Luminous Beauty

Luminous Beauty

I walk and walk along the way

Sometimes with my focus mainly on

The obstacles that would cause me

To stumble

To take a tumble

Rey sees a rabbit, a squirrel

And pulls as if to give chase

He sees a friend—known or unknown—

And with his growl asks to be petted

We walk many of the same paths

Each day

We learn the patterns of some

With whom we cross paths

The writer who takes time to shoot baskets

            And loves to give Rey a tousled head

The dog who charges from across her yard

            But cannot cross her invisible fence

The gardener who is making order among her

            Seemingly chaotic plantings

But then I look up

And see a luminous beauty

Of trunks with shedding bark

The blossoms fading amid the leaves

And all my questions vanish for a moment

Of absolute delight

And pure joy                             

Trying to Avoid What Can't Be Avoided

I first heard Mitch Albom speak about his book Tuesdays with Morrie shortly after it was published in 1997. I was touched by the subject since it was about Albom’s conversations with his former professor Morrie Schwartz as the latter was suffering from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease). I avoided reading the book for several years even though it was highly popular. It brought my father’s last months and his death from ALS too closely to mind for me.

When a colleague, Cheryl Simmons, was diagnosed with progressive bulbar palsy, it felt as though a scab was pulled off a wound. Across the Conference, and on Facebook, I watched, and prayed, as she bravely fought for every moment she could. When she gave away her piano and her car, I saw Daddy’s frustration and tears again as he knew he could no longer play golf.

I had some of the same feelings of avoidance over the last couple of weeks as Facebook has been overwhelmed with the “ALS Ice-bucket Challenge.” In reality, I hoped I would escape being “nominated” for the challenge, but that was not to be. I had to think about it long and hard. Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for the funds being raised for research.

The reality is that each one of us will have to face a moment, either suddenly or perhaps slow in coming, when we will no longer have any control in this life, and we will have to say our goodbyes. And before we reach that moment, more likely than not, we will have had to face it with someone we love. Even those of us who deal with death and dying more than many others will sometimes try to avoid it, but sometimes it slaps us in the face like ice cold water.

[You can see what I decided to do here: my ALS Challenge]

United Church of Canada Creed’s final phrase:

“In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God.”

Oh, the Lies that We Believe

What are the lies that we believe? Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest, professor, spiritual director, found his deepest sense of purpose in being the companion of a core member of a L’Arche community. He said that there are three lies we believe:

         We are what we have.

         We are what we do.

         We are what others say about us.

When we believe these lies, we forget what is the singular most important truth: we are God’s beloved. That’s right—God’s beloved. God loves us not for what we have, not for what we do, not for what anyone says about us. God loves us for a very simple reason: we are God’s children. I am God’s child; you are God’s child.

Maybe in our best moments we can believe this, but there are so many more times when we do not-- and even more times maybe that we do not even love ourselves. If, in God’s infinite triune wholeness, the love of the Three-in-One flows so freely that we—you, I—are invited to sit at the table, to come into the fellowship, into the embrace, doesn’t that say something about being beloved?

I know that there are moments when we may find ourselves deep in darkness and cannot see any possibility of light, or love. In those times even the love that is expressed for us does not feel like enough of a cord to lead us to the light. Instead, we can only think of a “final solution” that might end the pain, the darkness.

And so tonight, I weep for those who know such utter darkness, who have believed the lies. I do not condemn them. And most of all, I do not despair completely, because I believe in One who is so powerfully Love itself that even death cannot end the invitation, the embrace.

Isaiah 49:15b-16a

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.

A Time for Silence

I know that even as a very small child, I loved to talk with people, at least when I felt safe, like at home. I remember talking to adults who were guests of my parents. While that may be endearing for a little bit, it really can get annoying to the adults who want to carry on their own conversation.

I have been sensing the need for more silence in my life, the kind of silence that makes room for listening. I do work hard at that, but I still find that all too often I just have to make an interjection, often elucidating what someone is talking about. On the positive side, it is being engaged with the other; on the not-so-positive side, oh, all right, on the negative side, it can interrupt the other’s thought process, or even stymie their attempt or ability to work through an issue on their own.

I can’t promise that I will never speak up or that I will take a vow of silence, but I think I need to practice listening a bit more, to others, to God.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 7b

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

The Wide Embrace

Three times in the last day, I have thought of something in particular, so I think that means I need to write about it. This is not my typical weekly message but I think it is important.

René Girard is a professor emeritus at Stanford University. He is also one of the 40 Immorteles  of the French Academy. His field is not simple. He has crossed all sorts of boundaries of disciplines in the creation of what he calls mimetic theory. Simply put is that humans learn by imitating one another. Simple, you may say. Of course, we all know that. For Girard however this is the beginning of all culture from the smallest early village to much larger societies. And also, it was also what converted Girard from an atheist to become a Christ-follower.

Please bear with me--I know that I am over-simplifying. Life in the village goes at its own pace until one day there is a disturbance in the air. It affects everyone. It's all against all, until someone points at a person and says "It's their fault!" Suddenly, it becomes all against one, and that one becomes the scapegoat for the community. The scapegoat is either shunned, banished or sacrificed. Order is restored, almost magically it seems. Thus the event is remembered with an aura of mana or power. The next time there is a "disturbance" in the force, the memory is brought forth; in some way it is re-enacted. If order is restored, all is well, but sometimes more than the reenactment is needed, and this leads to a new scapegoat, a new sacrifice. If this does not work, more sacrifices are required, or one of a higher status. Eventually, the ultimate role of a king is to be the sacrifice when needed. All of the victims have a degree of innocence, and yet also of culpability.

This brings us to Jesus--the incarnation of the triune God who is always creating, redeeming, sustaining. Knowing humankind full well including our proclivities towards imitation, scapegoating and violence, the latter two of which are far from creating, redeeming and sustaining, our triune God chose to become one of us in order to draw us closer into the communion of the threefold embrace. I say knowing full well deliberately because I believe that God could foresee the path we were likely to take, but that did not deter God. The path we took was the one we had always taken. When the disturbance came, we turned and pointed, demanding a sacrifice. God did not demand the sacrifice; we did. And this sacrifice upon the cross of the One truly innocent victim, with no culpability, broke the power of sacrifice--forever. Oh, we still try, but it cannot bring peace and order ever again. Just look at what we do in the world when we go our own way.

God's atonement--accepting our demand for sacrifice of Jesus as the scapegoat--was to open God's "arms" wide to embrace us with the love that was from before creation, that comes into our midst, and that calls us forward into full communion with God.

Each time we remember this act, especially when we are at the Table, we are not re-enacting a sacrifice from long ago. We are participating in the open embrace of God's atonement, of the grace and mercy that accepts us where we are with our human proclivities--to point, to scapegoat--and loves us into being the incarnation, the Body of Christ to carry this embrace into the world.

I understand why an atheist became a Christ-follower who has to stand in awe as he receives the embrace of Christ's arms spread wide.

Ephesians 2:15a-16

That he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it.

Our Stories

“Do you remember when?” someone asks, and then the stories roll eliciting laughter, tears, smiles, memories and even questions. The questions often come because of differing perspectives. One person remembers an event one way, and another has a different memory of what happened. At times, my mother would tell me that an event I remembered did not happen, or that my memory was wrong. This is why eyewitnesses to a scene can recall details so differently that we wonder if they saw the same thing happen.

Our memories, our stories are a part of what makes us who we are. They can be told to explain how we got where we are, and why we can or cannot do something. I have been reading a book* that suggests we look at our stories in a new way, not changing the facts but seeing new possibilities that point toward hope. As soon as I read this, I immediately thought of an exchange with my first family systems coach. As I talked about my mother’s obvious favoring of my brother, something that had always felt like a lack in my life, she pointed out how lucky I was to have been out of the intense focus of my mother so that could I grow up more freely than my brother. Just that one change, not in the facts but in seeing what they could mean, has made a huge difference for me.

When we tell our stories we remind ourselves and others of the way we have come, and so we may tell them or remember them differently because we are looking through a particular lens to understand. That does not mean that any of the stories, or versions of stories are not true. They may each speak to a different aspect of the truth. For a start, look at Genesis 1 vis a vis Genesis 2, and then at Psalm 8, Psalm 19 and Psalm 104. Each tells of God’s Creation through a particular lens. Each helps us find new understanding that can lead to a greater fullness in our life.

My story is not set in stone; it is alive with all possibilities and purpose in the fullness of God who is Three-in-One, creating me, redeeming me and sanctifying me at all times and in all ways.

Psalm 19:1-2

The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.

Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge.

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* Community: The Structure of Belonging, Peter Block.