Friday, Fourth Week of Easter
Memorial of Pope St. Pius V
“You are my Son; this day I have begotten you.”
—Psalm 2:7b
From time to time, I long to be adored.
This is not easy to admit. It sounds thoroughly self-absorbed. My life is good. My prayers this morning were filled with thanksgiving for the many undeserved blessings I have known. There are many people in my life who love me unconditionally and there are so many others in the world who suffer beyond my own scope of experience.
And yet, in the quiet truth of my deepest heart, sometimes I still long to simply be adored, and all the goodness of my life does not quite fulfill this longing. I am filled with some humility and even shame to acknowledge it, but I take a small bit of consolation in that I think every heart longs for this also, though few are willing to own it.
Of course, we are adored, but we don’t see it or accept it. Just as there are people in our lives who genuinely ache for us and our happiness, but we don’t feel, recognize, or understand their love, so it is with God also. The Spirit pours out upon us in desire for our very hearts, and in self-giving adoration, but we are too blind to see it. Or perhaps, we are just still too young and immature in our own development.
When I hold my baby daughter, the word adoration is probably too weak to describe the surge of love and worshipful concern that pours out of me. Does she feel that? Does she know? Perhaps on some level she does. It is such comfort to me when she simply smiles in return. She will likely understand my adoration for her better as she grows and matures, but even if she never fully knows, it makes the love I feel for her no less real.
And this must be how God adores us, with complete and reckless abandon, content with our relative unawareness, delighted in our occasional smile, and totally committed to our well-being and happiness. We are, indeed, adored, and the longing we feel is fulfilled in him.
Holy Parent, Divine Lover, break open my heart so that I may bask in the passion and desire you feel for me. May the adoration of your love pour through the universe this day, and may we have wisdom to return it to you and to one another. Amen.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Of Light Bulbs and Laser Beams
April 28, 2010 – Wednesday, Fourth Week of Easter
“I came into the world as light, so that everyone who believes in me might not remain in darkness.”
—John 12:46
During this recent time of personal and professional transition, I’ve reflected a lot on the meaning and purpose of my work. I am leaving a job to pursue another, related role in the same field, but many of the specific projects I’ve initiated will pass into other hands…or, quite likely, will pass away altogether. This has contributed to my sense of loss and mourning, and my doubts about the impact I’ve made.
With these feelings lingering in the margins of my spirit, I was particularly struck by a comment in John Maeda’s terrific book, The Laws of Simplicity, which we have recently used in contemplative leadership study with one of my work teams:
What real impact I leave will be relative to the extent I’ve served, unwittingly, as a light bulb. Where I have brought some illumination, some warmth, some insight, some larger perspective, the light will likely remain.
That light is the light of the divine, shining through me, by grace. I know this because I was trying to be a laser beam and was oblivious to the warmer, softer light that was emanating around me anyway. And this is the light that will guide me in the next chapter of my story.
Light of the World, you have lead me through darkness though I foolishly thought I was leading the way. Humble me and give me wisdom, so that I might know when to be a laser and when to be a light bulb. And may I have the grace to see that either way, the light is yours. Amen.
“I came into the world as light, so that everyone who believes in me might not remain in darkness.”
—John 12:46
During this recent time of personal and professional transition, I’ve reflected a lot on the meaning and purpose of my work. I am leaving a job to pursue another, related role in the same field, but many of the specific projects I’ve initiated will pass into other hands…or, quite likely, will pass away altogether. This has contributed to my sense of loss and mourning, and my doubts about the impact I’ve made.
With these feelings lingering in the margins of my spirit, I was particularly struck by a comment in John Maeda’s terrific book, The Laws of Simplicity, which we have recently used in contemplative leadership study with one of my work teams:
I was once advised by my teacher Nicholas Negroponte to become a light bulb instead of a laser beam, at an age and time in my career when I was all focus. His point was that you can either brighten a single point with laser precision, or else use the same light to illuminate everything around you. Striving for excellence usually entails the sacrifice of everything in the background for the same of attending to the all-important foreground. I took Negroponte’s challenge as a greater goal of finding the meaning of everything around, instead of just what I directly faced.There’s probably no better metaphor for the way I’ve approached my own work than a laser beam: hot, intense, searing, cutting away that which I deem imperfect and constructing the ideal product. My approach has worked for me in a number of ways, but being a laser beam, as Maeda notes, brightens only a single point at a time. And it will be many of those specific points of my work that will likely fade away or be tossed away with my departure.
What real impact I leave will be relative to the extent I’ve served, unwittingly, as a light bulb. Where I have brought some illumination, some warmth, some insight, some larger perspective, the light will likely remain.
That light is the light of the divine, shining through me, by grace. I know this because I was trying to be a laser beam and was oblivious to the warmer, softer light that was emanating around me anyway. And this is the light that will guide me in the next chapter of my story.
Light of the World, you have lead me through darkness though I foolishly thought I was leading the way. Humble me and give me wisdom, so that I might know when to be a laser and when to be a light bulb. And may I have the grace to see that either way, the light is yours. Amen.
Monday, April 26, 2010
I Thirst
Monday, Fourth Week of Easter
“Athirst is my soul for the living God.”
—Psalm 42:3a
I am tired and weary today. I am sad. The economy has finally caught up to those of us who work in the public sector, and the organization I work for is facing some sizable budget cuts. People are going to lose their jobs. My own job, which I will soon be departing, will not be filled.
I am left with a deep sense of mourning over this. What does it mean to give your heart and soul for work that, in the end, will either be left incomplete, or will be divided up and doled out to other employees who have no choice but to willingly accept it? What do I do with all this work I have created and all the residual stuff associated with it?
It makes me feel thoroughly expendable.
And, it makes me feel selfish that I’m mourning like this when other people are losing the jobs they have.
We tie up so much emotion, aspiration, hope, and passion in the work we do. There’s nothing wrong with this, I suppose. All such longing is a manifestation, a sacrament, of our deep thirst for fulfillment, meaning and purpose, a thirst that is quenched through our work and our relationships, but ultimately, quenched by God.
Holy One, pour your goodness out upon those who are struggling with the loss of jobs and upon those who must make these difficult decisions. I offer my own work here up to you, and release my attachment to what becomes of it, trusting that, by your grace, any light I have brought here will continue to shine where it is needed. Quench my heart’s longing, and let me rest in you. Amen.
“Athirst is my soul for the living God.”
—Psalm 42:3a
I am tired and weary today. I am sad. The economy has finally caught up to those of us who work in the public sector, and the organization I work for is facing some sizable budget cuts. People are going to lose their jobs. My own job, which I will soon be departing, will not be filled.
I am left with a deep sense of mourning over this. What does it mean to give your heart and soul for work that, in the end, will either be left incomplete, or will be divided up and doled out to other employees who have no choice but to willingly accept it? What do I do with all this work I have created and all the residual stuff associated with it?
It makes me feel thoroughly expendable.
And, it makes me feel selfish that I’m mourning like this when other people are losing the jobs they have.
We tie up so much emotion, aspiration, hope, and passion in the work we do. There’s nothing wrong with this, I suppose. All such longing is a manifestation, a sacrament, of our deep thirst for fulfillment, meaning and purpose, a thirst that is quenched through our work and our relationships, but ultimately, quenched by God.
Holy One, pour your goodness out upon those who are struggling with the loss of jobs and upon those who must make these difficult decisions. I offer my own work here up to you, and release my attachment to what becomes of it, trusting that, by your grace, any light I have brought here will continue to shine where it is needed. Quench my heart’s longing, and let me rest in you. Amen.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Forever
Friday, Third Week of Easter
“Whoever eats this bread will live forever.”
—John 6:58b
In the past, I have always tried mightily to spiritualize phrases from the gospel like this. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in eternal life, it just made me uncomfortable to talk about it. Folks always seemed so literal-minded when they’d characterize the hereafter, it felt like they were sapping a great spiritual truth of all its mystery and holiness.
So, I tend to take phrases like this one from the Gospel of John and think about the abundant life we can experience in the here and now through participation in the life of God, even as I acknowledge a belief in life after physical death.
As I’ve grown older, though, I’ve given a lot more thought to death and what comes next. Our impermanence and mortality become ever-more apparent as the years pass, I guess. Without giving up my hesitation to talk about what the afterlife is like, I’m encouraged by the faith that there is indeed life everlasting, a continuation of the journey beyond the confines of this body. I won’t speculate as to what it will be like, as I think it surpasses anything we can conceive and imagine. I don’t even know if vestiges of my personality will remain. But I do take comfort in knowing that the energy of longing and love, of passion and desire, of beauty and grace that is the essence of my being, will, through God’s grace, be redeemed and healed and held in perfect comfort in a place beyond time and space.
That’s a magnificent and stunning thing to conceive, and it puts all the small human drama of my everyday life into a context that leaves me humbled and quiet.
Bread of Life, let me dwell ever more deeply in that space at the center of my being where you meet me and redeem me and love me forever. Amen.
“Whoever eats this bread will live forever.”
—John 6:58b
In the past, I have always tried mightily to spiritualize phrases from the gospel like this. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in eternal life, it just made me uncomfortable to talk about it. Folks always seemed so literal-minded when they’d characterize the hereafter, it felt like they were sapping a great spiritual truth of all its mystery and holiness.
So, I tend to take phrases like this one from the Gospel of John and think about the abundant life we can experience in the here and now through participation in the life of God, even as I acknowledge a belief in life after physical death.
As I’ve grown older, though, I’ve given a lot more thought to death and what comes next. Our impermanence and mortality become ever-more apparent as the years pass, I guess. Without giving up my hesitation to talk about what the afterlife is like, I’m encouraged by the faith that there is indeed life everlasting, a continuation of the journey beyond the confines of this body. I won’t speculate as to what it will be like, as I think it surpasses anything we can conceive and imagine. I don’t even know if vestiges of my personality will remain. But I do take comfort in knowing that the energy of longing and love, of passion and desire, of beauty and grace that is the essence of my being, will, through God’s grace, be redeemed and healed and held in perfect comfort in a place beyond time and space.
That’s a magnificent and stunning thing to conceive, and it puts all the small human drama of my everyday life into a context that leaves me humbled and quiet.
Bread of Life, let me dwell ever more deeply in that space at the center of my being where you meet me and redeem me and love me forever. Amen.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Bread for the Cosmos
Thursday, Third Week of Easter
“I am the living bread that came down from heaven;
whoever eats this bread will live forever;
and the bread that I will give
is my Flesh for the life of the world.”
—John 6:51
What does it mean to eat the bread that is Christ?
Eating is the most common and ordinary of biological activities, tied to the whole messy process of digestion, and the deeply mysterious process of cell development, growth, and reproduction that sustains our existence in the fleshy forms of our bodies. When we eat, we enter into the most vivid example of our physical interconnectedness. We literally are what we eat. Cosmologists tell us that our bodies and all physical matter – not only the food we take, but also the gasses and liquids we need for survival, and all other substances in the universe – originated from the infinitesimally tiny ball of cram-packed atoms that exploded at the beginning of the universe.
It was into this matter that the Word became “flesh” (sarx in Greek, which as theologian Elizabeth Johnson points out, means something more akin to matter than actual human flesh, but human flesh is nevertheless sarx also). When God entered into the human experience via Jesus, all divinity identified itself completely with the very cosmos and in Christ’s resurrection it is not just humanity that is saved, redeemed, and restored, but the entire cosmos – sarx itself – as well.
The Incarnation was not simply an historical event in time. Through the miracle of Eucharist and the sacramental nature of the post-Easter universe, we continue to bask in the miracle of the divine-cosmic connection. When we eat Living Bread, we are made one with God and the entire scope of physical existence. All separation and alienation –from God, from each other, and from the very Earth itself – has been healed.
Bread of Life, fill me physically, intellectually, and spiritually. Help me to see your body – and my body – in everything I touch and perceive. Amen.
“I am the living bread that came down from heaven;
whoever eats this bread will live forever;
and the bread that I will give
is my Flesh for the life of the world.”
—John 6:51
What does it mean to eat the bread that is Christ?
Eating is the most common and ordinary of biological activities, tied to the whole messy process of digestion, and the deeply mysterious process of cell development, growth, and reproduction that sustains our existence in the fleshy forms of our bodies. When we eat, we enter into the most vivid example of our physical interconnectedness. We literally are what we eat. Cosmologists tell us that our bodies and all physical matter – not only the food we take, but also the gasses and liquids we need for survival, and all other substances in the universe – originated from the infinitesimally tiny ball of cram-packed atoms that exploded at the beginning of the universe.
It was into this matter that the Word became “flesh” (sarx in Greek, which as theologian Elizabeth Johnson points out, means something more akin to matter than actual human flesh, but human flesh is nevertheless sarx also). When God entered into the human experience via Jesus, all divinity identified itself completely with the very cosmos and in Christ’s resurrection it is not just humanity that is saved, redeemed, and restored, but the entire cosmos – sarx itself – as well.
The Incarnation was not simply an historical event in time. Through the miracle of Eucharist and the sacramental nature of the post-Easter universe, we continue to bask in the miracle of the divine-cosmic connection. When we eat Living Bread, we are made one with God and the entire scope of physical existence. All separation and alienation –from God, from each other, and from the very Earth itself – has been healed.
Bread of Life, fill me physically, intellectually, and spiritually. Help me to see your body – and my body – in everything I touch and perceive. Amen.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Discipline of Joy
April 21, 2010 – Wednesday, Third Week of Easter
“There was great joy in that city.”
—Acts 8:8
“Let all the earth cry out to God with joy.”
—Psalm 66:1
Yesterday we were confronted with one of the greatest prices of discipleship – radical forgiveness. Today, we are greeted with one of the great benefits — radical joy. And yet, joy is more than the by-product of discipleship. It’s part of the discipline itself.
How often do we know true joy in our lives and we recognize it as such? Sadly, like many of the spiritual virtues, we often only recognize joy after we have experienced it, sometimes after it is gone. The moments of greatest joy often accompany the pivotal moments of our lives – marriages, the births of children, birthdays and other events celebrated with dear friends. But just as often, the experience of real joy is sown into the fabric of our everyday existence: quiet moments shared with a loved one; the steady, quiet pace of family life; the rewarding sense of vocational accomplishment; the beauty of the natural world.
As disciples of the Risen Christ, we are called to become connoisseurs of joy. We are to become mindful of the present moment, and the countless ways that God is revealed in the ordinary, to nurture gratitude and a sense of wonder, an appreciation for beauty, stillness, and simplicity. As students of joy, we do not simply wait for joy to come, but actively discipline our awareness to see the joy already imbued in our redeemed lives.
Lord of Joy, your blessings shower upon me in such a steady stream that I hardly take notice. Rattle me into awareness. Shake me awake, reveal to me the joy that flows through each moment, and let all the earth cry out in praise! Amen.
“There was great joy in that city.”
—Acts 8:8
“Let all the earth cry out to God with joy.”
—Psalm 66:1
Yesterday we were confronted with one of the greatest prices of discipleship – radical forgiveness. Today, we are greeted with one of the great benefits — radical joy. And yet, joy is more than the by-product of discipleship. It’s part of the discipline itself.
How often do we know true joy in our lives and we recognize it as such? Sadly, like many of the spiritual virtues, we often only recognize joy after we have experienced it, sometimes after it is gone. The moments of greatest joy often accompany the pivotal moments of our lives – marriages, the births of children, birthdays and other events celebrated with dear friends. But just as often, the experience of real joy is sown into the fabric of our everyday existence: quiet moments shared with a loved one; the steady, quiet pace of family life; the rewarding sense of vocational accomplishment; the beauty of the natural world.
As disciples of the Risen Christ, we are called to become connoisseurs of joy. We are to become mindful of the present moment, and the countless ways that God is revealed in the ordinary, to nurture gratitude and a sense of wonder, an appreciation for beauty, stillness, and simplicity. As students of joy, we do not simply wait for joy to come, but actively discipline our awareness to see the joy already imbued in our redeemed lives.
Lord of Joy, your blessings shower upon me in such a steady stream that I hardly take notice. Rattle me into awareness. Shake me awake, reveal to me the joy that flows through each moment, and let all the earth cry out in praise! Amen.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Radical Forgiveness
Tuesday, Third Week of Easter
"Then he fell to his knees and cried out in a loud voice,
'Lord, do not hold this sin against them'."
--Acts 7:60
Each day of this Easter season, the scripture seems to be challenging us with ever-more difficult demands. We have experienced the glory and power of the Resurrection. Now we study what it means to be a disciple. If we are not dumb-struck by Stephen's example, we have not fully grasped what new life in the kingdom of God is asking of us.
We all know the difficulties of forgiveness. To be hurt and to nevertheless offer our heart in vulnerability and openness to the offender is perhaps the hardest task of Christian love. We say to those who have sinned against us, "I count your action as if it never happened." And when we do, we often secretly take some comfort in knowing that God might still even the score.
Stephen blasts that little indulgence to bits. As he is falling in a hail of stones, Stephen doesn't just forgive his attackers, he asks God to count their actions as if they never happened. He surrenders every shred of attachment to the possibility of vengeance.
This is a forgiveness that we cannot fathom. And yet, this is the forgiveness we ourselves have received. God counts all of our failings as if they never happened and then calls us to love ourselves and one another as he has loved us. How is this possible for frail, broken, well-intentioned but perpetually selfish people such as ourselves? Only by grace.
God of Reckless Love, I have known the humility, grace, and unworthiness of being forgiven. There is only one way to respond to such love. Break my willful spirit and let me abandon myself to your transforming power. When my own love is insufficient, may your love take over. Amen.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Courage to Receive Grace and Power
“Stephen, filled with grace and power,
was working great wonders and signs among the people…
All those who sat in the Sanhedrin looked intently at him and saw that his face was like the face of an angel.”
—Acts 6:8,15
If Stephen experienced any doubts, any crisis of faith about the words he was called to speak, we get no sign of it from scripture. He was “filled with the Spirit” from the first moment he appears in the story, right up through his prayer that God forgive his murderers as they are stoning him.
What a picture of faith.
I am beginning to see that all of us are regularly filled with grace and power. The difference between us and Stephen is that he never doubted that God was accomplishing his will through Stephen himself. We, on the other hand, don’t recognize the Spirit at work in us, or don’t have faith that the Spirit will abide in us when we do. We know our own foibles. We are sure that whatever God is moving us toward, we’re going to screw it up, and so we demur in our calling to be witnesses to what God is revealing in us.
Our faith in God, while stunted, is still true faith. But that faith does not come to fruition until we also believe in ourselves. God has anointed us for great work, to speak his word to the multitudes, to give our lives in devotion to him. The final barrier to love of God is to finally give ourselves over in faith that he does indeed love us just as we are, and can bring to life his very kingdom through our own meager words and deeds.
There is a danger, of course, in confusing our own will with the will of God and we should be ever-vigilant about this pitfall. But when we know the Spirit is at work, may we cease to doubt that the Spirit is at work in us, just now, just where we are.
Holy Spirit, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the face of an angel. I don’t feel the courage of Stephen. I know my failures and my weaknesses. And yet…even through my brokenness, I see the great wonders and signs you are working for me, for my family, for my friends. You have commissioned me to be your disciple, to bring your kingdom to bear. Fill me with your grace and power, and I will follow. Amen.
was working great wonders and signs among the people…
All those who sat in the Sanhedrin looked intently at him and saw that his face was like the face of an angel.”
—Acts 6:8,15
If Stephen experienced any doubts, any crisis of faith about the words he was called to speak, we get no sign of it from scripture. He was “filled with the Spirit” from the first moment he appears in the story, right up through his prayer that God forgive his murderers as they are stoning him.
What a picture of faith.
I am beginning to see that all of us are regularly filled with grace and power. The difference between us and Stephen is that he never doubted that God was accomplishing his will through Stephen himself. We, on the other hand, don’t recognize the Spirit at work in us, or don’t have faith that the Spirit will abide in us when we do. We know our own foibles. We are sure that whatever God is moving us toward, we’re going to screw it up, and so we demur in our calling to be witnesses to what God is revealing in us.
Our faith in God, while stunted, is still true faith. But that faith does not come to fruition until we also believe in ourselves. God has anointed us for great work, to speak his word to the multitudes, to give our lives in devotion to him. The final barrier to love of God is to finally give ourselves over in faith that he does indeed love us just as we are, and can bring to life his very kingdom through our own meager words and deeds.
There is a danger, of course, in confusing our own will with the will of God and we should be ever-vigilant about this pitfall. But when we know the Spirit is at work, may we cease to doubt that the Spirit is at work in us, just now, just where we are.
Holy Spirit, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the face of an angel. I don’t feel the courage of Stephen. I know my failures and my weaknesses. And yet…even through my brokenness, I see the great wonders and signs you are working for me, for my family, for my friends. You have commissioned me to be your disciple, to bring your kingdom to bear. Fill me with your grace and power, and I will follow. Amen.
Friday, April 16, 2010
This I Seek
“One thing I ask of the LORD
this I seek:
To dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
That I may gaze on the loveliness of the LORD
and contemplate his temple.”
—Psalm 27:4
I’m not sure that many of us could say, given one thing to ask of the Lord, that we’d choose to hang out in church all the days of our lives. This psalm, attributed to David, expresses a longing for the Lord represented in his desire to be in the temple, where in Jewish thought God dwelled in a particularly immediate sort of way.
It was this immediacy of God’s presence that must have inspired David’s singular desire. David longs to be in the temple because that is where, he believes, he can encounter God in the most direct sort of way. Again, we find the passionate voice of the lover in David’s yearning to be with the Lord. David longs to “gaze” on God’s “loveliness.” Later in the psalm, he cries out, “Come, says my heart…seek God’s face; your face, Lord, do I seek!”
What does it mean to seek the face of Pure Spirit, to gaze on the loveliness of Being itself? David is taking us deep into the experience of intimacy with God, where only the language of lovers can express the inexpressible sense of oneness that God offers his Beloved. For David, the temple is the bridal chamber where Lover and Beloved are united.
Our Easter journey of discipleship is not meant to be the drudgery of religious routine and dry doctrine. God is calling us to fall in love with him, to dissolve the worries and anxieties of our ego into the pure bliss of union. Church is not merely an institution of obligation and order, but the gateway to a lover’s garden of spiritual intimacy and delight where we may gaze on God’s loveliness, and see our own loveliness reflected in his desire for us.
Beloved, let my ego defenses fall away and allow me to discover my heart’s one true desire! Amen.
this I seek:
To dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
That I may gaze on the loveliness of the LORD
and contemplate his temple.”
—Psalm 27:4
I’m not sure that many of us could say, given one thing to ask of the Lord, that we’d choose to hang out in church all the days of our lives. This psalm, attributed to David, expresses a longing for the Lord represented in his desire to be in the temple, where in Jewish thought God dwelled in a particularly immediate sort of way.
It was this immediacy of God’s presence that must have inspired David’s singular desire. David longs to be in the temple because that is where, he believes, he can encounter God in the most direct sort of way. Again, we find the passionate voice of the lover in David’s yearning to be with the Lord. David longs to “gaze” on God’s “loveliness.” Later in the psalm, he cries out, “Come, says my heart…seek God’s face; your face, Lord, do I seek!”
What does it mean to seek the face of Pure Spirit, to gaze on the loveliness of Being itself? David is taking us deep into the experience of intimacy with God, where only the language of lovers can express the inexpressible sense of oneness that God offers his Beloved. For David, the temple is the bridal chamber where Lover and Beloved are united.
Our Easter journey of discipleship is not meant to be the drudgery of religious routine and dry doctrine. God is calling us to fall in love with him, to dissolve the worries and anxieties of our ego into the pure bliss of union. Church is not merely an institution of obligation and order, but the gateway to a lover’s garden of spiritual intimacy and delight where we may gaze on God’s loveliness, and see our own loveliness reflected in his desire for us.
Beloved, let my ego defenses fall away and allow me to discover my heart’s one true desire! Amen.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Lord of the Brokenhearted
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; and those who are crushed in spirit he saves.”
—Psalm 34:19
What a powerful phrase—“crushed in spirit.” It implies the utter depths of despair.
There is so much suffering in the world, and we are all subject to it. Earlier this week an earthquake devastated the Tibetan region of China. Hundreds are dead, and there would have been far more if not for the rural, mountainous terrain. It was but the latest in a number of highly-publicized earthquakes in recent months. Hundreds of thousands perished in Haiti in January; thousands in Chile in February. The news images are heart-wrenching. “Crushed” is the operative word – buildings are crushed, bodies are crushed, and certainly spirits are crushed too.
As vivid as these examples, we do not have to experience a literal earthquake to know broken-heartedness, to be crushed in spirit. The metaphoric earthquakes of our lives can be nearly as devastating. Illnesses threaten our lives, tragedies take our loved ones, careers end, life savings are lost, and relationships rupture and leave as much psychic damage as any natural force.
This reality causes so many to lose faith, to doubt the existence of a benevolent power in the universe. But we were never, ever promised a life free of suffering. Impermanence and loss are the natural products of being mortal, created beings. If it were otherwise, we would be gods, not humans.
God has never promised to protect us from broken hearts, because to be human is to know heartbreak. He does not preserve us from a crushed spirit. But he is adamant that in our suffering, he is present. His cross is the greatest symbol of the way God suffers with us in the human condition. He, too, knew broken-heartedness. He, too, was crushed in spirit. And he prevailed. Just, as he promises, we too shall ultimately prevail, through his grace.
Lord of the Brokenhearted, hear the anguished cry of our crushed spirits. Reveal yourself to us in our suffering. Reveal yourself to us in your own crushed spirit. Draw us ever closer to your own broken heart, so that, in intimacy with you, the whole cosmos may be healed. Amen.
—Psalm 34:19
What a powerful phrase—“crushed in spirit.” It implies the utter depths of despair.
There is so much suffering in the world, and we are all subject to it. Earlier this week an earthquake devastated the Tibetan region of China. Hundreds are dead, and there would have been far more if not for the rural, mountainous terrain. It was but the latest in a number of highly-publicized earthquakes in recent months. Hundreds of thousands perished in Haiti in January; thousands in Chile in February. The news images are heart-wrenching. “Crushed” is the operative word – buildings are crushed, bodies are crushed, and certainly spirits are crushed too.
As vivid as these examples, we do not have to experience a literal earthquake to know broken-heartedness, to be crushed in spirit. The metaphoric earthquakes of our lives can be nearly as devastating. Illnesses threaten our lives, tragedies take our loved ones, careers end, life savings are lost, and relationships rupture and leave as much psychic damage as any natural force.
This reality causes so many to lose faith, to doubt the existence of a benevolent power in the universe. But we were never, ever promised a life free of suffering. Impermanence and loss are the natural products of being mortal, created beings. If it were otherwise, we would be gods, not humans.
God has never promised to protect us from broken hearts, because to be human is to know heartbreak. He does not preserve us from a crushed spirit. But he is adamant that in our suffering, he is present. His cross is the greatest symbol of the way God suffers with us in the human condition. He, too, knew broken-heartedness. He, too, was crushed in spirit. And he prevailed. Just, as he promises, we too shall ultimately prevail, through his grace.
Lord of the Brokenhearted, hear the anguished cry of our crushed spirits. Reveal yourself to us in our suffering. Reveal yourself to us in your own crushed spirit. Draw us ever closer to your own broken heart, so that, in intimacy with you, the whole cosmos may be healed. Amen.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Taste and See
“Taste and see how good the LORD is...”
—Psalm 34:9
This psalm inspired one of my favorite contemporary Catholic hymns. I love the exquisitely sensual image of God’s goodness revealed through the experience of taste. We Catholics believe in the sacramental nature of reality. The physical world is the medium by which we encounter the divine. Eating, which can be a very mundane, ordinary physical activity, can also be the gateway to the holy, as revealed in the delight we take in food, and in the company of others with whom we share it. The Eucharistic meal perhaps best illustrates this “communion” of God and humankind.
The context of this phrase in the psalm is not really about the act of eating, however, as meaningful and true as that image can be. The psalm, attributed to David, is a triumphant hymn of praise to the God who has answered his prayers, delivered him from fear and danger and filled his heart with overflowing joy. It is an invitation for others to join the psalmist in his adoration of the Lord. It is a lover’s outpouring of breathless devotion.
“Look to him that you may be radiant with joy, and your faces may not blush with shame,” David gushes, and then exclaims, “Taste and see how good the Lord is!” In some translations, the word taste is rendered as “savor,” a word that is even more sensual in its implication of relishing the experience of God’s intimacy with complete exhilaration and bliss.
We are embarrassed by public expressions of affection. But David feels no shame, and invites us to join in his wild love affair with the Lord. Can we too give way to God’s relentless passion? Can we too embrace God with our whole souls and bodies, with all our senses? Can we savor what the Lord has done for us, in our hearts, with our tongues, in our bones?
Beloved, your desire for me overwhelms my defenses! Let the boundaries I have made between us fall. Let me unabashedly return your embrace. Let me savor you and your goodness with my whole being and reveal to me the intimacy my heart was made for. Amen.
—Psalm 34:9
This psalm inspired one of my favorite contemporary Catholic hymns. I love the exquisitely sensual image of God’s goodness revealed through the experience of taste. We Catholics believe in the sacramental nature of reality. The physical world is the medium by which we encounter the divine. Eating, which can be a very mundane, ordinary physical activity, can also be the gateway to the holy, as revealed in the delight we take in food, and in the company of others with whom we share it. The Eucharistic meal perhaps best illustrates this “communion” of God and humankind.
The context of this phrase in the psalm is not really about the act of eating, however, as meaningful and true as that image can be. The psalm, attributed to David, is a triumphant hymn of praise to the God who has answered his prayers, delivered him from fear and danger and filled his heart with overflowing joy. It is an invitation for others to join the psalmist in his adoration of the Lord. It is a lover’s outpouring of breathless devotion.
“Look to him that you may be radiant with joy, and your faces may not blush with shame,” David gushes, and then exclaims, “Taste and see how good the Lord is!” In some translations, the word taste is rendered as “savor,” a word that is even more sensual in its implication of relishing the experience of God’s intimacy with complete exhilaration and bliss.
We are embarrassed by public expressions of affection. But David feels no shame, and invites us to join in his wild love affair with the Lord. Can we too give way to God’s relentless passion? Can we too embrace God with our whole souls and bodies, with all our senses? Can we savor what the Lord has done for us, in our hearts, with our tongues, in our bones?
Beloved, your desire for me overwhelms my defenses! Let the boundaries I have made between us fall. Let me unabashedly return your embrace. Let me savor you and your goodness with my whole being and reveal to me the intimacy my heart was made for. Amen.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Where the Spirit Blows
“You must be born from above. The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
—John 3:7-8
There is no accident, I suspect, that Jesus’ discourse with Nicodemus, from which this passage is taken, features prominently in the Easter season lectionary readings. We have experienced the Resurrection, with its blinding glory and majesty, but now we must figure out what it all means, how we are to live as disciples.
Jesus answers: you must be born of the Spirit. And when we are, we are no longer masters of our own destiny. When the Spirit gives us life, it moves within us, drawing us here and there, stirring us in new directions. Just like the Spirit itself, which comes from a place beyond ourselves, we are buoyed to places we cannot imagine. We do not know where we are being led.
Lest we find this image too ethereal and comforting, it is worth noting that this journey of the spirit is not always pleasant. Yesterday I saw an old friend of mine whose husband is suffering from dementia associated with Parkinson’s disease. Beyond the exhausting challenges of helping him negotiate the illness, I could tell her greatest hurt was in knowing that he was not going to improve, but likely only deteriorate further until their inevitable parting. The Spirit is taking them both to destinations they do not want to go.
These un-chosen journeys of suffering, part and parcel of discipleship, are nevertheless brought to fulfillment in the Easter Mystery that launched us on this path to start with. The Spirit does not always take us where we want to go, but the Paschal Promise is that we will ultimately find our way home. Where we are being led is, in the end, to absolute and total glory, to the resolution of all suffering, to a reconciliation of all within and among us that is incomplete, broken, and unfulfilled. Our broken hearts will be mended. Our lost loves will be reunited to us in a way far more intimate than we have ever known.
God of Eternal Promise, fill us with your unpredictable Spirit. Lead us on, into the unknown, with faithful hearts overflowing. Bring all those who suffer into your Life, as you bring the whole cosmos into the unity and fulfillment of New Birth. Amen.
—John 3:7-8
There is no accident, I suspect, that Jesus’ discourse with Nicodemus, from which this passage is taken, features prominently in the Easter season lectionary readings. We have experienced the Resurrection, with its blinding glory and majesty, but now we must figure out what it all means, how we are to live as disciples.
Jesus answers: you must be born of the Spirit. And when we are, we are no longer masters of our own destiny. When the Spirit gives us life, it moves within us, drawing us here and there, stirring us in new directions. Just like the Spirit itself, which comes from a place beyond ourselves, we are buoyed to places we cannot imagine. We do not know where we are being led.
Lest we find this image too ethereal and comforting, it is worth noting that this journey of the spirit is not always pleasant. Yesterday I saw an old friend of mine whose husband is suffering from dementia associated with Parkinson’s disease. Beyond the exhausting challenges of helping him negotiate the illness, I could tell her greatest hurt was in knowing that he was not going to improve, but likely only deteriorate further until their inevitable parting. The Spirit is taking them both to destinations they do not want to go.
These un-chosen journeys of suffering, part and parcel of discipleship, are nevertheless brought to fulfillment in the Easter Mystery that launched us on this path to start with. The Spirit does not always take us where we want to go, but the Paschal Promise is that we will ultimately find our way home. Where we are being led is, in the end, to absolute and total glory, to the resolution of all suffering, to a reconciliation of all within and among us that is incomplete, broken, and unfulfilled. Our broken hearts will be mended. Our lost loves will be reunited to us in a way far more intimate than we have ever known.
God of Eternal Promise, fill us with your unpredictable Spirit. Lead us on, into the unknown, with faithful hearts overflowing. Bring all those who suffer into your Life, as you bring the whole cosmos into the unity and fulfillment of New Birth. Amen.
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