."
I touched that thin face
with the long nose
and the flowing white hair.
I looked into those kind, honest eyes.
I breathed a blessing,
"God grant you strength
and a long life."
The owner was pleased,
and I walked away with a smile on my face,
the feel of that doggie flesh lingering on my palm,
and a peace and settledness in my soul.
So who blessed who?
This too is the Kingdom of God.

Pleasant Places

My son prayed for me today, over the phone, from 2,000 miles away. The words he used as

he petitioned God for me were no coincidence. He prayed for my comfort, direction, healing,

and that God would provide me a “pleasant place.” How did he know?

It was 2007 and after several years in difficult jobs and difficult family situations, we were in

the process of relocating to a different state. My husband, Carl, wanted to find a house in close proximity to his new job because he had spent several years with a long commute.

This limited our choice of houses as there were not many for sale that were within a radius

of a few miles of his new place of employment, in our price range, and would accommodate

the needs of our family. Additionally, we were under a time constraint with just a few days

allocated in our schedule in which to find a home. We had made the trip from Florida to Ohio

for the purpose of purchasing a home but had to return to finish out the school year at our

current places of employment. We looked at all of the available properties within a couple of

days, none of which were satisfactory for one reason or another. We had almost given up

hope of finding a house before we had to return to Florida to complete our contracts and

pack up our belongings. 

There was one more property that Carl had seen online but that was significantly out of our

 price range. After conferring with our realtor, who happened to be the listing agent for that

property, we decided to look at the home. From the moment we drove up the long lane

leading to the house, I knew this was a property that I could only dream of owning. When

we walked in the front door, it was as if I had come home. I walked through room after

room in amazement. It had multiple bedrooms (plenty to accommodate my children,

as well as, guests), rich woodwork throughout, a small front porch, a large back porch,

high ceilings, unique features, windows beyond number, and plenty of space outside with

wide lawns and borders of trees. It breathtakingly suited my heart's desires. The price,

however, was $40,000 out of our range. 

What unfolded was beyond my imagination. The folks who had built the house on this four

acre piece of property were in financial difficulty and had been trying to sell the home for

six years off and on. I believe they experienced a great deal of conflict in their decision to

sell because their hearts and souls were in that place. They had not been willing to

negotiate on their price with previous prospective buyers. Evidently, they were pleased to

think that a couple in Christian ministry who had adopted three children wanted to buy their
home. Unbelievably, they lowered their price by that $40,000 margin so that we could
purchase the property. We not only had a home close to Carl's work with space for our
family's unique needs, but also one which satisfied the aesthetic dreams of my heart.

I distinctly remember the day that I drove up that lane again, this time as the homeowner. It

was with profound gratitude and a little bit of awe. I can still hear the crunch of the tires on

gravel and feel the rush of pleasure as I neared the house knowing that I would be its

denizen. And I remember the voice of God in my ear saying, "This is my gift to you for a

little while. You will not be here forever." It was a deep knowledge that made each day

precious, days in which I took nothing for granted. And that home became a haven, not

just for our family, but for many others, as well. It was a place of welcome, comfort, and

peace. There was something spiritual about it, a holy place. Words from Psalm 16,

verse 6, became the descriptor of this sanctuary. “The boundary lines have fallen for me in

pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” In fact, I had hoped to have a

sign one day to put at the end of the lane inscribed with the words, “Pleasant Place,” a

name for this heart home. 

True to God’s word spoken clearly to my inner ear, the gift of that home was not forever.

In fact, in only six short years it was time to pass it on to someone else, not without a

flood of tears. Indeed, what transpired in 2013 was the beginning of a journey of sorrow

and loss that has taken us thousands of miles emotionally and geographically. Six years

ago, we were becoming firmly committed in the Anglican church (ACNA) while at the

same time, Carl's employer was becoming firmly committed to a direction of greater

exclusivity and was systematically and effectively removing all professors who did not

have tenure, namely the individuals who had been hired to help move the university toward a
broader, more generous trajectory theologically, while maintaining faithful Christian orthodoxy.

There had been a severe backlash against this movement toward a more hospitable and

gracious ethos, and all the professors who had been hired since 2007 were on the chopping

block. The ax had begun to fall a couple of years before with the removal of a Canadian

professor over his careful and credible scholarship. The workplace had become hostile, and

the security of ten families was at stake, along with the integrity and reputation of the

university among students. A concerted takeover by, in particular, conservative Southern

Baptists was accomplished. We lost economic security, our home, our friends, as
colleagues scattered across the country seeking new places of employment, and in effect,
Carl's career path.

We spent a year and a half in a temporary situation, with part of that time going through the

illness and death of Carl's mother in Maine. When he finally was able to get a new position

and we moved to Savannah, GA, it soon became apparent that his new employer was

going to be equally hostile, just in a different way. After four years serving students in that

institution, Carl's position was eliminated without warning, and we immediately had to sell

our home again. That was nine months ago. Since then, we have been traveling back and

forth across the country, being housed by our children. The search for new employment

has so far been unsuccessful. 

This situation has taken its toll over the past nine months, particularly since it is round two

of what has become our new normal. There is a continued feeling of victimization because

what has befallen us has resulted in economic and geographic instability. No stable income,

no home, no clear plan for life. We have become "poor," stripped of the accoutrements of a
successful life. No more tangible inheritance, no pleasant place. We have been stripped,

emptied, not only of our past with its position, material possessions, even our dog, but

also of the future we envisioned. But... we do have a high priest who is able to sympathize,

having tasted every human condition--

...a root out of dry ground…

...man of sorrows and acquainted with grief....

...stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted…

...crushed...

They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him.

...emptied himself by taking the form of a servant…

...being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point

of death…

Yesterday, I sat in worship surrounded by the smell of incense, the sound of singing, the
readings...the readings. The Psalm for the day was 16. I nearly choked on tears when

verse 6 was read--”The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a

beautiful inheritance.” So many times in the past several months I have wondered if my

boundary lines will ever again be in a pleasant place. My heart knows what that means,

what that looks like, feels like. It is a deep longing that I have surrendered to God during

this time of desert wandering. And here it was in my face, at first a taunt. Then this buried understanding, a core knowledge bloomed inside me. Love Loving, the Divine Presence,

the Holy Trinity, God Himself is my pleasant place, my beautiful inheritance. My soul was

awash with gratitude, with peace.

Some people might say that I manipulate my perspective or trick myself into thinking

about life's circumstances in a way that makes me feel better, and I could never prove

otherwise, but I know in my deepest self that God is at work in all of life and in my life. I

know that I hear God speak. This is not so outrageous a thought, for even Jesus said,

"My sheep hear my voice..." I do believe that hearing God's voice requires being tuned

in to a certain frequency. I don't know how to explain that or to help people access it,

but I do believe that God is present and speaking to anyone who is listening for his voice

or watching for his hand. I think this has a lot to do with Jesus' admonition to be awake,

be alert. Though God's love is everywhere manifest and available to all, the Divine

Presence doesn't seem to invade without invitation, without a heart that desires to be

touched. This idea might seem excessively subjective, but I believe cultivation of an

intimate connection with Divinity, an abiding in the Trinitarian flow of Love, a

relationship of communion, of oneness, is possible. This notion is validated and

supported by Church fathers and mothers throughout the centuries. Saint Patrick,

Saint Teresa of Avila, Julian of Norwich, St. Ignatius of Loyola, Thomas Merton,

among many others, would attest to the reality of union with God in Jesus Christ

through the power of the Holy Spirit. The Westminster Catechism answers the question

of the chief end of man with the response, “to glorify God and enjoy him forever.” I’m

not casting aspersions on that significant document, but I believe a more accurate

answer to the question is to know God’s love and return it. When I am abiding in Love, I
hear the voice of the Lover. I know the comfort, the guidance, the joy of the One who cares
for my soul. It doesn’t mean I won’t grieve loss or struggle with injustice or suffer pain. These
things are part of the human condition, a human condition that the Divine entered with the
incarnation of Jesus. It doesn’t mean that I automatically know what job to take, what house
to live in, what to fix for dinner. It means something much more profound. It means that no
matter what my particular situation is, it can be well with my soul. It can be well with my soul
if I know that I am held in the arms of One who walked this path of suffering alone and walks
it now with me. 

Will I ever have a piece of property, a home to live in that matches my idea of a “pleasant
place”? I don’t know. “Son of man, can these bones live?...Sovereign Lord, you alone
know.” It is in God’s hands. Can I have a heart home, a “pleasant place” for my soul to
dwell? Oh, yes. That is enough. 

Morning in South Carolina

Morning in South Carolina, strangely unfamiliar,
Water glistening on leaves, skin slick with sweat.
Heavy smells in the air, dank and claustrophobic,
Old world beauty, canopied,
Verdant, lush, enveloping, closing me in.

Sarah's Folly

How often do we choose to meet our needs and desires through illegitimate means? I'm thinking of the story of Abraham and Sarah in the book of Genesis in the Jewish scriptures (Gen. 16). It is a helpful metaphor, I believe. Sarah and Abraham had been promised a son, but many years, even decades, had passed without a pregnancy. Sarah's desires and legitimate need of having a child to satisfy her longings and avoid disgrace remained unmet. In her frustration and even agony, Sara decided to give her maid to Abraham that she might have a son via a surrogate. In other words, Sarah wanted to help God fulfill his promise by coming up with her own plan. Abraham obliged her scheme, and Ishmael was born. However, God made it clear that He had another plan to be fulfilled through a son birthed by Sarah years later.

Decades ago, God used this story in my life, bringing it to my mind in a very clear way when I was contemplating taking matters into my own hands to fulfill what I believed was a call of God upon my life. It was almost as though an audible voice broke into my psyche reminding me to wait. For me, that waiting was another eight years. There were many times during that long interim that I despaired of ever seeing the fulfillment of that calling, but I could not deny the clear admonition to stay clear of manipulation. I can look back in confidence believing that what happened with regard to that situation was divinely ordained, albeit filled with challenges, and it has remained a lesson for me for my response to other things. I don't know what would have happened if I had not listened to that voice in my head, if I had manufactured a solution on my own, but I do know that what did eventually happen would have been lost. Only God knows what the ultimate consequences would have been had I moved forward on my own. 

I do know some of the pain and loss that occurred as a result of Sarah's management of her situation. As I think about the consequences of Sarah's action in the ancient text, I am acutely aware of the trauma and pain to multitudes of people that it caused. At the micro level, Hagar and Ishmael, not to mention Abraham, suffered intense loss and hardship as a result; at the macro level, alienation between whole people groups developed that continue to this day, all a result of one desperate decision. It's a story worth mulling over when faced with situations of angst, of interminable waiting, of seeming helplessness. The temptation is to forge ahead with whatever would appear to meet the need, provide an answer, or furnish relief. It's also easy to rationalize that kind of response to desperation. It can make so much sense. Unfortunately, when in that type of situation, decisions based on pain response are many times detrimental or even disastrous in the long run, and they pull us out of faithful dependence on the presence and love of God. Many times the consequences are far reaching. I don't doubt that this is a ubiquitous temptation that when indulged causes great suffering and robs us of the joy of seeing God ultimately work beauty in our lives.

Are we willing to wait for "Isaac"? Where are the places in our lives that we are seeking to speed things along, to answer our own prayers, to take matters into our own hands regardless of the consequences? God give us patient endurance to faithfully wait for his promise.

Stripped

http://www.dbonhoeffer.org/who-was-db2.htm

Weeping Heart

    Heart torn                  Two coasts
Gut wrench                   Slow bleed
    Of my                     Weeping heart
Always                        Something to grieve

Emotions unzipped      Thoughts perplexed
      Darlings misunderstand
               Voyage to the desert
Feel abandoned      Discarded by me

  Caught in the middle
                          Ripped in two
Forever my fate       Repercussion of love

Surviving the "not-knowingness of things"

In his new podcast, Another Name For Everything Fr. Richard Rohr attests that "the universal paths of transformation are great love and great suffering. The practice of meditation, contemplation, the prayer of quiet are to maintain and preserve what you momentarily learned or experienced in moments of great love and moments of great suffering." I am aware that the work of the Holy Trinity over the past few years has been leading me to a more robust and deeply meaningful spirituality and life with God and has undoubtedly prepared me to face the devastating losses and terrifying unknowns that define a time of "not-knowingness of things" that we have been living in for the past six months. It has and continues to be a time of great love and great suffering, even if the latter seems more pronounced at times. Indeed, I might view this time as simply an answer to my prayers, since I have for years uttered the breath prayer of "change my heart and renew my mind." What is change and renewal if not transformation, hence, the request for and requirement of suffering and love? I have read about and begun to incorporate several spiritual practices into my life, such as, lectio divina, centering prayer, breath prayer, the prayer of examen, the daily office, seeing a luminous world (Teilhard de Chardin), which have "saved" me from a crumbling world. Even so, I still need help processing thoughts and emotions that are negative, centered in fear and disappointment. It took words from a friend to give me a tangible strategy.

Our conversation began with disclosure of some of my recent thoughts, including thoughts about a recent dream. I know that I dream at night, but it is rare when I remember a dream. The only dream that I can remember lately is one in which I am searching in futility for my clothes, clearly a mirroring of the disconnected, inchoate, unstructured life we are living during this season of limbo. The anxiety of not being able to find my clothes, a metaphor for the anxiety of looming financial ruin, absence of purpose or permanent place, vacuous space stretched out in front of us, hovers in the corners of my mind. Similarly, in my day dreams, I see mastiffs of anxiety chasing me and biting at my heels. Sheer force of will keeps me grabbing for my collected spiritual practices in hopes that they will keep me grounded and keep my head above the waters of depression that fear and uncertainty can produce. I hear myself shouting for those dogs to get back as my arm waves them away. This can be exhausting and evidently counterproductive, as my friend, Karen Mahler, who is highly trained and experienced in pastoral care and spiritual direction, explained. This type of response actually empowers the negative thoughts, so I asked her for a better practice, a healthier way of dealing with the relentless fears that understandably accompany times of trouble and confusion.

What Karen gave me is a way to use my imagination in a positive way, rather than the negative conjuring of the hounds biting my heels. It requires mindfulness and the discernment of thoughts as a spiritual practice that has the power to free the soul from negativity and despair. The practice includes the following steps:

• Mindfully acknowledge the negative thought (e. g. a fear or an angry/ungrateful/selfish thought, etc.) and confess it aloud.
• Picture the negative thought as a leaf and release it into a flowing stream, watching it drop to the water and be carried away.
• Watch the leaf until it flows around a bend in the stream, out of sight.
• Consciously receive God's love and replace the thought with thanksgiving for something specific. (Consider Jesus' parable about the house swept clean but left unoccupied, Mt. 12:43-45.)
• Ask God to continue to change my heart and renew my mind.
• Slowly breathe in and out, mindful of the loving gaze of the Divine Presence.

And so, I am practicing. This way of thinking and responding to damaging thoughts works in conjunction with other spiritual practices, like the prayer of examen which invites the Holy One to comb through my day sifting out times when I turned from the Loving Face. As the Spirit reveals thoughts or actions that are inconsistent with a life of love and a sound mind, I have the opportunity to "clean house" being careful to replace each harmful thought with thanksgiving and love. 

Thanks to the following:

Another Name For Everything, "Episode 3, From the Beginning," Fr. Richard Rohr (a conversation about his new book by the same title)

See also, The Naked Now, Richard Rohr.

Image from--https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Urban_stream_in_park.jpg

Title inspired by--https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/28220/a-patient-lent?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+dotMagis+%28dotMagis+-+Ignatian+Spirituality%29

Karen Mahler, Birmingham, AL

closed doors and an empty bowl

It's been a week-- a week since we said a gut-wrenching goodbye to our dear little Maggie. The uncertainty of our upcoming transition to uprootedness, her anxiety, increasing feebleness, and especially her struggle to breathe because of a collapsing trachea demanded a humane response. We could not add to her suffering. Our vet assured us that it was the last gift we could give her, a peaceful death surrounded by those who loved her. It was awful and it was beautiful.

The memory of accompanying her to the end is seared in our minds. I can still feel her body grow heavy in my arms as she experienced the effects of the first injection to relax her. I can feel the tickle of the tears coursing down my nose, tears Carl had to wipe because my arms held our girl. I hear the sobs of Jenny Kate and my own voice as I chokingly speak love and assurance to that precious dog soul. I see her loss of control of her tongue and the slight twitching of her head until her body grew quiet, and I placed her gently on the table. I see the grief on Carl's face.

A collapsing vein extended the second step in the process, which was agonizing, but a dominant memory is the voice of Dr. Croy speaking comforting words as she pushed the syringe and the lethal liquid did its job, "You'll be chasing squirrels, "she whispered, "and we'll follow you, but not for awhile." And then she was gone, her body still. The stethoscope confirmed what we knew.

Her suffering was over, but not ours. We continue to look for her, to miss the familiar interactions of fourteen years, to remember her licking our faces, the frolicking and dancing of her youth, her howling at the piano, the uncontrolled excitement when meeting another dog, her obsession with people food, the comfort and undying love she gave us from the very beginning even to the end when she had little energy or tolerance for daily activity.

It's been a week, and I just saw something I wrote weeks ago but never published. Closed doors and empty bowls--

She doesn't like closed doors or an empty bowl.

Maggie has become a little odd in her old age. She seems intent on making sure she has food to eat, ravenously devouring any people food she can manage to acquire and insisting that her bowl has dog food in it even if she doesn't want to eat it. We're all getting soft in our indulgence of her cravings.

Another idiosyncrasy she has developed is an anxiety about closed doors. She wants to ensure that she has access to all the "safe places" in the house. She has conditioned us to leave every door open, at least the ones that she knows go somewhere, because of her incessant scratching if she finds one closed. She even scratches on the exterior door in the kitchen --sometimes to alert us to her empty bowl that sits beside it and sometimes to assure herself that she could get out if she needed to.

How much am I like this at some level? I am really seeking the comfort of open doors and full bowls. I'm finding it a daily battle to fight the anxiety that accompanies a situation that seems to have no solution, no relief. It is a difficult thing to look at closed doors and think that there is no safe place or no way out. I desperately want to "scratch" at the doors and find it a thing of discipline to sit in patient trust. And even though I am blessed with all manner of daily bread, I still long for empty bowls to be filled.

Today I saw the connection between me and Maggie. Maggie always had a joyful spirit,  a bounce in her step--laughing through the days with eagerness to please. In her youth, she would bound to our side, finding joy in every moment, filled with love, excited about life,  confident in being loved. She thought that everyone loved her and was an exuberant,  faithful, white ball of fluff that leapt into our hearts, therapy for battle-worn souls so many years ago. However, she struggles now, fighting anxiety that sometimes overwhelms her, sleeping most of the time, and waking us up too early in the morning, but she is still giving to me in this sacramental picture. She reminds me that though she may not realize it, her anxiety is not rooted in reality. In reality, she is loved, protected, and provided for. She has all that she needs.  Even the thunder can not harm her,  regardless of how loud it cracks. There is no reason to seek the shelter behind a closed door. Her food source is abundant, new every morning.

And so it is with me, regardless of how scary or uncomfortable it feels.

The little container

Moving again. Another painful purging of possessions and loss of structure and direction--but that's for another post. 

I was cleaning out the long closet in Carl's office dubbed, "The Gallery," because of all the wall hangings opposite the wall of bookshelves. A few storage containers had found their home for the past four years on the floor of this room. Who knows why they landed here instead of the high shelf in the garage. Most of these containers were large, but one small plastic container kept the large ones company. I had dragged this little container around the East Coast for more than three decades, carrying Stephanie's clothes everywhere I sojourned. What would I do now? I was in a "throw away" mood. In previous moves I had not questioned this box, hadn't opened it since I had laid those clothes to rest 35 years ago. However, the circumstances of this move demanded practicality, and I was on the lookout for anything I could release. So I opened the box...I held one little outfit in my hand and emotion rushed like a torrent. How could the feelings still be so strong? Maybe it was the trough of loss we had been in for two months, but I could almost feel that tiny body in my hands. Too much.

I replaced that little outfit in the little container and closed the lid. I taped it and labeled it, Stephanie's clothes. I don't know when I will give up that little plastic container, but it won't be this move.

Jealous God

"May they rot in hell," I spat onto the cold tile of a hospital corridor as the social worker guided me to the exit. I had just turned from the slam of a heavy door as it shut out the terrified screams of a desperate four-year old. My foster son, a child who had in the past year clung to me, not with love, but with an animal instinct seeking survival, had degenerated into ungovernable behavior resulting in the need for intervention. His terror at being left alone in this strange, institutional place pulled from me a rage borne of love, a fierce primal force determined to protect, and resulted in words, the likes of which I had never uttered before, words that have caused me guilt in the intervening years. I wanted to hunt down and destroy the people responsible for so profoundly wounding this innocent child who, as the years progressed, I realized would never fully recover. How could I as a follower of the loving Christ even think this thought, let alone, say it aloud? Didn't Jesus command me to love my enemies?

This memory resurfaced as I listened to a sermon by Fr. Justin Howard (http://www.idachurch.com/sermons/2018/1/31/128-revealing-the-god-who-pursues) on our God being a jealous God, a God who would jealousy defend me, relentlessly pursue me, and violently rescue me. Thinking of the ferocity that I felt those many years ago for a child that was not yet my legal child, let alone a child of my own flesh, I begin to understand the desire and pursuit of God for me. Where else could these "Mama Bear" passions come from if not from the God who placed His image in me? If I could love so deeply and fight so passionately for my children, must not God be outrageously committed to me? Is the passion of God not seen even in the Christ who would unleash havoc in the Temple court of the Gentiles in response to religious leaders fouling the only part of the Temple that the nations could access? What else but his passionate, jealous love could bring him to the most violent act of history, the cross? So is there violent passion in the love of God? I think in some way, the answer has to be yes, not a violence that is retaliatory, vengeful, or political, but a "violent" passion that will do anything to love. This, too, is a mystery.

How I need to burrow into this, to let it seep deep inside me. If I indeed truly believe this, what fears could possibly overwhelm me? How could I not have utter confidence that all will be well, that my end is secure, that my life is deemed precious, even a treasure to the Divine One? Thanks be to God.

Sunday morning lesson

I believe I had a word from the Lord this morning in church--a word set against the backdrop of two things: (1. ) Karen's admonition to go through our present discernment process with gratitude and open-mindedness; (2.) thinking about Jordan and my temptation to devalue his life because of his intense need and lack of productivity and reading yesterday about a book dealing with the value of spending time with the disabled (Becoming Friends of Time: Disability, Time-fullness, and Gentle Discipleship). This addresses deep-seated notions of intrinsic value and productivity that are too fully formed in me by society and culture and are antithetical to kingdom of God thinking.

While waiting for the church service to begin, I chatted with Nancy, an energetic retiree who is heavily involved in ministry at COTC. Our conversation primed the pump of my heart and mind to hear the Divine One point out an area of ingratitude in my life. As I am wont to do, I thought with disappointment about the lack of an intergenerational congregation at the historic campus, voiced this thought to Nancy, and asked her if volunteers from the historic campus ever interacted with those from the Cross Church campus (wondering if these two campuses ever acted as one). She replied that folks at CC didn't have the time to be involved in ministry like the older people do (with jobs, family concerns, etc.), so often did not cross paths with the historic campus volunteers in ministry endeavors, but the CC folks were recipients of the ministry of the older generation through avenues such as the Stephen Ministry. That seed worked its way into the soil of my heart as I sat through the service surrounded by septuagenarians and octogenarians. I realized that I held almost prejudicial thoughts deep down in the core of my soul for the elderly. Maybe I haven't met enough elderly people whose minds were still active and growing and who showed real concern for living out a vibrant faith. I also fail to remember that the end of this life isn't the end of learning and growing. The end of life stage is not a time of diminished value. Thus, when I wonder about the significance of Carl teaching church history to this bunch, I must remember that these saints, though they may not have many years and opportunities ahead to share what they are learning (that's "productivity"), are on a pilgrimage that will continue into eternity. Their desire to learn is evidence of their vitality of mind and full engagement with life. This is instructive to my soul.

I think, also, that being surrounded by the elderly is a poignant reminder of my own aging process, a process that I want to defy and forget. Today, as I looked at those heads, I confessed my dismissal of these people and thanked God for their presence and teaching in my life. This may not be my "ideal" church, brimming with young families, but it is the will of God for me in this moment. And it is a holy and precious place, filled with folks whose years have overflowed with joy and fruitfulness, as well as sorrow, bondage, and loss. They may use canes and battle illness and bereavement, but they have much to teach me. These people have not lost their value, even their usefulness, in God's economy. They remind me of the way of all flesh and the beauty and grace that is present in all stages of life. I confess the dread and fear that the aging process often elicits in me, and I claim the power and grace of God to continue growing into God and offering his love to those around me, whatever that may look like. I choose to have gratitude for these gifts and the solemn, yet joyful, lessons they give.

This may seem like a small thing, but I believe that God put a finger on a place in me that needs adjustment. I want to see the COTC and its elderly band of brothers and sisters through a different lens. No more should I lament the spiritual family that God has provided for this time in my life. I don't want to miss the truth and love that they have to give me. Thanks be to God.

A beautiful thing happened to me this morning. Serendipitous. It lasted only a few minutes but seemed to balloon in time. As I was walking, I paused a moment and texted Jeremy to ask for a phone call if he had down time today. I wanted to discuss my situation at work with him because I always like to hear his advice. All of a sudden, spontaneously, music started playing on my phone. I couldn't tell where it was coming from as there was no open tab on my phone indicating its source. It was music that immediately pulled me into almost another dimension of knowing, drawing me to God. My heart rate and respiration quickened and I felt pulled forward, almost as if I needed to run forward toward what could only be Jesus. My eyes scanned the woods and I looked ahead expectantly, searching for the unseen. As the music continued to play, with tears streaming down my face, I said aloud, "Let me hear the music. Let me hear the music. Let me hear the music when I die and everything will be okay." It touched emotion in me that has no name. I really wondered if I was going to die and welcomed the thought in that moment. The music ended and I figured out that it was coming from Pandora, even though I had not opened Pandora. When I tried to get back to the song, I was unable to do it. I don't know what it was. Maybe that is as it should be, for I could not duplicate the experience. It was a gift, a peek into another world, the curtain pulled back for only a moment. For me. Drawing me into the love of God. Assuring me of His presence. Telling me that it will be okay. No matter what happens.

revelations

As I reflect on who I am through the lens of my behavior and seek to find its origin, I think about family members with whom I seem to share personality components. Grampy George, my childhood hero, was a man of substance and depth, at least in my eyes. He was emotionally sensitive, maybe even a conflicted soul, and loved fiercely. He loved nature and music and would sacrifice and fight for people and the earth with all its creatures. He also was a man of strong opinions, impatience with people, and anger and bitterness over losses and grievances. In all of this complexity, which I'm sure I only know in small bites as I observed him as a child without an adult's fuller understanding of people and situations, I recognized a thread of passion. I have seen this thread running through my mother in her strong sense of justice, her impassioned beliefs, and her love for her family, especially her grandchildren when they were young, and her great-grandchildren. As with all human qualities, these are coins with two sides.

I inherited this sensitive, passionate, impatient thread running through me, as well, but that inheritance alone did not fully form me. The crucible in which my soul was formed was a culture of performance, judgment, punishment,  guilt, and a denial of strong emotional expressions. I was nurtured in an environment that allowed for no ambiguity in issues of right and wrong and that encouraged strong moralistic teaching and confrontational interactions about behavior and life style choices. Fear was an underlying and constant presence, fear of failure and judgment. Even in early adulthood, this pattern of relating and "helping" others was enforced by Christian psychologists that I read.

So I suppose it is no surprise that my life has been marked by passion, a passion for people and causes, a passion for "getting it right" and perfection, a passion for self-sacrifice. I have never even considered that my life's purpose was anything other than service to God and people. A savior, a helper, a rescuer, a teacher, a spiritual exhorter--these have been my identities. While my passionate, sensitive nature has positive aspects which I want to embrace and accept, I am learning that my approach with others has been sorely misguided. I have strongly entrenched patterns of relating to people that, as Parker Palmer says, push the shy soul away causing it to flee to the woods. In my passion and sincere love, I have over and over "attacked" the shy souls in my life, smothering them with my words and advice, so sure that they need to hear the truth from me. After all, the book of Ephesians says to "speak the truth in love." My personality, with its direct (no beating around the bushes) tendency, is big on exhortation and helping the Spirit reveal truth to those around me, most often family members, but I've seen it also in work-related interactions. There are so many scenarios that run through my head of times in which I very directly and passionately interacted with people, passionately made my opinion known, passionately pleaded for behavior changes. I'm not saying that there are never times in which passionate pleas or exhortations are necessary; sometimes people may need to be firmly confronted about their sin or misguided thinking. However, I am learning that that is not always the case, probably usually not the case. I advise, and people don't usually need my advice. They need the safety of a listening heart, one that is patient enough to wait for them to discover the truth within themselves.

Here I am now with decades of behavior patterns that, it turns out, may have actually caused more harm than good, despite the sincerity of my heart. This is a humbling place to be. And sad. However, I also realize that my tendency is to be very dualistic in my thinking, to look at my life as a total failure because of this new knowledge. That cannot be true. I have loved deeply and given my life in sacrifice to others, and good has come of it, but if I want what is left of my life to be better, more loving, more helpful to others, I must embark on change. I repent of ineffective and even damaging ways of relating to others and commit myself to growing in building trust and loving others.

Parker Palmer, in A Hidden Wholeness, writes of circles of trust in which people do four specific things:
1.  Speak their own truth.
2.  Listen receptively to the truth of others.
3.  Ask honest, open questions instead of giving counsel.
4.  Offer the healing and empowering gifts of silence and laughter.

These are signposts for this moment in my life. New focus for my soul with regard to relationships. I'm sure it would be very helpful for me to attend a retreat featuring a circle of trust. Maybe one day I can do that. But for now, I at least have a new direction to follow. Sadly, I know it will take years of stumbling as I seek to alter the way I interact with others. This will not happen overnight, but I hope with God's help to begin a new journey of better love.

I have written this on purpose, knowing that it makes me vulnerable. Vulnerable to being fixed, dismissed, or judged when I fail. Taking that risk is part of my journey.

I believe a true and deep understanding of love, the source of which is God, has the power to transform and heal even the most broken lives. Perhaps seeking healing and transformation any other way will always fall short and add to the accumulation of guilt, shame, and hopelessness. Yet, how can I see or experience this love when my vision is obscured by the clamor of my own self-seeking and endless attempts at shielding myself from pain? I must be willing to go down to the depths of pain, suffering, and self-denial to recognize the Christ who is already there, who indeed has shown me the way. I must not equate the love of God with the gratification of my self-serving desires. This God in Christ has expressed love in a far greater and eternal way through becoming flesh and suffering all possible indignities, losses, cravings, and pain (physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional). He crushed all of these elements of death and then rose up into eternal and glorious life. He offers that to me. And he does this by going with me, not just sending me into the abyss. "Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me" (Psalm 23:4).

There is no greater love, only cheap imitations. There is no other way to be free from the bondage of addiction, lies, delusions, and disappointments. There is no other gospel. 

Theodicy...

I often think about evil and suffering in the world. It's hard not to if you have a pulse and pay any attention to the news. Most people don't even have to listen to the news; there is enough fodder in their own lives to prompt such musings. I also hear people who teach about healing ministry say things like, "God wants everyone to be healed," and I ponder the credulity of that assertion. While I believe the statement on one level, and I respect and learn from those who teach healing ministry, something inside me jerks back when I hear it. If God wants everyone to be healed, why isn't everyone healed? The answer I give myself is that everyone will eventually be healed in the afterlife, but is that all there is to it? We live in an exquisite world without a doubt, but it is a world that also seeps pain and suffering--a fallen, broken world. To think that God wants everyone to be healed and eventually will accomplish this has not satisfied my quest for meaning in this brokenness.

Peter Kreeft, in chapter 27 of Bread and Wine, penetrates beyond questions of how a good God can allow evil and suffering in the world and turns the lens on the character of this God. In contrast to an aloof, unaffected God (like Buddah), one who is disconnected from the tortured existence of his creatures, this God in Jesus Christ descended to our depths, entered our suffering spaces and gave the gift of himself. In an ironic twist, Jesus outwitted Satan  by voluntarily taking the death penalty for our sin and our suffering with the promise that by his wounds we would be healed. Does this just refer to soul salvation and healing in the afterlife? Not so says Kreeft, who contends that Jesus took our blows on the cross and descended into all of our hells.  Indeed, even when he doesn't heal our wounds in the present, "he comes into them and is broken, like bread, and we are nourished." And, "since we are his body, we too are the bread that is broken for others."

Everything belongs, according to Richard Rohr, in a book by that title, because God can hold everything. We can't, but he can. That gives me the freedom to embrace brokenness as so much more than a curse of living in this world. In brokenness, we are invited to be in Christ, because he has come to be in us and in all of our suffering. Maybe this is what Paul had in mind when he said, "that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death" (Phil. 3:10, ESV). I can do this because he became like me first.

Daily Office Lenten Reading
Hebrews 2:11-18
       
        ". . . Since, therefore, the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death. For it is clear that he did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham. Therefore he had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect, so that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people. Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested."

Did He sometimes feel like time was crawling and that He would never get to do the work of ministry?

Did He sometimes feel like time was speeding toward his ruin and destruction?

Did He sometimes wonder if He was actually hearing the voice of His Father or just operating out of some fancied construct?

Did He sometimes wonder why He didn't hear the voice of His Father more often or feel alone when He didn't hear the voice of His Father at all?

Did He sometimes strain under the injustices of life?

Was He sometimes tempted to doubt the goodness of His Father?

Did He sometimes feel impotent in the face of society's power structures?

Did He sometimes feel like His Father was not listening to Him, didn't hear the cry of His heart, or worse yet, heard but then turned apathetically away?

Did those 40 days in the wilderness seem interminable, and did He sometimes wonder if He wouldn't survive them?

Thank you, Oh most vulnerable Savior, that because you were tested by what you suffered, you are able to help us who are being tested. Help, we pray, for we have no other hope but you alone.