Sacred Improvisation

                                                   Photo credit: lakesidepottery.com

Marilyn Brown Oden writes that "sometimes a sense of dissatisfaction whispers to us from deep within. We feel a stirring, a yearning. If you know what I'm talking about, don't stuff this yearning down without a hearing. Don't be afraid of it. Chittister reminds us, 'trust your dissatisfaction. A deep dissatisfaction is an invitation to listen to our yearning. To reflect on our emptiness. To pray. To try to discern its source and its message. For it is our own calling that invites us to respond, our own life that we are intended to live."

I don't know about you, but the older I get, the more complicated it becomes to listen to my yearnings and follow my dreams. And that's just as it should be. Growing up into maturity means recognizing that to have some things, we have to let go of others; or at least put some things on hold for a while. But it can be tempting, on some days, to roll my eyes at Oden's advice and just stuff my yearnings down without a hearing. When I am tempted this way, though, I think about throwing pots (not across the room, but on a wheel). Potters know that, not only does each kind of clay respond differently to shaping, but each individual pot responds differently. A potter's hands have to pay attention to the feel of the clay, and adjust the kind of pressure they're applying accordingly. The act of shaping a pot is as much an act of listening and attending to the clay as it is coaxing it into a pre-visioned shape. The best potter is a master of improvisation. She has to be ready to revision the shape of the piece, and pull back some of the pressure when the walls being to get too thin in places. If she tries to force a shape that the clay won't support, the whole piece just flops, and it's back to the kneading board. Patience and openness to change are as vital to beautiful art and the technical skill required.

Envisioning our vocational life is much the same process. The pressures of life can bear down on us and shape us often without our even realizing it. The further we move into adulthood, the more we are asked to choose, not between a simple good vs. bad, but rather between multiple goods. We want to provide good things for our family. We want to follow our dreams. We want to support the dreams of our spouses. We want the people we love to be proud of us, and we want to belong to a loving, supportive community. As author Parker Palmer notes, The instinct to protect ourselves by living divided lives emerges when we are young, as we start to see the gaps between life's bright promise and its shadowy realities." When we reach this point, like the potter, we have a choice. We can flop, or we can improvise. The proverbial walls may seem a bit thin, but life is like clay, after all. It is malleable and yearning to find a shape, if we're open, patient, and creative enough to listen, to attend, to improvise.

Improvising when much is at stake is never fun or easy--at least at first. It's nerve-wracking and unsettling. But sometimes we need to be unsettled and disoriented in order to pay attention to our lives, hear the whispers of our souls, and discover the source of real strength. Real strength is not the bill of goods the world has sold us. Real strength isn't about coming up with a plan and stubbornly clinging to it, despite the collateral damage. Real strength emerges when we not only embrace our gifts and aptitudes, but our limitations as well. Real strength emerges when we know how to ask for help, and can accept the help as a gift, without worrying about how we will repay it. Real strength emerges when we hear a host of voices in our head telling us why we aren't enough, but we can listen to the One voice that reminds us that we are more than enough, just as we are. Real strength is not a big concrete, rebar-reinforced wall, but a handmade pot that has been fired and survived. It's not indestructible, but it is open. Its identity is not grounded in what it keeps out, but rather in what it holds. It's not perfect, and it very likely isn't the shape its potter originally intended. But the bread it can hold is no less than life itself. The water it can contain is no less than Living Water. In its simplicity it calls us to partake. To eat and to drink, and to be just what we were intended to be.

Seen

                                                         Photo Credit: Shine Gonzalvez
           http://www.trendsandlife.com/artistic-photographs-homeless-people-facing-challenges-streets/

We learn to name what we see.

We call it like we see it: black, white, tall, short, good, bad, clean, dirty.

We memorize the categories, and secure everything in neat little boxes.

Order from chaos. Sense from nonsense. Clarity from confusion.

Then he wanders into the coffee shop, same as any Tuesday morning­­, and opens all the boxes.

Without asking or checking, he puts the black with the white,

the tall with the short, the good with the bad, the clean with the dirty.

The muddy-eyed one with dirty knees and no title,

the one who you thought was just high, shameless, relentless.

The one who had been in that same booth,

in that same corner, every Tuesday for months.

He came in to take a break from holding a sign,

from doing nothing, you had to assume.

But he saw you. 

Checking your eyebrows in the mirror,

checking your phone,

checking that the barista got your name right on your extra-hot latte order.

If they wrote “Lindy” one more time, you were so done with this place.

But you never really saw him. 

He lingered somewhere in your peripheral vision,

far enough away that you couldn’t see the hole in his sock,

or the weight on his shoulders.

Far enough away that you didn’t notice the pencil unevenly sharpened with a pocketknife,

or the nails bitten between the verses he pressed into his notebook.

He sketched your profile once,

when you threw your head back laughing at something your daughter said.

He wanted to remember what love looked like.

He barely remembered when he had laughed like that,

before the voices, and the meds, and the vision problems.

When you came into the coffee shop that morning, you saw it,

framed by unfinished wood on the wall above the corner booth.

You knew it was a sketch of you by the birthmark on the neck,

and the streak of gray hair spilling down one shoulder.

It only showed when you really laughed hard.

“In memory of our friend Bart. May you get new eyes and sharp pencils on the other side” 

the brass caption read.

Then you remembered his dirty knees,

his shaky hands, and the nervous writing.

He seemed paranoid, always hunched over a notebook.

That homeless guy. The drug-addict.

But it was just Bart, sketching and writing to distract himself from the voices.

Sitting inside to rest his knees.

Seeing you, “Laurie,” laughing.  

Long Live The Welcomers!

                                                  Photo credit: approachingjustice.net

When it comes to trending topics, loneliness is not one of them. If I were strategizing about which key words would garner me the most clicks and likes, the word lonely wouldn’t be at the top of the list. No one wants to talk about, think about, or admit to loneliness. We’ve come a long way in our cultural willingness to talk about depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and addiction, but loneliness is a topic that remains, well, lonely. As a subject for discussion, it’s the guy who’s never invited to the party. We think that, if we admit we are lonely, it will make us the social equivalent of lepers. We assume “everyone else” is well-connected. I mean, just look at their Instagram and  Facebook feeds! They’re all livin’ the life! So we just post the highlights of our lives, put on our nice suit, cute dress, and make-up, and act like everything’s great.

Except it isn’t. “According to estimates by University of Chicago psychology professor John T. Cacioppo, PhD, coauthor of Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, at any given time at least one in five people, or roughly 60 million Americans, suffers from loneliness.” Cacioppo says, “By this I mean both the acute bouts of melancholy we all feel from time to time, as well as a chronic lack of intimacy—a yearning for someone to truly know you, get you, see you—that can leave people feeling seriously unmoored… Indeed, while social media has given us more ways to communicate, many experts believe it may also leave us more alienated. It's the deteriorating quality of our relationships that concerns researchers like Harry Reis, PhD, a professor of psychology at the University of Rochester. ‘We need to interact with other people on a fairly deep level, and that's what many of us are missing,’ says Reis.” (http://www.oprah.com/health/just-say-hello-fight-loneliness#ixzz4c4BqBeTv)

We humans are wired to act like we’ve got it all together. We learn this at a very young age. On the playground in elementary school, we all saw what happened to the awkward , shy, or “different” kids. They got picked on. Even the kids who would never pick on someone on their own are forced to choose between  joining in or being ostracized themselves. It is social self-preservation.  It’s instinct. Those kids who buck this instinct are often the exception that proves the rule. Adulthood should make us kinder and gentler. And sometimes it does. But it can also make us just really good actors. Henry David Thoureau observed that most people were “masses of men  leading lives of quiet desperation.” Our tools for curating a façade of happiness may be more sophisticated, but the statistics don’t lie. 60 million of us here in the U.S. are leading lives of quiet desperation. We’re just too afraid to admit it.

The good news is, statistics don’t prescribe our behavior, they just describe it. We humans are nothing if not adaptive. Just like we learn to cook, knit, meditate, dance, or play an instrument, we can learn to be welcomers.  Jesus said, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. ” (Matthew 10:40)  The most miraculous  thing Jesus did is to set a table and eat with people. He set a place for everyone. He didn’t just break out the “good china” for the holy, pious, and popular people. He broke it out for the people no one else would let within 100 feet of them: the prostitutes; the lepers; the greedy tax collectors; the widows. He even set a place for his fearful, confused, self-centered, and wildly imperfect disciples. He didn’t teach people to welcome strangers by charging a consulting fee and prescribing 7 steps to success. He taught people to welcome strangers by setting a table and inviting them to come and eat, day after day, week after week, and month after month. He set the kind of table where the guests, who may have had nothing in common, had to sit across from one another, look each other in the eyes, pass the hummus, break the bread, and pour the wine within inches of one another. They sat close enough to smell each other’s deodorant-less dusty bodies. They sat close enough to see each other’s deep scars and press up against each other’s shoulders. He served the same food to the rich and the destitute, and gave no preferential seating. In our post-scientific world, we have a hard time believing Jesus’ healing miracles. But we now know that doctors and neuroscientists alike link loneliness and isolation to epidemic increases in disease and mortality. The centers of the brain that are associated with pain are much more active in people who are lonely and isolated.  So we shouldn’t be surprised that Jesus healed. His healing wasn’t magic, it was love. It was connection. With each place he set, he was telling people, “I know you. I get you. I see you. I welcome you.”

Welcomers are healers. Welcomers change lives. Welcomers are miracle-workers. We don’t need therapists and consultants to tell us what we already know. We need people to know us, get us, and to see us. We are social creatures, wired for connection. It doesn’t take special training or certification to become a welcomer. It just takes the discipline and commitment to smile, to say hello, to set a table and  invite strangers. It just takes a willingness to practice welcome the same way we practice knitting, meditation, dance, or music. So go out into the world today and be a welcomer. Get to know someone. Try to “get” someone who is different than you. Make someone feel seen. Real miracles aren’t that complicated, we just have to be willing to set a place for  them. Blessings and love, welcomers! Here's a song to inspire your welcoming: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNjH8rEJjDc

Give Me A Drink

                                                   Photo credit: marshallcountyhealth.org
                                                           A Reflection on John 4:5-42

In many parts of the developing world people walk miles to and from wells to collect enough water to meet their basic needs: water to drink, to wash their clothes, to wash their dishes, and to bathe. Women are usually the ones who make these exhausting journeys, often digging the holes in the ground in the sweltering heat of midday. After all their efforts, the water they draw is only a few gallons. The water is precious, hard-earned, and has to sustain them until the following day’s journey. In many parts of the developing world, the water people draw from the wells doesn’t come clean and filtered like ours. Instead it is clouded by dirt and polluted with dangerous contaminants. The water they must drink to sustain their lives is the very same water that makes them sick, and is often life-threatening. Some of the water’s contaminants can be easily detected by taste or odor, but most can’t be detected easily, and require testing to reveal whether or not it is safe to drink. The unsafe water can take a terrible toll on human health. This problem is serious and widespread. So when so many families and children in developing countries are crying out, “Give me a drink” organizations like Living Waters for the World and Water.org answer by donating their resources and manpower to give them clean water systems and safe wells. Not only are they restoring the physical health of whole communities, they are also restoring the dignity, hope, and freedom of the people who live there. When they go to the new well, they find nothing less than new life.

When we come to the well at Sychar in this gospel text, we meet a woman who knows something about exhausting, back-breaking journeys. Her whole life revolves around wells. Other women remain at home with their families during the hottest part of the day because they can go to the well together in the cooler mornings. They can talk as they walk, sharing stories of their children and their husbands. But not this nameless Samaritan woman. She waits until the hottest part of the day to go to the well because that’s when no one else will be there. No one will be there to shun her, to whisper about her behind her back, or to shame her for her culturally unacceptable relationship. She intentionally spends her days alone, moving through her mindless routines, remaining on the edges of her community, both literally and spiritually.

When she sees Jesus—this Jewish religious leader—her usual shame grows into confusion, and even some aggravation. Now she is not only confronted with her complicated marital status, but also with the shame of being a woman who is talking with a man—a huge no no. Beyond that, she was a Samaritan woman talking with a Jewish man—absolutely unacceptable! The Samaritans and the Jews shared no social interaction since the Samaritans built a shrine as their place of worship, instead of worshiping at the Jerusalem Temple—the one true place of worship. The Jewish troops had destroyed the shrine, and were strengthening an already existing dividing wall between themselves and the Samaritans. Talking to a Samaritan was as good as insulting God. So when Jesus shows up in broad daylight at her well saying, “Give me a drink” all kinds of boundaries are crossed. As far as the Jewish community was concerned this Samaritan woman was contaminated, and so was her well.

 But Jesus knew something about her and about water that no one else knew. Despite the cultural and religious traditions that drew dividing lines between them, Jesus knew that God wasn’t interested in dividing lines. Jesus knew that something was contaminated, but it wasn’t this woman. His four-word request, “Give me a drink,” ushers in a divine revolution. In the bright light of day, God meets her at the well and offers her a whole new filtering system. The water that her ancestors drew from this well now flows into a new place and time, where God is speaking about a new reality. Here, where the Son of God shares intimate conversation with a Samaritan woman about the details of her life and the condition of her soul, she learns that eternal life is no longer something she has to wait for. Eternal life has met her at the well, and is asking her to follow him.

Most of us in the first world don’t have to walk out in the heat of day to a well to get our water. In fact, most of us enjoy filtered water every day. We don’t have to worry about contamination or water-borne illnesses. We don’t live in a country that prescribes who we can talk to and who is off-limits. It’s hard for most of us to imagine being in the Samaritan woman’s shoes. But we all go to other kinds of wells to quench our spiritual thirst. We go to the well of Success, believing that we will be filled with a sense that we are important. We say, “give me a drink,” hoping that our thirst for identity will be quenched. We go to the well of People-pleasing, seeking others’ approval. We empty ourselves until we have nothing left saying, “give me a drink,” hoping that our thirst for belonging will be quenched. We go to the well of power, seeking control over people and the circumstances of our lives. We strategize and plan saying “give me a drink,” hoping that our thirst for security will be quenched.

 We go to the well of consumerism, believing that if we have enough, we will be enough. We say, “give me a drink,” hoping that our thirst for purpose will be quenched. These spiritual wells are contaminated with illusions that trick us into thinking that if we do the right things, act the right way, or have the right stuff, we will be whole. We will fit in. God will love us.

Instead Jesus shows up at the well saying “Give me a drink. Let me taste this water you are drinking and see why it has such a strong hold on you. And while we are sharing this water, let’s talk about your life—since that’s really what I’m here for anyway." We can’t live without water. We need to come to the well. What Jesus asks of the Samaritan woman, and what he asks of us, is to receive fullness of life beginning now. The water filter Jesus invites us to receive filters out all of the world’s contaminating messages about how we need to be more, do more,  and have more to be deserving of God’s love. God doesn’t wait until we are perfect, acceptable, or whole to come to us. God crosses all boundaries to get to us—our dividing lines, our limited traditional understanding of who we should include and exclude, our categories of status and power, our unwillingness to believe that we are enough. God breaks through all of those boundaries, in broad daylight, in front of all the VIPs, to show the Samaritans and the Jewish people that God comes, not just for the Israelites, but for the gentiles too. God comes, not just for the people we like and who believe the same things we do, but even for those we consider our enemies.

Jesus’ presence at the well fills us with the kind of water that nourishes our Holy Imagination. He asks her, and us, to receive what he is offering, even before she fully understands it, and acknowledge her need of him.

This is our invitation during Lent—to come to the well as we are and to meet Christ there. We are asked to pause and reflect on all of the boundaries we erect between ourselves and others, and between ourselves and God. We are invited to go beyond the surface level of our lives—beyond our physical needs and rhythms of our daily routines—and arrive at the truth about our lives. When we can do this, whether it happens in a church or in our car, we worship. When the Samaritan woman asks Jesus where she should worship, His very presence at the well is meant to be her answer. His promise transcends this place, this time, this well, or a particular temple. His promise is his presence. His promise is a way of living and believing that is sustaining, not draining.  

  What are the wells we go to where we find only drought and disappointment? When we come to Christ’s table saying “Give me a drink,” we must prepare ourselves to let go of all of those other contaminated wells we visit and trust that our thirst for security, belonging, identity, and our purpose will be quenched where Christ is; whenever we live as Christ lived, love as He loved, and serve as He served. That life, that love, and that service is the only well that matters--the one with the living water. The good news is that we do not need to embark on a back-breaking journey. We have already arrived. God walks beside us, follows behind us, and leads the way before us, quenching our thirsty spirits with the Living Water of his presence. So come to the well. Receive the Living Water. Know that Christ meets you here, and offers you no less than the life, love and purpose, that will redeem what you thought was lost, sustain you through what you thought was unbearable, and will make a way where you thought there would be only desert. So go to the well and drink.

Altar-ed Perception

                                                       Reflection on Matthew 17:1-9              
                                                      Photo credit: debidrecksler.com

Lizzie Valasquez is a 24 year old motivational speaker with degrees in both English and Communications. She has authored 3 books entitled: Lizzie Beautiful; Be Beautiful, Be You; and Choosing Happiness. What this resume doesn’t tell you about Lizzie is that she was born with a very rare syndrome—so rare that only two other people in the world have been diagnosed with it. She has zero percent body fat and has never weighed more than 64 pounds.  She is blind in her right eye, and has limited vision in the other. She has a weak immune system, but her organs, bones, and teeth are healthy, and her condition isn’t terminal. Her skin has a prematurely-aged look to it, and she is all skin and bones, and a big, beautiful smile. She jokes that her body may have all kinds of problems, but she has really great hair.

When she began creating YouTube videos at 17, her online YouTube video got flooded with hateful comments, the least hurtful of which was someone naming her the “ugliest woman in the world.” In her famous TED talk, she admits that she has dealt with bullying and meanness from others since she entered Kindergarten. She credits her parents with raising her 150% like a normal child. When she was bullied, her mom, Rita, reminded her to smile, hold her head high, and just keep being nice to people. After seeing so many hateful and cruel comments on her YouTube video, she looked in the mirror and wished she could just scrub off her syndrome and have an easier life. She asked herself, “how will I pick myself up from this?” She felt like her whole world just crashed at that moment. But she decided she had a choice. She could either give up, or she could use the negativity of others as a fuel to push her in the direction of her dreams. Two degrees, three published books, and multiple public speaking appearances later she says, “if I ever see that person who commented on the video I would jump on them and give them the biggest hug in the world and tell them, 'Thank you for bringing the best thing that has ever happened to me in my life,' " she says. "That video changed everything and it has given me the platform that I have now to be the voice for anyone who's ever been bullied – and not just myself." She says that her amazing support system of friends and family, “let me have those times when I just want to cry. But I give myself a deadline and say, today's my sad day but tomorrow when the sun comes up it's done. Through her motivational speaking, she has met hundreds of people who share their own personal stories, and have a lot of the same feelings that she has. When she talks about her faith in God, she insists that God blessed her with the greatest blessing of her life, which is her syndrome. In her TED talk she asks the audience, over and over again, “What defines you?” Your background? Your friends? Your outer appearance? Your accomplishments? What defines you? After listening to her inspiring talks, you come away just asking yourself, with everything she has been through, where does her strength come from? How can this be?

No matter what our background, size, age, resume, vocation, or appearance, we all have two things in common. (Besides wishing we had really great hair!) We all long for belonging and  unconditional love, and we all live in a world full of exclusion, conditional love, and often cruelty. Even within our Christian tradition, many interpretations of God include not just loving acceptance, but judgement. Our Christian history is full of people declared insiders and outsiders, those who are judged as true believers, and those who are labeled unbelievers. In our secular world, to live is to be judged by outside appearances. The idea of unconditional, universal love is rare and so foreign to most people, that it can feel like a utopian ideal or a naïve illusion. Whether we admit it or not, we all worry that how we look, what we have accomplished, and who we know will influence how successful and loved we are. This is the way of the world we have been born into. This is the world Nicodemus was born into. And it’s the same world Jesus came to redeem. When we hear the word “redeem” or “save” we automatically think of judgement. But, for Jesus, the purpose of redemption is not judgement, but wholeness. It’s about stitching back together what has been ripped apart. Reuniting what has been separated. When Nicodemus comes to Jesus in the middle of the night, he’s not coming to have Jesus merely point out the scriptural basis for his healing and teaching. He isn’t coming under the cover of darkness just to get an annotated bibliography of his sermon references. He comes because his faith has left him feeling separated from the presence of God, and he senses in Jesus something more compelling than the letter of the law.  In the days and weeks before this visit, he had witnessed two of Jesus' big signs—turning water into wine at the wedding at Cana, and throwing the moneychangers out of the temple. Both were about there being no limits to God’s abundant love. They all watched him and thought, “How can these things be?” In the Temple, as Jesus turned the moneychanger’s tables upside down, he also turned people’s understanding of God upside down. They thought God required a sacrifice in order for them to be put right with God. In the clearest way possible, Jesus showed them that nothing should stand between them and God’s love and forgiveness. No sacrifice required. No more separation. God’s abundant love and forgiveness came into the world with Jesus, and it is available for all who receive it.

But they couldn’t square this with everything they thought they knew about God. So they wondered, “How can these things be?  Nicodemus came to Jesus under the cover of darkness because, despite his elite education, knowledge, and faithful practice of Jewish law, he couldn’t reconcile everything he knew of the world with the radically inclusive, abundant, limitless love, that Jesus' miracles, signs, and healings were about.  He knew Jewish law—what to eat and what not to eat. Who was in and who was out. Who was pure and who was impure. He knew what the required behavior of a good Jew was supposed to be. So he came to Jesus under the cover of darkness, full of fear, because he had a hard time imagining that the love Jesus practiced could hold up in the real world. He knew that living like that might get him dubbed “the craziest Jewish tax collector in the world.” So when Jesus said, “you have to be born again from above,” it was Nicodemus’ standing in front of the mirror moment. Like Lizzie Valasquez, he was probably thinking, “if I could just ignore this Jesus, my life would be a lot easier.” But Jesus was inviting him to be born from above—born of the Spirit. He was offering him a whole new mirror—a radically altered perception. The only thing that can be seen in God’s mirror is unconditional love. The words around the frame of God’s mirror read, “I love you, without exception, whether you like it or not.” Nothing we can do, say, or be, can make us look unlovable to God. So believing isn’t about knowing all the right rules, and always being perfect people. Believing is about choosing what mirror we will look into each day. Will it be God’s mirror or the world’s mirror?

When Jesus tells Nicodemus he must be born of water and the spirit, he’s answering the question Lizzie Valasquez asked her audience: “What defines you? He’s asking Nicodemus, and us, to forge our identity apart from the markers of the world that have shaped us, and to reimagine our communities and our bodies as God might. He’s asking all of us to radically alter our perception, allowing the new life Christ offers—a life lived in the way of self-giving love, to interrupt our old habits, making room for grace. Grace gives us, and our communities, the courage to live with joy and purpose for someone other than ourselves. We resist this kind of unconditional love and grace because, like the wind of the Spirit, it is not in our control. We want to label, judge, and predict things. We know that if we let the wind of the Spirit blow through our souls, our churches, and our families, who knows what might be blow out? Long held resentments? Prejudices? Fears? Or what might blow in? New people? New ways of doing things? New challenges? When we allow the abundant, unconditional love of Christ to radically alter our perception, we see everything in a whole new way. When we look at physical disabilities, we can see strength and perseverance. When we look at obstacles, we can see new opportunities for growth. When we look at painful moments in our past, we can see the outstretched hands of those who helped pull us through to the other side. When we allow the unconditional, abundant love of Christ to radically alter our perception, we no longer find ourselves asking, “How can these things be?” We suddenly find ourselves asking, “How can these things not be?” When we look in God’s mirror long enough to understand that He loves us whether we like it or not, long enough to know that it is that unearned love that defines us, then we begin to believe. That is when eternal life begins. Belief isn’t something we have but something we do, over and over, each and every day. Belief is choosing to put down the world’s mirror, the mirror that magnifies every imperfection, and tells us lies about who we are. Belief is choosing to pick up the mirror created by the triune God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, whose love created, redeems, and sustains us, whether we like it or not. Let that love radically alter your perception until you know in your bones that God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved--be made whole-- through him.

Imagine that. Knowing beyond question that you are loved unconditionally, abundantly, and limitlessly. Imagine looking in the mirror and seeing an irreplaceable, beloved person. What would you do differently if you allowed God to radically alter your perception that way? How could these things be? They are because that’s who God is. At your birth, and in your baptism, God claimed you. God’s love defines you. You have already been born from above by the power of the Triune God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Come to the Lord’s table to be nourished by that love, and carry that love with you outside these walls. You are God’s mirror in the world. When you are faced with hard things, may you not wonder, "how can God's unconditional love be?" but may you remember your baptism and ask, "how can it not be?" Then go and carry that love out into the world.  

The Grace of the Hard Path

             A Reflection on Matthew 4:1-12

Inauguration ceremonies are grand, theatrical, public events that give us a window into a leader’s identity. Every aspect of the leader’s political career is staged to reveal what she will stand for, what kind of change he plans to effect, and the kind of political culture she wants to create. In the secular political world we expect public figures to be ambitious, savvy, and influential. We assume they now how to leverage their power and influence to persuade and win over important constituents.  If they’re successful, they know how to make the most of every public relations opportunity, and follow a predictably straight path right to the top. Not only is this kind of ambition and strategy acceptable, but those who have it are admired and lauded as the standard bearers of success.

            So when Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist in the Jordan River, the inauguration of his public ministry, he offered those who witnessed it a window into his public identity. In grand fashion a dove descended from heaven anointing him God’s beloved son. All the authority of heaven was given to him, putting in motion nothing less than the inbreaking of God’s Kingdom on earth. As public relations opportunities go, Jesus’ baptism could not have been more poignant or more clear. Having been granted all authority on heaven and earth, most who were present would fully expect a rapid ascent to power and influence, a sudden explosive increase in his following, and a divine demonstration of the miraculous the likes of which had never before been witnessed.  The path from the waters of the Jordan seems like one that should be a straight ascent up to a high mountain of power and influence.

But that is not where Jesus goes in today’s gospel. After his grand inauguration, the Spirit leads him as far away from the seats of power and influence as possible—straight into the wilderness. Jesus leaves behind the path of ambitious upward mobility for the road less traveled. His path follows a winding, treacherous way down into the wilderness. Down into utter solitude. Down into painful hunger. Down into the most vulnerable, life-threatening conditions imaginable. If he were a modern-day political figure we could easily imagine his handlers throwing their hands up, shaking their heads, and warning him against what they clearly know is a public relations nightmare. “They’re all going to think you’re crazy, setting off on some sort of suicide mission, starving yourself in the middle of nowhere!” we imagine his would-be handlers advising.

            Most of us can probably much more readily relate to those baffled by Jesus’ journey into the wilderness. We are raised with clear messages about what success looks like—messages much more aptly characterized by Dale Carnegie’s How to Make Friends and Influence People  than by Into the Wild. We are taught to put our nose to the grindstone. To learn how to play the political game if we want to gain enough power and influence to really change things for the better. We quickly learn that if we want to change the world, we have to be realistic enough to use the ways of the world to our advantage. So as we hear the temptations of Jesus in the wilderness, I think, if we’re honest, the devil makes a lot more good sense than Jesus. It’s only common sense. If you are starving to death, how bad can it be to use the miraculous power at your disposal to create food to eat. If you want to change the world for the better, why not give up a little integrity for the sake of ruling all the kingdoms of the earth instantly, in just the way you know they should be ruled? If you want people to trust that you really are who you say you are, why not demonstrate it clearly,  publicly, and boldly so that there will be no question? Then you can more quickly get on with the work you were put here to do! These are called temptations, not because they are obviously reprehensible, but rather because they cut to the very heart of our human nature. We are hard-wired to avoid suffering—to take the path of least resistance. Sometimes that path comes in the guise of productivity, efficiency and resourcefulness.

            But here, in the wilderness, Jesus gives us a glimpse of God’s true identity. Jesus isn’t avoiding proclaiming what God’s Kingdom stands for by subjecting himself to hunger. By his fast he leads us down into the heart of God’s own solidarity with those who go hungry every day. Jesus isn’t avoiding his call to bring in God’s kingdom by refusing to command people’s allegiance. Rather, with each step down into the wilderness, he demonstrates what true power really is—the courage to trust and obey God, even in the face of overwhelming odds. Jesus isn’t shrinking away from his true identity when he refuses to leap from the temple and be saved by God’s angels. Instead, by submitting to life-threatening conditions, he embodies the message at heart of the Resurrection—that even death has no power to separate us from God’s presence. 

            What Jesus meets with in the wilderness, and what we are asked to confront as we wander there with him, is the temptation to opt for the shortcuts, the quick-fixes, and easy ways out of the wilderness places of our lives. Today’s gospel asks us to question the prevailing wisdom that would convince us that pain, uncertainty, and suffering should be avoided because it doesn’t feel like God is there. When we find ourselves in the wilderness places of our lives, everything in us is tempted to distract ourselves, busy ourselves, and medicate ourselves out of it, because we worry that such places make us weak, vulnerable, and dependent. But the spirit of God invites us into the wilderness with Jesus for a reason. While the world might try to convince us that dependence and vulnerability make us weak, God, in Christ, proclaims that it is in our vulnerability that God walks with us and connects us with others. When we depend on others and on God, there God’s spirit makes a home, and finds greatest expression. 

            My daughter and I were part of a group that made comfort quilts for cancer patients. At our first meeting, where we were told the story of the person for whom we are making our quilt, we learned that our recipient was a 37 year old woman who was just diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer. She had 3 young children. When the woman organizing our quilting group assured the nurses that we would have the quilt finished in time for Easter, the nurses faces fell. They admitted that they were not sure she would survive that long. We all listened in the deep sadness of knowing that she may not be there to celebrate the resurrection. This young mother, wife, sister and daughter is journeying into a wilderness beyond what many of us can imagine. It feels much easier to imagine the Kingdom of God in glowing sunsets that melt behind the horizon, in ornate cathedrals, in the inspiring speeches of charismatic leaders, and in the majestic harmonies of a soaring choral performances. It feels much more difficult to find the resurrection power of God in the wilderness places of pain, suffering, and weakness.

 But I think God’s Kingdom comes more often as a hand-sewn patchwork quilt than in the ornate architecture of the world’s seats of power and influence. Our lives are made up of strips of experiences, frayed around the edges, and in need of connection. God’s Kingdom, God’s steadfast presence, is the thread that binds our lives together in community. We are not called to avoid the wilderness places, or to hide the frayed edges of our lives from one another. God calls us to enter each other’s wildernesses bearing the thread of God’s presence, that we might allow God to sew our lives together stitch by stitch. When sit with someone who is lonely, we stitch our story into God’s story. When we offer a ride to someone who needs it, we sew another stitch. When we sit and listen to someone share their sadness and grief at the loss of their loved one, another stitch. When we use our voice to call attention to the struggle of someone who has no voice, another stitch. Small stitch after small stitch, God faithfully sews our frayed edges into a beautiful tapestry, a comforting quilt. Hear the Rev. Roddy Hamilton’s beautiful invitation:

“When the world is no longer a paradise and creation shows its full power over us still and we are brought down to size on this small planet of ours, we worship.

When the memories linger of the past and war shapes us beyond our knowing and conflict becomes a story of life, we worship.

When the way is more barren than beautiful, when the path is more a climb than a stroll, when the desert expands and the horizon stretches, we worship.

We worship because we can. We worship because we hope. We worship because we know our vulnerability when things shift and we need to hold on.

We worship because it is the only strength we have for the journey.”

Welcome to Lent.  Enter the wilderness. Enter God’s Kingdom. Come and let God stitch the pieces of your life together in community. Come and worship.

The Privilege of Lent

For Christians, Lent is a time of self-examination, confession, and re-orientation. When we're genuine about it, we take on practices like fasting, prayer, and self-denial, not as self-help techniques, but a vulnerable surrender to God and to others. When we're genuine, we are trying to restore practices that help us love as Christ loved and serve as Christ served. So I want to confess, as I begin this 40-day season of Lent, that my ability to even reflect and write in this way is a sign of privilege which I have neither entirely earned, nor entirely deserve. My security, my education, my comforts, the fact that I don't live in constant fear for my safety, and the fact that my identity doesn't make me a target for hate, are all privileges I have not earned. I am part of a cultural system which has given me advantages, and access to opportunity, which not everyone is afforded.

The very fact that I have the time to sit and write this is sheer privilege. I confess I entered Lent struggling with that cliched mid-life reality of what Dr. Suess calls "The Waiting Place." Vocationally, like so many others, I am not where I thought I would be, and I'm not sure what lies ahead. Like so many others, I entered this season of Lent with a typical consumer mindset. My self-examination was really more of a happiness assessment. My re-orientation promised to be some greater personal fulfillment. I think most of us, with time to spend on Facebook, are in a similar place. We are part of a consumer, need-fulfillment culture which tells us that we deserve: financial security/peace of mind/to maximize our potential/to provide everything our children could want/to have vacations...you know the drill. But the truth is that, as Christians, we are not entitled to all that. And sometimes the pursuit of all of those things comes at great cost to our relationships, friendships, dignity, integrity, health, and the welfare of those not as privileged as we are. I like to think that I'm a good steward of my privilege, but I know that I am caught up in this culture. I know that it effects me when people talk about the best zip code to live in, the relative merits of the different schools here in Johnson County, the vacations their families have taken, the investment portfolio they have curated, or the personal success they have achieved.
So, this Lent, I am examining those consumerist, self-centered, tendencies in myself. I will confess, as often as I can, when my privilege is showing. I will have faith that, with God's help, I can become less a servant of my own needs, and more an advocate for those whose basic needs go unmet, and whose voices go unheard. In this Waiting Place of mine, I will hold in my heart all others who wait, but without hope, without help, and without rest and reflection. Each of us experiences this time of vulnerable surrender differently, but I hope that, for all of us, it invites us more deeply into the awareness that we are loved, cherished, held, and sent out to be instruments of hope and reconciliation for others. Blessings on your Holy Lent, or on whatever faithful journey you travel this season. May your life be a blessing.

Marked for God's New Beginning

                                                          Photo credit: dreamicus.com

On May 18, 1980 Mt. St. Helens erupted, blowing the top off of the 1,314 foot tall mountain. The avalanche of rocks filled the Toutle (Toot-el) River Valley, creating a 23-square-mile zone of barren land. Another blast flattened the surrounding forest, and a cloud of ash reached to 80,000 feet in 15 minutes, circling the globe in 15 days. The volcano destroyed everything in its path, killing 230 square miles of forests, lakes, meadows and streams. 57 people and countless animals and plants were killed. The Oregonian newspaper reported, “Death is everywhere. The living are not welcome.” But if you travel there today, you will find more than 150 species of wildflowers, shrubs and trees. There are even Western hemlock and Pacific silver fir trees that aren’t even supposed to be there yet. They usually require the kind of soil amended by generations of other plant growth. The newspaper would now have to report that “Life is everywhere. The living are thriving.” Virginia Dale, one of the first ecologists to land at Mt. St. Helens after it erupted, is quoted as saying, “It seems life can take hold even in the most desolate landscape, and in ways no scientist could have foreseen.”

On Ash Wednesday, which marked the first day of Lent, we were marked with ashes—the dust of death. To some this ashen mark seems to have nothing to do with faith and hope, and more to do with grief and desolation. For some all this talk of self-examination, confession, repentance, and absolution may seem like a morbid, somber exercise. After all, why focus on the dust of death while life is all around us?  There is  life all around us, but right alongside that life exists the very real, life-smothering forces of injustice, oppression, violence, greed, poverty, and hunger, and illness. Alongside the joys of our lives comes the little desolations of anger, broken relationships, bitterness, resentment, and selfishness that can threaten smother our connection to God and one another.

When Jesus teaches his disciples to pray the Lord’s prayer, he knows that the ashes of this life can cover some serious ground. He knows that this world is not an easy place, and that sometimes, for so many in our world, it can seem as though death is everywhere, as though hope is not welcome. So when Jesus teaches them how to pray, He gives his disciples, and us, the tools to be gardeners for hope. He calls us to go beyond the ashes, and to till of the kind of spiritual soil in which life can take hold, survive, and thrive. For Jesus knew something about ashes that we often forget: they are not the end. Like the Western hemlock and Pacific silver fir trees that refused to wait for generations to take root, we are meant to defy hopelessness and root ourselves in God’s merciful love. In receiving we make way for God’s Kingdom of love to blossom here and now.

But we can’t do this alone. The kind of forgiveness and reconciliation required for God’s Kingdom to thrive in this world is not easy. It is not easy for us to be honest about our weaknesses and pain. It is hard to find our way out of the desolation of bitterness and anger that can consume us when we are hurt by others. Giving up our own comfort so that others may have what they need does not always come naturally to us. Speaking out against all kinds of injustice can be uncomfortable and risky. And yet this is what Christ calls us to do as gardeners for hope. When we get down on our knees and offer up our brokenness, we are transformed by the One who knows something about ashes and desolation that we often forget— they are not the end. When we come to the altar to ask for forgiveness, we are invited to leave behind everything that stands in the way of God’s healing love. We are invited to leave behind our bitterness, anger, selfishness, greed, and resentment there at the altar, and go out into the world as bearers of hope. We are invited to open ourselves to God and to the needs of others, so that we can go out planting the seeds of God’s healing in our communities. When we come to the altar we find our identity. We know we are God’s beloved. When we come, we find our purpose—to bring God’s healing love into this broken world. When we come we find our security, knowing that we don’t need to acquire things or status to thrive, because we have one another. When we come we find community. We belong to one another because we are all God’s children, bound together by one bread and one cup. When we come to the altar we find freedom and peace, knowing that the temptation and suffering in this life is not the end.

So as we move into Lent,  may the ashes that mark us on this holy day  remind us, not of the end, but of God’s new beginning. We are marked by our identity as gardeners for hope because we know something about ashes that some may not realize—God brings life even into the most desolate places. Ashes mark us with the earthly dust that springs forth from what Bruce Epperly calls “God’s “multi-billion year holy adventure”.  Where the world reports, “Death is everywhere. The living are not welcome,” we may proclaim “Love is everywhere. All are welcome”. So remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return. You are marked for God’s new beginning! Welcome to a Holy Lent.