Someone recently invited me to take on a leadership role in the community. Her request was simple enough, but it took me three weeks to ponder because of the ensuing internal wrestling match that went in in me. To begin with, she had invited me to a cause that was "right up my alley." The people I would have worked with are people of integrity. As I pondered the invitation my mind would wander down the path of imagining all the wonderful, exciting, meaningful things we might accomplish together. All of which, I soon realized, would entail more meetings, more planning, more work, more time....more than I literally have to offer. The "external" sense of calling was strong indeed ~ even seductive. But somewhere inside, I knew that saying "yes" to the invitation would pull me further off course.
In those moments when I allowed myself the quiet time to sit with that invitation in prayer, another voice....a stiller, smaller voice, began to speak from within. A voice which was quietly eager to remind me of the long list of things I've been wanting to do and have been putting off over and over because there have been too many other important things competing for attention. And over and over I kept hearing in my mind a refrain from a poem that was given to me more than twenty years ago. The author's name has long since vanished, but the essence of the poem has remained with me: "to live well, build only one barn." In other words, choose carefully and simply. Invest yourself in fewer things so that you may invest yourself in those few things more fully.
There are those scintillating times in life when the internal sense of call and the external work together as one. And then there are those dissonant times when they do not. This was one of those times when saying "no" to something good is the only way to say "yes" to something holier and better.
When Jesus came out of the wilderness, he gathered up those who would follow him. "Come, and follow me, and you will be fishing for people." He invited them to a mighty "yes!" But the only way to get there was through a thicket of "no's." Perhaps this kind of "no" is akin to blowing the ashes off a coal: we remove the suffocating crust clinging to our lives in order that the embers within might burn anew.
So I'm beginning this season of Lent with a couple of "no's." I'm beginning by brushing off the ashes of those things which pull me away from my inner compass. Not only have I turned down that person's kind invitation, but I'm saying no to a few other things as well. It is, perhaps, a form of confession and repentance. It is a first, small step in turning yet again from death to life.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Prayer of Confession
God of life, God of love, God of joy: I come to you today like a thirsty traveler to a well. In this age of overload, I thirst for life; in these days of animosity, I thirst for love; in this time of struggle, I thirst for joy. But you, O God, are the source of all these things, and I confess that my thirst must in part be a result of my having wandered from you. Forgive me for not taking the time to be with you more often. Forgive me for failing to nurture my own spirit, so that the life, love and joy I find in you might also flow back out of me. Guide my steps again toward the well of eternity, and there quench my thirst. Set me free from my sins, that I may once again dare to dream audacious dreams, extend audacious love, and be a little bit of light and life in the world, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Lament for Haiti
How long, O Lord, how long? How long must the impoverished people of Haiti suffer before the rest of the world stops thinking of them as second-class citizens? How many lives must be lost to earthquakes, to unjust immigration policies, international double standards and economic embargoes before the channels of Your grace and our graciousness are opened to them? How many Restavek children need to be sold into servitude before there is adequate employment to keep parents fed? How long will Haiti's political polarities strangle the needs of the people? O God, hear the desperate cries of your Haitian people, and pour out your grace upon them. But let us hear their cries as well, and mourn as they mourn. Take our hearts in the wake of this horrid tragedy and open them, soften them to the centuries-long plight of these good and generous people. Help us to see them in the light of the suffering Christ, in whom so many of them place their stalwart faith. Let there be an "aftershock" in our souls, that we might change our ways and open our lives to their desperate need.
Bring It!
“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news…” Isaiah 61:1-7
At a recent girls’ basketball game, the home team was down by quite a bit and their frustration was rising. The visiting defense had stymied their game: each time they brought the ball down court they could do little more than pass it around the top of the key. Then, without warning, one of the girls dropped her shoulder and drove the ball right to the hoop, circumstances be damned. Lo and behold, she both scored and drew two added foul shots. The crowd went nuts, and in that one moment the whole game turned around.
The post-exilic Israelites had begun to wonder if they had been doomed to yet another losing season. After all, who were they to be “priests of the Lord” now that they were just a banged-up holdout from the past without a functioning Temple and while foreigners were still tilling their own land? Isaiah egged them on with this simple challenge: who were they not to be? The Spirit had anointed them to be a servant nation: to bring good news to others, circumstances be damned.
God has always dispatched prophets to bring good news before the coast is clear. We ourselves might be inclined to put off our own prophetic witness until the defense has turned sloppy. But Isaiah has a different idea: don’t wait to see the evidence that God’s good news is coming. Be the evidence that God’s good news is already here! It can turn the whole game around.
Prayer: Lord, grant me the courage to bring a little bit of your good news into the world today, whatever the circumstances may be. Amen.
At a recent girls’ basketball game, the home team was down by quite a bit and their frustration was rising. The visiting defense had stymied their game: each time they brought the ball down court they could do little more than pass it around the top of the key. Then, without warning, one of the girls dropped her shoulder and drove the ball right to the hoop, circumstances be damned. Lo and behold, she both scored and drew two added foul shots. The crowd went nuts, and in that one moment the whole game turned around.
The post-exilic Israelites had begun to wonder if they had been doomed to yet another losing season. After all, who were they to be “priests of the Lord” now that they were just a banged-up holdout from the past without a functioning Temple and while foreigners were still tilling their own land? Isaiah egged them on with this simple challenge: who were they not to be? The Spirit had anointed them to be a servant nation: to bring good news to others, circumstances be damned.
God has always dispatched prophets to bring good news before the coast is clear. We ourselves might be inclined to put off our own prophetic witness until the defense has turned sloppy. But Isaiah has a different idea: don’t wait to see the evidence that God’s good news is coming. Be the evidence that God’s good news is already here! It can turn the whole game around.
Prayer: Lord, grant me the courage to bring a little bit of your good news into the world today, whatever the circumstances may be. Amen.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Little by Little
I was reminded today that William Sloane Coffin once wrote that the gift of the Incarnation isn't just about what God became in Jesus: it's also about what we can still become in the fullness of our own time.
For some, the "becoming" might be measured boldly: a grand stretching of wings, a courageous stepping out beyond safe borders, or a total commitment to integrating one's core values with everyday living. But sometimes, perhaps most times, our "becoming" is more reliably measured incrementally. An alcoholic in recovery may feel that twenty-five days of sobriety doesn't measure up well against years of addictive behavior. Someone who has a record of poor decisions may labor under the weight of self-judgment to the point of negating every good choice they do make. But the truth is that each and every new day of sobriety, each and every life-affirming choice, is a towering success that warrants celebrating with the angels.
Who are we to become? Every choice we make to listen to (and act upon) the still, small voice of God that speaks faithfully within us is an act of Incarnating God's Word for us. After all, Christmas reminds us that God is not only in the grand scheme of things, God is present in the details.
For some, the "becoming" might be measured boldly: a grand stretching of wings, a courageous stepping out beyond safe borders, or a total commitment to integrating one's core values with everyday living. But sometimes, perhaps most times, our "becoming" is more reliably measured incrementally. An alcoholic in recovery may feel that twenty-five days of sobriety doesn't measure up well against years of addictive behavior. Someone who has a record of poor decisions may labor under the weight of self-judgment to the point of negating every good choice they do make. But the truth is that each and every new day of sobriety, each and every life-affirming choice, is a towering success that warrants celebrating with the angels.
Who are we to become? Every choice we make to listen to (and act upon) the still, small voice of God that speaks faithfully within us is an act of Incarnating God's Word for us. After all, Christmas reminds us that God is not only in the grand scheme of things, God is present in the details.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
In the Twinkling of an Eye
“I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” 1 Corinthians 15:51
It’s funny how some moments in life come and go without our hearts’ noticing, while others imprint themselves on our memories forever. One of those unforgettable moments came for me in the early evening hours of November 15, 1995. Laurie had given birth to Brynne a few hours earlier. There we were, the two of us, friends and lovers changed into parents! In the twinkling of an eye.
And time felt as though it had stopped, as time does when you’re surrounded by holiness. After being whisked off to the nursery for further observation, our firstborn daughter~all seven pounds and fourteen ounces of her~was wheeled up alongside the bed in which I was resting in a clear plastic bassinette, wrapped tight in her hospital blanket and beanie. There we were, father and daughter now, products of a miracle too readily forgotten all these years later. There we were, each of us on our side, looking each other in the eye. No words needed to be shared. We were wrapped in mystery and love.
It was in that moment that my mind flashed forward about forty or fifty years. I suddenly imagined us in reversed roles: I, much older now, lying in a hospital bed for some reason or another, nearing the end of my life, and she, a grown up Brynne, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand silently, the two of us looking one another in the eye. In both scenes, the real one, and the imagined one, there was a lump in my throat and I was on the brink of tears. Tears welling up from an overflowing of love: the first in awe of the birth I that had taken place; the second in awe of the countless blessings that rise to our awareness when death is near.
Those who know me know that I am a hugger. As I reflect back on this moment, I am struck by the fact that there was no hugging involved. I know why now: in both scenes, our relationship was being held in the embrace of God. Love’s instinct is to cling, and cling we do to those we love in both life and memory. But at times of transition, whether it’s adolescence of leaving home or getting married or dying, love is also required to let go. We do it reluctantly, of course. But as people of faith we do so in the deep, deep knowledge that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us – and our relationships – even when we can’t hold on any more.
On this cusp of Advent, I am especially moved by all the letting go that God did throughout the Gospels. God let go of control over what would happen to Jesus from the moment Jesus was born right through the Crucifixion. And I wonder whether Mary had one of those “flash forward” moments too as she gazed on her son in the manger. All we know is that Mary pondered many things in her heart, knowing somehow that she too would have to let go one day. I suppose that’s what we’re doing here tonight: keeping vigil together somewhere between cradle and grave, between manger and cross, pondering it all in our hearts and hoping to make it through. Knowing that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us even when we can’t hold on any more.
Over the years my parishioners have taught me that one of the keys to making it through grief is letting go of the question “why?” and learning to ask the more relevant question, “what now?” And then you figure it out, a day at a time. You get up in the morning. You breathe. You brush your teeth. You brew your coffee a little stronger. You go to work or read the paper or go for a walk. You cry, you pound the walls, you say your prayers, you answer the phone a little more warily than you used to. You do whatever you have to do, often wishing you didn’t have to.
But most of all, you cherish the ache. That’s right, hug the ache you feel in your soul and in your chest close to you. That ache in your heart, as painful as it is, is an ache you would take any day and twice on Sunday if the alternative were to never have loved the one you love. Hug the ache close because deep within your ache are the seeds of the divine ache that was so great it compelled God to send a son…so that we here might feel God’s embrace as close to us as our love is to us.
Hug that ache, and let it move you from the old love into a new love, whatever form it takes. Because we were created for love. Paul said it well in First Corinthians: “As for prophecy, it shall end. As for tongues, they shall cease. But love never ends.”
I heard a story once about a minister who visited an elderly widow. Her home was extremely modest, and her health was failing. And yet she was full of smiles and kindness. And it struck the young man visiting her that here was a woman whose husband had deeply loved her. She reminded him of a rock that has sat out in the sun all day long absorbing the heat of the sun’s radiation: and that even after the sun has set, the rock retains the heat it has absorbed well into the night, radiating it back out into the world.
All the awesome things in life happen in the twinkling of an eye. Children are born and become lovers and parents who age and eventually die, and somehow the cycle keeps on going. Perhaps that’s because there is so much love still radiating from all of us, even in the middle of the night. Radiating because before we loved one another, God loved us. And loves us still.
It’s funny how some moments in life come and go without our hearts’ noticing, while others imprint themselves on our memories forever. One of those unforgettable moments came for me in the early evening hours of November 15, 1995. Laurie had given birth to Brynne a few hours earlier. There we were, the two of us, friends and lovers changed into parents! In the twinkling of an eye.
And time felt as though it had stopped, as time does when you’re surrounded by holiness. After being whisked off to the nursery for further observation, our firstborn daughter~all seven pounds and fourteen ounces of her~was wheeled up alongside the bed in which I was resting in a clear plastic bassinette, wrapped tight in her hospital blanket and beanie. There we were, father and daughter now, products of a miracle too readily forgotten all these years later. There we were, each of us on our side, looking each other in the eye. No words needed to be shared. We were wrapped in mystery and love.
It was in that moment that my mind flashed forward about forty or fifty years. I suddenly imagined us in reversed roles: I, much older now, lying in a hospital bed for some reason or another, nearing the end of my life, and she, a grown up Brynne, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand silently, the two of us looking one another in the eye. In both scenes, the real one, and the imagined one, there was a lump in my throat and I was on the brink of tears. Tears welling up from an overflowing of love: the first in awe of the birth I that had taken place; the second in awe of the countless blessings that rise to our awareness when death is near.
Those who know me know that I am a hugger. As I reflect back on this moment, I am struck by the fact that there was no hugging involved. I know why now: in both scenes, our relationship was being held in the embrace of God. Love’s instinct is to cling, and cling we do to those we love in both life and memory. But at times of transition, whether it’s adolescence of leaving home or getting married or dying, love is also required to let go. We do it reluctantly, of course. But as people of faith we do so in the deep, deep knowledge that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us – and our relationships – even when we can’t hold on any more.
On this cusp of Advent, I am especially moved by all the letting go that God did throughout the Gospels. God let go of control over what would happen to Jesus from the moment Jesus was born right through the Crucifixion. And I wonder whether Mary had one of those “flash forward” moments too as she gazed on her son in the manger. All we know is that Mary pondered many things in her heart, knowing somehow that she too would have to let go one day. I suppose that’s what we’re doing here tonight: keeping vigil together somewhere between cradle and grave, between manger and cross, pondering it all in our hearts and hoping to make it through. Knowing that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us even when we can’t hold on any more.
Over the years my parishioners have taught me that one of the keys to making it through grief is letting go of the question “why?” and learning to ask the more relevant question, “what now?” And then you figure it out, a day at a time. You get up in the morning. You breathe. You brush your teeth. You brew your coffee a little stronger. You go to work or read the paper or go for a walk. You cry, you pound the walls, you say your prayers, you answer the phone a little more warily than you used to. You do whatever you have to do, often wishing you didn’t have to.
But most of all, you cherish the ache. That’s right, hug the ache you feel in your soul and in your chest close to you. That ache in your heart, as painful as it is, is an ache you would take any day and twice on Sunday if the alternative were to never have loved the one you love. Hug the ache close because deep within your ache are the seeds of the divine ache that was so great it compelled God to send a son…so that we here might feel God’s embrace as close to us as our love is to us.
Hug that ache, and let it move you from the old love into a new love, whatever form it takes. Because we were created for love. Paul said it well in First Corinthians: “As for prophecy, it shall end. As for tongues, they shall cease. But love never ends.”
I heard a story once about a minister who visited an elderly widow. Her home was extremely modest, and her health was failing. And yet she was full of smiles and kindness. And it struck the young man visiting her that here was a woman whose husband had deeply loved her. She reminded him of a rock that has sat out in the sun all day long absorbing the heat of the sun’s radiation: and that even after the sun has set, the rock retains the heat it has absorbed well into the night, radiating it back out into the world.
All the awesome things in life happen in the twinkling of an eye. Children are born and become lovers and parents who age and eventually die, and somehow the cycle keeps on going. Perhaps that’s because there is so much love still radiating from all of us, even in the middle of the night. Radiating because before we loved one another, God loved us. And loves us still.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Wind Blows Where It Will
I walked my daughter to the bus today. It was sunny, unseasonably warm and windy, the kind of day that always takes me back to Thanksgivings past. On the way back to the house I noticed that my neighbors' yards were once again covered in leaves. I'm used to my lawn being covered in leaves, but am not accustomed to the "leafy look" on my neighbors lawns. In a matter of just a few hours, the wind - ignorant of human constructs such as property lines and emotional boundaries - had rearranged the residual leaves all over the neighborhood. For a moment I was glad that I hadn't finished raking my lawn, since as of today, we all were going to need to get back out there and rake some more anyway, no matter how good our lawns looked yesterday.
I thought about the wind, and the leaves, and how Jesus reminded Nicodemus that those who live in and are born of the Spirit will experience much of life as wind, not knowing where it comes from. The leaves this morning mirror life. We clean house, we take care of whatever we conceive as "our responsibility," but occasionally the Holy Spirit, without so much as a social courtesy, playfully deposits the "debris" from other lives and other realities onto the lawns of our lives. A friend pulls her hair out over the burden caring for her mother has turned out to be. She didn't ask for this problem, and wishes that the Spirit would blow her mother's condition into her brother's back yard for a while so that he might know how much responsibility has fallen to her this past year. Shelter directors in town struggle with how to house the anticipated increase in New Hampshire homeless persons knowing that the Spirit has blown countless "transient" homeless into our back yard from all over.
Ask all we want, it is not ours to know the "why" of our struggles and responsibilities. Decay happens, and responsibility for life's debris pretty much falls, or blows to all of us sooner or later. The smart neighbors will find comfort in knowing that the unraked leaves of life will eventually compost into the soil of tomorrow's new growth. The wise ones will see in their frustration the Spirit's prompting to invite all the neighbors together next Saturday for a shared response to the problem, followed by a really nice dinner together to share some of the joys of life. We all spend so much time raking alone...why not share the load?
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