Unveiled Face

This week in a Bible study, a group of us were looking at the story of the Transfiguration in Matthew 17:1-9. The question was asked, “Who was this vision for? For Jesus? For the disciples? For everybody?”

Let's look at all three.

For Jesus

Speaking for myself, sometimes I need a new mountaintop experience to reassure and re-center me in my particular assignment in life. This can happen for two reasons—I can get off the track and be following some rabbit trail, or I can get discouraged. I don’t know that Jesus followed rabbit trails, but he was near Caesarea Philippi, 120 miles north of Jerusalem. I’d say that’s a good 4-5 days’ walk. And there had been a lot of recent controversy over who Jesus really was. Is it unrealistic to think he could have been disheartened? We do know certainly that he sometimes needed encouragement. Most notably, if the angel hadn’t come to him in Gethsemane (not that long after this event) he might have died right there in the garden. If he was tempted as we are, he has to have faced continual temptation to doubt his own call and his own path. Was he really the Messiah? And I've always wondered how much time might have passed between verses 6 and 7. What did Moses and Elijah say to Jesus? 

What, then, would he get from this experience of being “overshadowed by the Most High,” being able to visit with some of his friends from heaven, and hearing the words repeated, “This is my beloved Son. I am delighted with him”? Can you imagine for yourself?

For the disciples

(Or at least three of them.) I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that they were told not to share this experience until “after the Son of Man has risen from the dead.” How hard would it be to keep that experience to yourself?

What was going on with these men? Were they, too, caught up in the controversy over who Jesus really was? In the previous chapter we have the famous declaration of Peter, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” But if they still had any doubts, this would certainly dispel them. If they were still thinking he was just a good teacher or a good man, this transfiguration knocked that theory on its head.

What might they have gotten from this? Can you imagine for yourself?

For everybody, which is to say, for you, and me

The Son died, rose again, they shared the story, someone wrote it down, and here we are. It’s for us, too.

I find it valuable to imagine my way through this story from both points of view. Not as the Son of God, don’t misunderstand! But as the child of God, which I am, which you are, who can get a little or a lot sideways (since I do give into temptations sometimes), and needs to be reminded, reassured, re-called to my path. “You—yes, you—are My beloved child,” God says. “I am pleased with you!”

Then, as a disciple. As one of those bewildered ones who is trying hard to believe and internalize that this is, indeed, the Messiah, the Christ, the Anointed One. This isn’t another Plato or Confucius or Siddhartha Gautama. This is the Son of the Living God.

LISTEN TO HIM!!

Please! You’ll be glad you did.

If/Then Justice

Then your light will break forth like the dawn...   [photo by DLK]

The Lectionary’s Old Testament passage this week is the first part of Isaiah 58 (1-9)—one of my favorite passages in the Bible, as you can tell by my “logo” above—“Repairing the Breach.”

In my life, there have been a lot of breaches—breaches between me and others, between me and myself, even between me and God. This chapter lays out the problem, and states the cure. It looks deceptively simple…

If you…

Break yokes, end injustice, stop pointing the finger or speaking evil, feed, clothe, and house the poor, and stop hiding…

Then…

“Then your light will break out like the dawn,

and your recovery will speedily spring forth;

and your righteousness will go before you;

the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;

you will cry, and He will say, ‘Here I am.’”

(vs. 8, 9a, NASB)

But then, as I read it more and more, and meditated on it, I began to ask deeper questions.

What yokes? Break them how?

What do I do, daily, that helps to end injustice?

Am I really supposed to bring the homeless into my house and give them my food?

In what ways am I hiding, from whom, and how do I quit?

Because, I have to tell you, I love the sound of those promises! Dawn! Recovery! Righteousness! God before me, behind me and speaking to me! That’s glory, all right, and I want to do anything I can that will put myself and others into the way of receiving that.

Baby Smiles

Luke 2:22-40

I feel guilty, the way Joseph indulges me. The baby is six weeks old; I’m perfectly capable of walking the few hours from Bethlehem to Jerusalem! But he insists I ride the donkey, at least most of the way. I admit I love to just sit and gaze down at my baby. He’s so cute! I know all mothers think their babies are the cutest, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.

“Nothing, Joseph, just laughing at myself. Don’t you think our baby is cuter than all other babies?”

Joseph’s sun-burned grin is one of my favorite things about him. “Well, of course!” he agrees, and walks on. The donkey plods patiently beside him. I keep on staring down at my baby’s face, trying to memorize it. He changes so fast. Look how filled out he already is. I can hardly remember what he looked like when he was all scrawny and wrinkly, in the stable. Oh, that night! I can’t think of it without a shudder. But then the shudders are overtaken by chills of wonder, remembering the stories the shepherds told. I wish I could have heard the angels sing!

But I shouldn’t be greedy. After all, Gabriel himself talked to me!

It’s kind of funny. I have lots of friends who have babies, and I know this feeling of awe, of staring into the face of a brand-new human and trying to memorize it, is universal among mothers. We all talk about how they change, and grow, and how we know them, but don’t…so at first, my thoughts are the thoughts of every mother. But then it always turns to a different kind of awe. Remembering Gabriel’s announcement to me, and the pain and division that brought, and then Joseph’s dream, which set everything straight. It hardly seems true, though I feel ashamed to admit it. But then there were those shepherds…

Yeshua wakes suddenly, looks up at me, and smiles widely, a new skill he enjoys tremendously. “Oh, look, Joseph! Look at him smile!”

Nearly three hours have passed by the time we reach the city, and we must find a place to stay and prepare our best Sabbath clothes for the ceremony tomorrow. This is a ceremony I’ve looked forward to since I was a little girl. A woman, a wife, justifies her existence by producing a son, especially by producing him first. Joseph is very proud of me. Of course, I am an indulged wife, and I know Joseph would be proud of me even if I’d had daughters, or no children at all. But I’m deeply grateful to God for a son. I wish we could afford a lamb instead of just two doves. Joseph says the Holy One knows our hearts. Anyway, he points out, no sacrifice would be worthy enough to redeem the life of God’s own Son!

I look down at my baby again. He looks so ordinary, gazing around at movement and light. Just another baby…

The next day, bathed, anointed, and dressed in our very best, with my mother’s borrowed necklace adorning the baby as is traditional, we stand before the priest. Joseph holds Yeshua and says to the priest, “This is my firstborn son. He is the first out of his mother’s womb.”

There are more prayers, then the priest takes the baby, holds him up, and intones the blessing: "May the Lord make you as great as Ephraim and Menasheh. May the Lord bless you and keep watch over you; May the Lord make His Presence enlighten you, and may He be kind to you; may the Lord bestow favor on you, and grant you peace. May the Lord guard you from all evil, and guard your soul. Let many days and years of life and peace be given to you."

His tone of voice is matter-of-fact, even bored. He does this all the time—just another baby…

A disturbance arises nearby and I turn my head, startled. An old man, his face alight with an unearthly joy that reminds me of Gabriel, is hurrying toward us. Just as the priest is about to hand Yeshua back to his father, this man takes him instead and cries out, almost weeping, "Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel."

I am standing there with my mouth open while this man blesses my baby. Suddenly, he turns to me and his eyes pin me like a spear. In a quiet, intense voice, he adds, "This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too."

I feel a shiver of fear and reach for my child. But the excitement isn’t over yet. Many people are already looking our way, and more begin to gather when an even older woman I have seen in the temple before comes over, takes one look at the child in the old man's arms, and begins to sob praises and thanks to God. She cries out to the onlookers that all those who are looking for the redemption of Israel should take note of this baby. Some come closer, craning to look at Yeshua, who has been awakened by the tumult and turns his toothless baby grin on one and all.

I watch the faces. The priest and some others looked irritated a minute ago. Some looked curious. Some looked excited. But when they look at his little face and he smiles, not a one is able to keep from smiling back. Faces all around me are softening, hands are reaching to touch his curled fingers, some voices are cooing nonsense to him. A few are praying, echoing the old man and woman.

The shiver of fear is turning to a shiver of awe and a…what can I call it? A presentiment. A feeling that already, he is changing the world around him, and things will never be the same.

Darkness to Light

[Bass] “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,

[Add tenor]        The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,

[Add alto]                           The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light!

“Those who dwelt in the land of deep darkness, on them light has shined!

[Soprano]           Jesus, our Morning Star, Light of the world. Glory be to God on high!”

We’re singing the J. S. Cool arrangement of this in my choir. I tried to find a link on Youtube so you could hear what it sounds like (not us, mind you, but some choir somewhere!) but all I could find was Handel—also wonderful, but not the same thing.

So you’ll just have to imagine each line getting louder and more exciting, a little higher in pitch, until the sopranos cry out the last line in joyous praise.

In the multi-denominational church I attend, there is a worship committee who meets and plans all aspects of the worship service to mesh together in one great act of communal worship. The sermon, the music, any readings, the altar and church art, the picture on the bulletin, even which stole the pastor wears, all reflect the theme of that week. It takes work. But the people here have the idea that all—visual people, auditory people, even kinesthetic people—should gain the greatest blessing possible. They’re willing to work prayerfully so that can happen.

And of course, all of us need all of those components, no matter which is our preferred means of processing the world.

This week, one of the lectionary texts is the Isaiah 9 passage from which these words come. One of my favorite things about it is that it’s written (spoken) in present tense, several centuries before the birth of the Light of the World. Today, we sing "the light has come" when speaking of the first Advent of Christ into the world, and we can also sing "the light has come" when referring to a yet-future, much-awaited, deeply longed-for event--the second Advent of Christ, this time for final reconciliation and an end to all suffering. We are the souls beneath the throne, crying, "How long, Lord?"

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in deep darkness. I’d be willing to bet you have, too.

Has the Light shined?

Are you reflecting it on?

All we have to do is receive, then turn outward so that the beams reflect away from us and onto those around us. The Sun of Righteousness does all the rest.

Light—Let It Be!

This little light of mine...

This is a photo I took of a friend's little solar light, reflecting on the snow. It seems particularly a propos, since it gets its light from the sun and has to recharge every day...

I have recently decided to read (slowly and painstakingly, my finger following each unaccustomed line from right to left under the Hebrew) the Interlinear Bible this year. I keep the old Strong’s next to me, and have already found some interesting questions, and I’ve only finished Genesis 1. (What, exactly, does it mean that the “lights in the heavens,” besides delineating days, months, and years, are also for signs—that is, “a signal…flag, beacon, monument, omen, prodigy [?!], evidence, etc.:--mark, miracle, (en-)sign, token”?) Just for one example…)

So when I looked at the lectionary for this week (those who are interested can find and follow it here: http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Epiphany/AEpi2_RCL.html), I was intrigued that it just happens to be all about light this week.

Here’s the prayer, or “collect,” which I think is beautiful:

“Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ is the light of the world: Grant that your people, illumined by your Word and Sacraments, may shine with the radiance of Christ's glory, that he may be known, worshipped, and obeyed to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”

It made me think of Daniel 12, and the promise that many will “shine like the stars,” when Jesus comes again and finally puts all darkness to flight.

Isaiah 49, a messianic prophecy which also has some enlightenment for all followers of God’s Way, says, “I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth." The context makes it clear that Jesus is the one the passage is primarily speaking of, but Jesus himself said that we are also the light of the world.

I think if we hadn’t grown up singing “This little light of mine” and talking and hearing about this statement, we’d be pretty shocked by it. Me? The light of the world?! You’re kidding, right?

There is no argument about where the light comes from. All light. So the question is, are we lit from within by his Spirit? May we “shine with the radiance of Christ’s glory”!

How has light come to you, during the first two weeks of this new year?

How have you shared light during this same time?

Waiting...

So you wait. You wait for school to start. You wait for school to end. You wait for the big vacation trip. You wait for graduation. You wait for Mr/Ms Right. You wait for the baby to be born, and then for it to sleep through the night, and then for it to go to school and for it to come home from school…and this begins to sound familiar. You wait for the promotion and for the raise and for the paycheck, or sometimes for the job to show up. You wait for retirement and for pension checks.

You wait to die.

Through it all, you wait with longing that is sometimes passionate and sometimes faint but persevering, for Jesus to come.

They waited. “Redeemer,” said the angel at Eden’s gates, and “Messiah,” said the prophets, and the centuries and the lifetimes slid by, and they waited.

When you’re the one doing the waiting, it’s endless. It might be ten minutes for the phone call or a week for the medical test results or nine months for the pregnancy or hours for the birth, but it’s all forever.

“It’s all relative,” said Einstein. “

To me, all times are soon,” said Aslan.

“God is patient,” said Peter.

And still we wait.

Advent comes every year. At least you only have to wait one trip around the sun for that. Then you only have to wait a month for Christmas. It’s a time when we can rediscover both the waiting and the end of waiting. When the little girl and her fiancé got through the night at the stable, and the waiting was over, it had still just begun. There was babyhood to be got through, and childhood (bar mitzvah, Son of the Covenant) and then 18 years at home waiting for the ministry to begin.

That 3 ½ years must have gone by in a flash. Not so the hours of the “trial,” or, God help us, the crucifixion. Or the grave…But that part ended. And IT WAS DONE!

Then he said, “I’ll be back. Soon!”

And so we wait. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!

Sh’ma by the River 5—Loving the Great Spirit with All My Little Soul

Hear, O Israel,

the Lord your God, the Lord is One.

You shall love the Lord your God

with all your heart

and with all your mind

and with all your soul

and with all your strength.*

Many people separate soul from spirit and think of them as two different things, or as two different aspects of selfhood. I don’t do that. As Adventists, we believe a human being is a soul, rather than possessing a soul. We believe we are one being, that mind and body cannot be separated (except for consideration, such as in this series). What we do with our thoughts affects our physical health. What we do with our bodies affects our spiritual health. It’s all one.

If I were to draw a diagram of the self, it would look something like this:

The three smaller circles would be the body, mind, and heart, or emotions. The little spot in the center is where we are our full, true selves—all elements and aspects of us living and functioning as one whole being—a human soul. The large circle represents the Holy Spirit—the soul or spirit of God, “in whom we live and move and have our being.”

During this series, we have considered how to learn better to love God, others, and ourselves from our whole physical selves, our whole minds, and our whole hearts. To learn what it means to love God, others, and ourselves with our whole souls, just put it all together. Simple. Hard! Almost impossible! But simple. When all of our little circles are centered inside God’s big circle, then the peace God brings seeps into the center. It comes into our stomachs, and calms them. It comes into our emotions and lives with us in and through them. It comes into our heads and gives us a new outlook on life.

Simple, it may be, but it can also be scary. In the Bible, the Holy Spirit is often likened to wind. (The Hebrew and Greek words are the same—so is the English, but we’ve kind of lost it inside other words: inspire, respire, and perspire all share the same base as spirit, and they’re all about breath. So, for that matter, is expire.) Today, here in the last week of my Cape Breton Sabbatical by the river, the wind is so powerful it reminds me of that text in Acts, about “the sound of a mighty, rushing wind.” The cabin is shaking. When I went outside, I experienced something I’ve often said, but it’s never been actually true before—the wind really did nearly knock me down. When I would pick up a foot to take a step, that leg would be blown out from under me. The wind blew away my ice chest and all its contents, and took a large wooden picnic table off the porch and dumped it in the yard in two pieces.

Today, beside the river (from a safe distance, inside) I’m thinking about what it might really mean to throw my whole, puny, little spirit, my whole broken self, all my body, all my mind, all my heart, all my love, into the whirlwind that is the Holy Spirit of God, and go wherever that  Spirit chooses to take me.

Do I have the nerve?

Do you?

*These words combine the Sh’ma, found in Deut 6:4, 5, with Jesus’ words in Luke10:27, to give all four:  heart, mind, soul, and strength.

Sh’ma by the River, 4: Loving God with One’s Heart

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God

with all thy heart…

Loving from the heart seems like a no-brainer. Literally. Of course we love with our hearts. That’s where all emotions are seated, right? Or maybe the bowels, which is what the Hebrews used in this context. It seems to me that other societies have used other body parts, possibly the liver, certainly the brain, as the seat of emotion, but even Wikipedia is failing me on this one.

In the immortal words of Dr. Temperance Brennan, of TV Bones fame, “The heart is nothing but a pump.” True. However, I believe there’s good reason why humans have always thought emotions, positive and negative, (love, hate, fear, anger, happiness, sorrow, contentment, etc.), rise from body organs. There is a connection. Emotions make our blood pressure rise and drop, increase and decrease heart rate, adrenaline, dopamine, and more. Feelings, to put it more succinctly, are feelings.

The river overflowed its banks this week. I assume it did so just to give me good subject matter for this devotion. Emotions are scary for some of us. (I am one of them.) We have been raised so carefully to believe in “mind over matter,” and being mature and rational and in control and all that. We even name self-control as a gift of the Spirit. But the Greek word used in Galatians 5:23 is egkrateia, which means temperance. (Huh. Wonder what Bones would think about that?)

Temperance means the middle way. Not too hot, not too cold. Not too controlled by emotion, and not too controlled by brain. The river is essential to life, I want to say, when it’s contained within its banks, wending its merry way, not too low, not too high. But my analogy suffers a little when I think about the millions who depended for millennia on the seasonal flooding of the Nile, for one example.  Is it okay to overflow once in a while? And what does that mean?  Give way to emotion? Surely not…

Unless “give way” is taken literally. Make a way, or a path, make allowance for feeling.

When the Baddeck River overflowed this week, I don’t know if it caused harm or damage. I know it didn’t here, because there’s a nice big swale between the house and the riverbank. Room for it to swell, and to go back down again. A place for it to deposit, perhaps, all kinds of life-giving nutrients for future growth in the meadows.

This devotional did not go in the direction I had planned for it. I’m just saying.

Love God, others, self, from the heart. With the full strength of emotions. Without doing harm.

What does that mean?

Sh’ma by the River 3, Loving God with All Your Mind

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy…mind…

When I walk by the river and think of mind, I think of flow, of current, of direction. The river is born to seek the ocean, and that’s all it does. Our minds were born to seek God, but they, unlike the river, have free choice. We are even free to choose to believe we have no free choice. Consider that one for a minute!

I see the river doing all kinds of things at once, just like my mind. In the middle, it’s rushing along without much impedance, heading ever downhill. Then there are stretches that rush and ruffle over rocks and sandbars—impeded, but not letting the obstacles stop it. In fact, you could anthropomorphize (not that I would ever be guilty of that!!) and say the river seems to enjoy the obstacles.

Along the edges, there are spots where the river slows, circles, seems to get nowhere, but as long as it’s still connected to the main flow, that part of the water will move along, too, just at a different pace.

I mentioned last week that people used to be able to care for this river, to keep an open channel. I got to wondering what things I do, or could do, that keep an open channel in my mind?

I’ve noticed that one thing that makes the river flow more freely is rain. At first, I thought of this in the usual, even clichéd interpretation  of rain as adversity, but for the river, rain is not adversity, rain is life. Rain, to fill my mind, might be the water of the Holy Spirit’s presence.

Side waters might be good, for breaks, but how can I keep them from becoming separated from the flow, and getting stagnant?

I can use my mind to love myself by not allowing obstacles to get me down, by not speaking to myself in hurtful ways I would never use with another, by, as a friend of mine puts it, “paying attention to what I’m paying attention to!”

I can use my mind to love others by my words, written and spoken, by listening carefully when they speak, and watching their faces for the things they can’t say in words.

I can use my mind to love God by casting out into the depths of that immense, unfathomable love, by thinking of that love and patience and majesty, by trying (and failing!) to put some of it into words.

How do you keep your mind flowing free with love?

Sh'ma By the River: Loving God with One’s Body

As I walked the riverbank, I was thinking about the water versus the stones. Stones look a lot stronger than water. Water is so changeable, shimmering and glimmering around all over the place. A baby can shove it aside. A bug can walk on it. Fish even breathe it. Water is weak, right?

Stone, on the other hand, seems eternal. There it stands, holding firm, immovable. Big boulders and earth form the banks and boundaries of the water. Layer upon layer of smaller stones make up its bed, hold it on its way, keep it from sinking back down under the strata. Stone is strong.

The problem, of course, is time. The river, like all water, “seeks the path of least resistance,” but while it merrily chuckles on its way, it patiently and oh so constantly wears away at its banks, polishes the stones, grinds small ones smaller, and smallest ones into sand.

Once, people maintained this river. Among other things, they kept a channel dug, so salmon could get through easily. Now, the Crown doesn’t allow any modifications at all. So the river was taking out large chunks of pasture every year. The owners of the cabin got special permission to dump 90 square metres of big stone along the bank on the curve. So that’s how the big stones that hold the bank got here in the first place. Otherwise, the river would have changed its course again, as it has so many times.

Water is stronger than stone, after all.

Thou shalt love the Lord with all thy. . . strength. . . and thy neighbor as thyself.

In my analogy du jour, the water represents my mind. We’ll talk more of that next week. The earth and stone represent my body. And so it is, that the mind can wear away the body, if you let it. If you don’t maintain the body.

It seems to me that the first piece of loving God with one’s body—first in order, not in importance—is loving the body itself—taking care of it, nourishing it, feeding it, keeping a clear channel within it that leads to the ocean of God’s love. (Which of course means that love from and to God came first, after all. Can’t love this body unless I recognize that it’s God’s treasure, made by, and yes, loved by the Creator of all.)

Lately, rather to my own surprise, I’ve realized that morning grooming, and breakfast, and so on, are a real part of morning worship. I am loving God with my body when I take care of it. Or, more properly put perhaps, I am making my body strong and healthy, ready for use in loving.

The next piece is loving others as we love ourselves, which can’t mean in the same exact ways (unless the other in question is a baby or child or ill person whom we do actually feed, groom, and dress) but means loving others as much as we love ourselves. It’s been a hard lesson for me and many others to learn that the limit to our ability to love others lies, in part, in the limits we set on loving ourselves. Those limits can be set at either end of the spectrum, of course—true love is neither neglect nor overindulging.

I can use my body to love others by hugging them, listening to them, helping them, cooking for them, making things for them, and many other ways. May I have eyes to see the opportunities.

First, last, and always, comes love of God. In the ways in which we choose to show love to ourselves, we are loving God. In the ways in which we choose to show love to others, we are loving God. But we must also express our love direct to God, not through others. Do we use our bodies enough to do that?

I can use my body to show love to God by singing, using different positions in prayer, even dancing. I remember a story—you’ve probably heard it—about a child dancing and twirling around her back yard. Her mother asked what she was doing, and she replied happily, “I’m dancing with God!”

When was the last time you danced with God?

What are some of the ways you use your body to love God, others, and yourself?

What are some of the ways you maintain your body in good shape for that work of loving?

Sh'ma by the River

I have been considering the depths of the ancient prayer known as the Sh’ma for several years now. There is a great deal to consider, just in the first two lines.

Sh’ma Yis’ra’eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.

V’ahav’ta eit Adonai Elohekha

b’khol l’vav’kha

uv’khol naf’sh’kha

uv’khol m’odekha.*

Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD is one!

You shall love the LORD your God

with all your heart

and with all your soul

and with all your might.

In Luke 10: 27, answering the question of the lawyer, Jesus added “with all your mind.”

"You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind.” (NASB)

I’ve been considering what it means to love God with all those elements of my whole self. We Westerners are very good at the mind part. So were the Jews. They and we love to debate and study and exegete. Lots of Christians enjoy the same today. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But it may not be particularly devotional.

This morning, by the river, I stood in the current (in my high boots, you understand!) and considered the mind and how it’s like the river. And I decided to do a series. It might ask more questions than it answers, but that’s okay. My hope is that it will raise emotions, too, not just brainwaves. (Well, not just beta waves, anyway. I suppose all our emotional states show up in our brainwaves.)

This week is the introduction. Here are the preliminary questions to consider:

How do you, personally, practice the deep love of the One God:

                --with all your heart?

                --with all your soul/spirit?

                --with all your mind?

                --with all your strength?

Each of the next four weeks, I’ll be pondering by the side of my borrowed river, and I’ll share my thoughts and questions with you. I hope you’ll share yours with me, too.

*http://www.jewfaq.org/prayer/shema.htm

Be, Like a Tree

I climbed a hill today and leaned in the arms of an old silver birch. Neil Diamond’s Be, from Jonathan Livingston Seagull was floating in my mind, and I thought,

Be

Like a tree

Stand patiently through whatever weather comes

Reach always for the sky, but also ground yourself deep

Even when the soil is being washed away beneath you

Withstand insect attack, woodpeckers, and disease…

Heal around the wounds, if you can…

Let go the lovely leaves you’ve worked so hard on

Wait silently through winter

Grow new, little ones

When the time comes

Fall gently

Still reach for the sky while you can

Nurture those coming after you

Like a tree

Be

Somebody said, “To learn patience, cultivate the friendship of trees.

Compass for a Soul

This week, in chapter 18 of The Monastery of the Heart, “A Listening Heart,” I am struck mute by the clarity and beauty of the first few paragraphs. I shall add nothing.

There is a magnet in a seeker’s heart

whose true north is God.

It bends towards the Voice of God

with the ear of the heart

and, like sunflowers in the sun,

turns all of life toward

the living of the Word.

This listening heart is pure of pride

and free of arrogance.

It seeks wisdom—

everywhere, at all times—

and know wisdom by the way

it echoes

the call of the scriptures.

The compass for God implanted

in the seeker’s heart

stretches toward truth

and signals the way to justice.

It is attuned to the cries

of the poor and oppressed

with a timbre that allows

no interruption,

no smothering

of the Voice of God

on their behalf.

Kissing Vikings

Chapter  17 of The Monastery of the Heart is on this rule of hospitality. Perhaps we can gain some ideas from it, in the context of visitors to our own homes and churches. Perhaps, we could even gain some insights about growing our church membership.

Chittister says:

It is possible, of course,

to make community

out of “our kind of people,”

out of people who look like us

and think like us

and have the same backgrounds as we do.

But that is not

the kind of community

the ancient Rule

has in mind. . .

In many churches, it’s not that we expect people to have the same backgrounds (though we like it); it’s that we think that, given time and prayer and instruction, they’ll become just like us in looks, word, and deed.

When Benedict of Nursia began

his new way of living

in wild, licentious, sixth-century Rome,

he turned that world upside down. 

He took into his monastic community

the rich and the poor,

the slave and the free,

the young and the old,

artists and craftsmen,

peasants and noblemen.

It was a motley crew.

I wonder if he’d read Galatians 3:28?

And then, as if that weren’t enough,

he opened the doors

of the monastery

to anyone who came,

at any time,

to anyone who knocked,

no matter who they were

or where they had been in life

along the way.

Hmm. I wonder if he’d also read Hebrews 13:2?

Benedictine monasteries are perhaps best known for their hospitality. They take seriously the injunction to “welcome strangers, for in so doing, you may entertain angels unaware.” Wherever you are in the world, if you are in need of shelter, you can go to a Benedictine monastery and they will take you in. (Speaking for myself, I’ve found that to be true of Adventists, too, in general, even though we don’t have a specific rule about it.) In the 9^th century, when Vikings were raiding the British Isles, the story is that at Martyrs Bay, Iona, the reason so many monks, along with their abbot, were slaughtered is that they were still trying to keep Benedict’s Rule that the entire community must welcome any and all guests “as Christ,” with prayer and a kiss of peace. They well knew the Vikings had not come in peace, or with any idea of being Christ-like. But they wanted to be Christ-like.

So do I. I’m not sure I’d be that brave about it. . .

When was the last time you greeted a Viking raider with a kiss of welcome and peace? Metaphorically speaking. Or not. . .

Care for Others and Spiritual Growth

 Joan Chittister’s book, The Monastery of the Heart, which we’ve been exploring in this devotional series, is an exploration of the Rule of Benedict in order to see that the principles of godly spirituality which it espouses are available to all humans, not just to those in physical monasteries and convents. Jesus clearly taught and demonstrated that we are to live our lives in the world, though not of it, seeking to act out the love of God to all who come in our way.

This chapter, “Loving Service,” is a particularly touching one. It speaks of the special care which Benedict required monastics to give to the elderly, infirm, and young. We have already seen in past chapters that the Benedictine model is different from many medieval monasteries in its decision to seek the middle ways rather than demanding extreme asceticism, self-punishment, and so on, such as Martin Luther experienced in his Augustinian order.

Chittister writes:

There is in Benedictine spirituality

a deeply compassionate heart

that neither glorifies the suppression

of human feelings

nor denies the reality of human needs.

Nowhere is that clearer than in

the attention the Rule gives

to the needs of the elderly, the sick,

and the children of the monastery.

Already we see a difference—how many monasteries would have had any children in them? Benedictines, then and now, are required to offer hospitality to all who come to them, believing that is what God, in Hebrews 13:2, had in mind.

She goes on:

We are here to enable one another

to go further.

We are here to learn from the insights

of the other.

We are here to bring all of humanity

to fullness of life.

The Rule is clear about the lengths

to which a Benedictine goes

to sustain the elderly,

to heal the sick,

to support the young in the community. . . .

Suffering is not glorified in this Rule;

Loving care is its norm. . . .

No amount of special asceticism

can equal the amount

of spiritual growth

and human maturity

that comes with care for others.

I believe that “we” in the first line of this passage means me. Means you. Means all of us who claim to follow the Way of the Christ.

Equality in the Spirit

Equality in the Spirit

Chapter 9 in The Monastery of the Heart is titled “Equality.” In it, Chittister begins by saying that we like to think equality is the characteristic of our age—that we are all equal now, with equal importance and respect, and equal opportunities. But, she contends that in fact “inequality is the greatest sign of our time.”

. . . it is also our world

that enslaves the poor to the drudgery

of survival, that ranks women as lower human beings

than men,

that distributes the goods

 we produce

according to race,

that worships at the feet

of the gods of money,

and lives in gated communities

in order to keep

the rest of the world out.

To this world,

Benedictine spirituality says clearly,

“No.”

She points out that elders, who have lived longer in the heat of life are considered as elders or wisdom figures, as signs that

. . . life grows sweeter with time,

 . . . holier with experience,

 . . .richer of heart

as the heart grows deeper into God.

But age and seniority

are also not its gods.

 . . .”the Spirit often reveals what is better

to the younger.”

The principle is a clear one:

“The Spirit blows where it will.”

We cannot damp down

the fire of the Spirit

on the basis of anything

but the greater movement

of the Spirit itself.

I find it noteworthy that Chittister does not say “We must not.” She says “We cannot.”

Community—Real or Not?

An interesting thing has been happening in our little “monasteries of the heart” group. The point of the book we are studying, Joan Chittister’s The Monastery of the Heart, is that one may practice many of the spiritual principles outlined by 5^th century monk, Benedict of Nursia, while living an “ordinary” life in the everyday world, rather than moving to a convent or monastery. But it is also true that ordinary, everyday life tends to get in the way.

In my opinion, that’s one of the main arguments for not moving into a convent or monastery—I believe Jesus showed us that spirituality is meant to be lived out in the regular, argumentative, difficult, chaotic world, not closeted with others of like mind. But any  monk or nun could tell you human nature is still present in the cloister, too.

In our case, what we’ve been weathering lately is that we feel less “together,” less communal and even less committed than we did at first. The group was intended to meet during the weeks of Lent, but some of us decided we wanted to continue to meet longer. Yet we find ourselves forgetting to pray together at noon, or praying but wondering if others are praying or if they care. . .

Naturally we are all aware that what matters most in prayer is that God cares and that we care. But community is what we were after. So it takes a little re-centering—a little extra effort. A little discussion and decision. . .

So it was with interest not unmixed with amusement that we opened to our next chapter this week: “Mutuality.”

[Community] cannot be accomplished

without making some kind

of connections—

but connections alone

are no guarantee

that a real community

will really form.

On the other hand,

to become community

in a Monastery of the Heart

requires regular

and meaningful interaction

among the members. . .

It gives us the underpinning

that enables us to go on

when we’re tired,

to go forward

when we’re afraid,

to go more deeply into the unmasking

of the self

when everything inside of us

seems to have gone to stone,

goes dry and dull

and lethargic. . .

How can you see these principles at work in the relationships you live in?

Rest and Retreat

Chapter seven of The Monastery of the Heart is “Retreat and Reflection.” This, in essence, is what our little prayer group that meets on Wednesday nights is doing—retreating to reflect together on where we are versus where we want to be. As Chittister puts it,

This requires the cultivation

of a reflective soul

and a disciplined mind

that goes regularly into “retreat”—

into that space where we look,

first of all, at what we set out to be,

and then look consciously

at what we are now doing

to get there.

There is value in doing this together. There may be even more value in doing it alone. Both are necessary. Christian traditions of all kinds (not to mention other faiths) have always included a sort of “soul inspection,” often at the end of the day. All too often, this has become a self-flagellating catalogue of sins. Mind you, it’s important to look our sins squarely in the face. To confess them to ourselves, then to God, then to the person or persons we have harmed. But the inspection doesn’t end there.

In fact, perhaps it shouldn’t begin there. In the family book Making Heart Bread, authors Matthew Linn and Sheila Fabricant Linn speak of looking back at each day and asking what one is most grateful for first, letting the heart fill with that gratitude and love. Then, they say, one feels safer and is now ready to look at what one was least grateful for, or most troubled about, and care for those feelings.

In the context of soul-searching, if I look at the moments when my soul did follow the Holy Spirit to the best of its ability first, then of course I will be filled with joy and gratitude, because I know those moments were of God, not of me! Now, if I am also aware of moments when I failed to follow the Spirit, I can feel the regret and remorse without feeling overwhelmed or shamed or blamed, which is far more helpful in determining how to make restitution, if possible, and how to do better next time.

Retreat time is the flagship piece of the year

that sets the standard

for a rhythm of life that moves seamlessly

between contemplation and action,

between work and Sabbath,

between a regular retreat

and reflection days

throughout the year.

The Creator designed a life that would have these retreats built in: daily at morning and evening worship time, weekly on the seventh day, and several times a year during fasts and feasts. Why would we rob ourselves of these healing times?

Silence

Silence

Joan Chittister writes:

Silence. . .

brings us beyond the noise

of chaos and clutter and confusion

of a spinning world

to the cool, calm center

of the spiritual self.

(The Monastery of the Soul, ch. 5)

David writes:

My soul, wait in silence

for God only,

for my hope is from him.

(Ps. 62:5)

God, speaking through Isaiah, says:

Coastlands, listen to me in silence,

and let the peoples gain new strength;

let them come forward,

then let them speak.

(Is. 41:1, emphasis added.)

I have often noticed that some Christians—well, many people, Christian or not!—seem to be afraid of silence. I think that to come before God with our prayers, speak them all, then say Amen and go away is rude. God wants to speak to us, too, and he’d like the courtesy of a hearing.

Along with a large dose of humility.

What have you heard or felt in the silence this week?