Songs of Assent

A Change of Season

2010-04-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

April 1st marked the first anniversary of the publication of Songs of Assent. This year has been an amazing season of watching a creative work breathe on her own and find her own way in the world. Every time I have held my breath as I leafed through the pages wondering if I really said what I wanted to say, my pulse has slowed down gradually and I have thought, "It's alright. It is good just as it is." And I can say this even when I have been pointed to rich truth in the last year that I wish had been included.

The new publishing technology of print-on-demand (POD) books has offered Pam (my sister and illustrator) and me a medium for creation that has come with the delightful adventure of marketing the book as it was written: receptively, one opportunity at a time. There came a day a few months ago when we sold a book that appeared to be a "fourth generation" word-of-mouth sale. I didn't know the person who told the person who told...well, you see what I mean. I value such delightfully nuanced connections incongruously made possible by our high-tech world.

To cap off this first year Pam and I went to London this March, in part to conduct a two-day conference on Songs of Assent. As I prepared for this delightful trip I revisited all five of the biblical texts on which the book rests, and discovered new treasures. You won't find these thoughts in my book--they are hinted at in my last five blogs, and fleshed out in mp3s to be available for purchase sometime later this spring on a new website,
www.carlawaterman.com. (If you want the mp3s of the 2nd day of the conference where I speak in depth on receptivity and wisdom, they, too, will be available for purchase in the near future.)

But with the first anniversary of publishing and the London conference, I find my heart and mind moving to other topics and other sites. You can find me blogging regularly at www.worshipedia.org on themes connected to worship, and, soon, on a more open-ended blog to be housed on my new site.

However, if you are new to Songs of Assent, I invite you to explore the blogs I have written here this past year. You can organize them by "song," and because the original themes from the book were uppermost in my mind during this past year, I hope you will encounter insights that will enrich the reading of the book.

And, whether you are an old friend or new, I invite you to check back here for an announcement on the inauguration of my new website. I would enjoy your continued company as we learn new songs of "yes" to God to accompany the ones we already know.

What Mary Modeled

2010-02-18T21:15:00.000-08:00

I do not find it surprising that Mary was a compassionate friend. Neither is it astounding that Mary would believe her son could help her friends. “Do whatever he tells you” sounds a lot like an outwardly directed version of “Let it be to me according to your word.”

But there is more.

The problem was really quite defined. No guesswork involved as to the nature of the need or the human perplexity as to how to meet it. They had run out of wine before they ran out of party. The anxious moments behind the happy communal occasion were not earth-shattering in the vast panorama of human existence.

Yet here, in the quiet, unobtrusive moments of a family’s crisis where human limitations were only obvious to a few behind-the-scenes-players—here began the miracle of Jesus entering into the heart of human anxiety.

But not without his mother tasting a bit of that anxiety as well. Was she perplexed with her son’s response? She certainly doesn’t get an immediate answer. And she had had eighteen years to adjust to the rules of engagements her twelve-year-old had once ushered her into: I must be about my Father’s business.

So there she was: friends anxious over the wine they cannot produce out of thin air, Mary intimating that Jesus might step in, only to be reminded that he answered to a higher authority. But if Mary was at all anxious or perplexed, it was only for a moment. Her rebound was such a lovely example of what Hans ur von Balthasar calls the “the passage from light to light.” She knows Jesus can help. She does not know if, when, or how he will act. But in the meantime, she re-directs the attention of the servants. “Keep your focus on Jesus and wait.”

There is another kind of response we can make in those all-too-human moments when we are confronted with our human limitations. We can allow the dark moments of uncertainty to become a condition rather than a passage. There’s no more wine (or money, or job, or relationship). And we can get stuck in the darkness, struggling to find another supplier, setting up our own tenuous securities, building bigger wine cellars.

When anxiety is a condition rather than a passage we will do ANYTHING to deny that behind the façade we are finite mortals who would find our greatest freedom and joy in dependence, not independence, on bringing our need to Jesus, rather than seeking other ways to replenish the wine at the wedding.

But, of course, when Jesus acts—in his own way and in his own time, in response to dependent human need, the wine is SO much better. What a delightful first step in a whole series of Jesus' revelation of himself in the midst of human anxiety---whether in supplying wine, or raising a friend from the dead. And his mother? Through her last recorded words she teaches us how to move from light through the darkness and back into light. Quite a mentor, that Mary.

Mary's Path

2010-02-12T01:40:00.000-08:00

Her story began in earnest with a clarion call from an angel. “Don’t be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God.” But not too many chapters in, the plot got more complicated. An old man in the temple recognized this unique family for who they were, rejoiced that the Lord has allowed him “to see thy salvation” and then has a serious conversation with Mary. “This boy is destined to be the rise and fall of many, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be discerned, and, oh, by the way, a sword will pierce through your own soul, Mary.

At some point in the next couple of years, Joseph would awaken her with a dream that Herod was purposing to kill this child. And so they left Bethlehem under the remaining cover of darkness and made their way to the land of exile, Egypt. When did she hear that her Bethlehem friends’ infants had all been killed?

And what did she make of another escape, this time in plain view, when her twelve-year old remained in his Father’s house, while she, along with his “father” frantically retraced their steps. It must have a panic-stricken experience to misplace this son, and an emotionally-jarring one to be reminded of the prioritizing of his fathers.

But that sword would probe for still more of her heart when Jesus began his ministry, beginning with her neighbors wanting to throw him over the cliff. How DID one start a conversation at the well the next morning in the midst of such anger and rekindled suspicion?

And then there was Jesus himself, who made no apparent effort to spare his mother. His mission was fixed, he listened only the Father, and it created uncomfortable moments of reorientation of family: who are my mother and brothers? There was at least one meal left uneaten when they tried to rescue him from himself, there were brothers who did not believe, and ultimately a Jesus who proclaimed that he had nowhere to lay his head. If I were Mary, I would have wanted to shout, “there’s a mat waiting for you at my house!”

There are moments of reprieve; when a woman in the crowd wants to praise Jesus’ mother, Jesus merely redirects the reason from her body to her spirit—blessed are those who hear the word and keep it. “I am the handmaiden of the Lord” certainly qualifies.

But in the midst of the struggle to understand this son, while experiencing the lack of understanding of her neighbors and family, Mary does not waver. A mature woman eventually stands under her son’s cross, bearing the final severing from her son as the sword cuts all human ties to Jesus as she is given to John to be cared for. Her vocation to live in front of the sword has been carried—all the way to the cross.

All along she is favored; God is with her. But such loving favor does not spare Mary from pain and fear, from walking for long periods without light, without understanding, without unity among those she loved best.

But when we last see Mary, seated in the upper room, waiting with the other disciples and her other children for her son to send His Spirit, I expect we are seeing the calmest person in the room. She has walked her own unique road of discipleship. Yes, a sword has pierced her soul, but it has not destroyed her. Blessed is she who believed that what the Lord said would be accomplished.

A Magnificent Song

2010-02-05T05:38:00.000-08:00

Gabriel sends Mary hurrying to Elizabeth with a child in her womb and wonder in her heart. One wouldn’t think she could be more filled at the moment. But the Holy Spirit who has overshadowed her womb spills out all around her. John the Baptist leaps for joy in Elizabeth’s womb. Elizabeth is filled with awe, wonder and blessing upon blessing for her young relative. In the end, Mary sings a magna, a song of “great things.” She sings it with so much beauty and skill that some contemporary biblical scholars believe it was humanly impossible for Mary to have sung it. Surely the early church later placed it in her mouth. I tend to approach the issue from a more child-like place. It was rather impossible for a virgin to bear a child, too.

The song is a masterpiece of biblical poetry. It begins with the testimony of one hidden woman, and ends with the Word God spoke to Abraham and his seed forever. Mary looks forward with joy to a church of which she, in hidden humility, has become the vanguard; she looks backward to the God who, remembering his compassion, has never ceased to uphold a small nation called Israel.

But the centerpiece of this crown jewel is verse 51: “He has shown strength in his arm; He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.” Mary’s God, Yahweh, “He who causes to be,” has initiated his ultimate creative act by begetting his own son in the vulnerable womb of an unmarried girl.

Only One endued with the potency of real creative strength could act with such effectiveness in the midst of weakness. A lone sojourner with a barren wife becomes the father of many nations, a reluctant shepherd with nothing but a staff and the name of his God becomes the deliverer of his people. A faithful, but impoverished, daughter-in-law collects left-over grain and becomes the great-grandmother of David. A monk struggling under the weight of guilt becomes the catalyst for the Reformation…and I find myself pondering the secret places where this strong, creative arm is moving even now.

Mary teaches us this: the contrast to God’s creative power so often manifest in weakness is the illusory strength of the proud who are “scattered in the imagination of their hearts.” I only wish I didn’t know what that meant. But I do. My heart has often been too easily fired by a vivid imagination that creates paper-thin pseudo-reality for a moment (or a year)—only to watch it “scattered” with the first gust of real wind.

Underneath the beauty and power of the poetry is the wisdom of deeply distilled truth. Ultimately, Mary paints a portrait of the heart of our God with pristine clarity. “This song lacks nothing; it is well sung, and needs only people who can say yes to it and wait. But such people are few.” ~David S. Yeago

Father, please send your Spirit into our hearts, that we may be given wisdom to internalize your priorities, eyes to see their incarnation in our midst, and hearts to wait patiently for that which is hidden to be revealed.

Four Fiats and the Substance of Faith

2010-01-29T02:57:00.000-08:00

No, I’ve not taken to writing new slogans for Italian made cars that can be trusted. That is a Fi-at’. I am writing instead about fi’-at, the great “let it be done” in redemptive history. This fiat is not a resigned acceptance, a sort of spiritualized “que sera, sera, whatever will be will be.” Rather this fiat is a living desire—“It is so, may it be so.” There is passion and strength and purpose and abandon to this “let it be.”

After all it’s an expression that we find first and last on the lips of the Godhead.

At the moment of creation. God says. “Let there be light [according to MY word]. And it was so. And at the pivotal moment where the God man sets his face toward the cross, Jesus cries out, "Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done.” (Luke 22:42). These are bookend fiats. The creation fiat brings life in all its fullness, the crucifixion counterpart embraces death and all that provokes it so that fullness of life might again be restored.

And in between these two firm acts of will lies the response of a young girl. For Mary’s “let it be to me according to your word” is this living desire of a mere creature to surrender her whole life as a tablet for God to write his story upon.

But Mary’s deep receptivity is not based merely on the presence of a terrifying angel with amazing news. Gabriel first establishes the basis on which his words are to be trusted. She is folded into the Mosaic covenant in which the presence of God is synonymous with God’s favor. And she is directed to the Davidic covenant where a child from her womb will be given the throne of his father David.

Her fiat rests on the foundation of substantive revelation. She is drawn as participant into a story she already knows—at least in part. And in the gracious confidence of recognizing truth and responding to it with all her heart, Mary borrows a bit on her son’s total embracing of personal death so that others might live. Fiat this side of the fall always comes with a price.

Yet there is one final fiat. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” It is the “let it be” of the Church and every Christian soul within her. Perhaps we would do well to learn to pray the Lord’s prayer with the immediacy of Mary. May your kingdom come, your will be done on this bit of earth, in the dust of my flesh, that heaven and earth might just kiss each other on this day, in this place.

“It is so. May it be so.” Today.

Favored Ones?

2010-01-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

“I renounce the lies the enemy tells us about you, dear Father of Jesus.”

The scene? Last Saturday afternoon as our class on the Sacred Actions and Ministries of Worship gathered in a little historic chapel at the Robert E. Webber Institute for Worship Studies for a service of baptismal renewal.

The teaching on renouncing the schemes of the evil one was behind us, the water in which we would meditate on what it meant and still means to be brought into Christ through baptism lay before us, and in between was the moment to turn away from the centripetal force of the world, the flesh and the devil and affirm once again the foundational realities of our faith.

An earlier class discussion on Satan’s lies yielded this reflection: “What lies does the enemy tell you about God the Father?” “Whatever I do isn’t good enough.” “He tolerates me, but is never pleased.” “He is distant and I can’t find my way to Him.” “He shows his favor to others, but not to me.”

The latter comment was my own. I have recently become painfully aware of my unbelief that God truly favors and delights in his children, and that his heart was, is, and always will be to bless us.

In the last decade I have lost my child-like wonder of God's favor. It has not been a particularly smooth season, and somewhere along the line, my need to endure, while true, has been overshadowing God’s immense heart of mercy, love and delight.

And so, last Saturday, in addition to the ongoing repentance of my unbelief, I renounced the liar who buzzes around my head with the image of a God who demands but never delights.

I'm back home now and my thoughts return, as they so often do, to Mary, who is told she is highly favored. “Oh, but Carla, that’s Mary. She was unique, and the favor extended to her was truly extravagant. Even the Greek word employed to describe God’s favor to her is only used…twice.”

Twice. Once in Luke 1:28: “Greetings, oh favored one, the Lord is with you,” and once in Ephesians 1:6: “In love he predestined us for adoption through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.”

Oh. In the fullness of time Mary was the first to be highly favored. But she is not the last. She once bore the Beloved, that the Beloved might bear us forever.

Greetings, oh favored ones. The Lord is with us.

What Difference It Makes

2010-01-02T02:05:00.000-08:00

A casual observer would have thought, “Now there is a woman who needs a life.” New Year’s Eve: My husband, in the midst of his busiest season at the college bookstore (and having shoveled for three hours on the college’s holiday snow crew) was in bed at 9:00 and I was watching half a season of “Murder, She Wrote” reruns and crocheting a scarf.

But I really do have a life. And in the midst of smiling at Angela Landsbury and making up a scarf pattern as I went along, I was considering this question: “What difference does it make that I am a Christian as yet another year begins?”

Fireworks rang out very close by as the year changed—Wyatt reports that he was awakened by our backyard neighbors putting on quite a lovely display, and I could hear the uninhibited cheers that accompanied the popping and the colors. Hurrah, 2010.

A different set of celebrations was bookending my New Year’s eve. I was musing about a wedding where a new teacher took large jars of water and made from it the richest of wine. And I thought of the vision of a time to come where God, having wiped away all tears, announces, “Behold, I am making all things new.” (Rev. 21:5)

What difference does it make that I am a Christian as this new year begins? I, along with my brothers and sisters throughout time and space, have been drawn into a story of re-creation, where we are profoundly loved by a God who makes small things, like a wedding party, richer; and is making large things, like “all things,” new. His arm is strong, and he will NOT let us go. And this gives me the courage and hope to celebrate the coming of a new year.

I no longer possess the natural optimism of the cashier who looked at me with determination and said, “2010 is going to be a GOOD year. Let’s hope the economy continues to get better.” Neither am I a cynic who has concluded that nothing will ever change—although I am old enough to sympathize with the impulse.

I am, rather, a woman gratefully drawn into the story of a God who would not and will not abandon his broken creation, and who continues to pour the new wine of courage, strength and hope into his people as we press in and press on—until that day when all things are fully made new. Come, Lord Jesus.

And that is cause for rejoicing. Happy New Year.

Wooed By A Baby

2009-12-24T08:49:00.000-08:00

Our son made a tempestuous arrival into the world. An emergency c-section at the end of hard labor would have been climactic enough. But, somewhere along the way, Ethan had contracted a life-threatening virus. My new-born was rapidly whisked to a neo-natal intensive care unit an hour away…and I finally caught up with him four days later.

Not the easiest start. But this little guy was a snuggler, and when that boy, wires, tubes and all, was finally in my arms, he pressed his little body against my neck as though he wanted to crawl inside it. My heart was captured. I had been wooed by a baby.

***

For years I have listened to a relatively familiar song on classic Christmas albums, and, somewhere below my consciousness, wondered why this song belonged to Christmas.

Tomorrow shall be my dancing day;

I would my true love did so chance

To see the legend of my play,

To call my true love to my dance.

Sing! Oh, my love, oh, my love, my love, my love,

This have I done for my true love.

But this year I paused to listen to the lyrics. The next line reads, “Then was I born of virgin pure…” And my heart finally caught on. It’s Jesus calling us to his dance! The carol was mostly likely written in the 15^th century when the movement of planets was still called “the music of the spheres,” and everything was connected to everything else, and all of life was a dance.

This Christmas I simultaneously hear a faint echo of that earlier understanding, even as I ponder the current rich conversation occurring on many levels about life within the Trinity—a mutuality of love between Father, Son and Holy Spirit so full that it spilled forth to call back a broken creation into the dance of divine love.

This Christmas we are beckoned to the regal dance of the most excellent of men with grace pouring forth from his lips (Ps. 45:2). We are enticed to the joyful dance of the Lord our God who “rejoices over us with gladness” (Zeph3:17). We are called to join our strong partner who “is able to keep us from stumbling and to present us blameless before the presence of his glory with great joy” (Jude 24). Hope against hope, in spite of all we see before us, this baby invites us, his true love, to his dance.

Jesus: the baby who came to draw the whole world to himself. Oh come, let us adore him.

Borne By What We Bear: Advent Meditation #4

2009-12-20T09:30:00.000-08:00

During the last night of a fall course on Trinitarian Spirituality at Northern Seminary, my students and I recently marveled at Jesus’ words, “…you are in me and I am in you.” (John 14:20) We pondered the practical implications of being surrounded by Christ's gracious life—protecting, leading, guiding, even as we carry His life within us—strengthening, convicting, comforting.

Nearing the end of his ministry, Jesus was opening to his disciples a reality that his mother had long lived within. For from the moment Gabriel had told her she was “favored, ”she knew herself to be “in-graced” by God. She carried a son who would come to us “full of grace and truth.” And she carried him as that same grace poured through the Father’s heart to meet her moment-by-moment need.

And so, as von Balthasar so beautifully says, “she bears what she lets herself be borne by.” (The Threefold Garland)

Grace is in Mary’s steps as she hastens to Elizabeth, and grace is in her trembling heart as her womb has begun to swell and her feet move more slowly back to face the unknown in Nazareth three months later. Grace is with her as Joseph listens to his dream, and strengthens her knees as a donkey sways with her bulging form toward Bethlehem. In her utter vulnerability, grace enables Joseph to find a shelter for her and her child, and grace enables the small family to escape when Herod’s envy would bring an end to earth's redemption before the Father’s grace en-fleshed could unfold in all his fullness.

After Mary and Elizabeth, the first person to know the tangibility of this in-filling grace was Joseph. Pam's picture radiates the joy of a Joseph in-graced, borne on his own journey at Mary's side by the very grace she bore.

“You are in me, I am in you.” We, too, are borne by what we bear. It is the mystery of faith. Like Mary, like Joseph, we carry within us a reality much greater than we can contain. We, too, are surrounded by the very grace that renews us from the inside out. As Advent is fulfilled, let us sing the old carol with an in-graced heart:

O Holy Child of Bethlehem,

Descend to us, we pray.

Cast out our sin and enter in,

Be born in us today.

We hear the Christmas angels,

Their great, glad tidings tell:

O Come to us, abide with us,

Our Lord, Emmanuel.

Heaven's Breath: Advent Meditation #3

2009-12-13T08:56:00.000-08:00

Peace whispered

to her troubled heart

Be still, the Holy One

will rest deep within your waiting womb

Direction given

to her astonished feet

Elizabeth with child

Blessed community in her great need

Joy spread

from mouth to elder ear

Baby leaps and cousin speaks

while world is wrapped in veiled wonder

Dust stirred

from a more ancient song

As mercy's stream tumbles

O'er second Hannah and second Eve

(A meditation on Luke 1: 34-50)

Mary's Response Revisited: Advent Meditation #2

2009-12-05T10:54:00.000-08:00

If God just made a “mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the fairest of them all” kind of selection in choosing Jesus’ mother, then Mary is so far beyond our experience that there is no point in pondering her response to God. She was just a superior sort of being. But if it is God’s grace—the Holy Spirit at work in her—that made her favored, then the story reads very differently. For then God formed and equipped the vessel that he used.

If it is true that God initiated his love and favor toward Mary, then what is Mary’s part in “May it be to me according to your word?” Does God's favor replace the need for a truly human response? Is Mary's "yes" the rather robotic response of a woman who was never tempted to say “no?” If that were true, what would be “human” about this human mother who gave the world's Savior his human flesh and blood, who taught the Word his first words?

When I need refreshment in pondering this dance of God’s loving initiative and Mary’s receptive response, I often turn to the works of Catholic theologian Han Urs von Balthasar. As the Preface to my current book, The Threefold Garland, begins, "to read most any work of Hans Urs von Balthasar is to plunge into a bright ocean where the most familiar truths and events of faith take on a splendor usually hidden from our dull vision."

Amen. And my dull vision is again cleared as I ponder Von Balthasar’s description of Mary’s obedience at quiet center of the world’s turning we call the annunication. He writes, “In so far as [her obedience] connotes the renunciation of autonomous decisions, obedience is passivity; but insofar as it is the readiness to receive everything, obedience is supreme activity.”

A profound definition of receptivity: the renunciation of autonomous decisions and the readiness to receive everything. Von Balthasar helps me see Mary again not as some distant being, but as a true mentor who, in her own deep response to God, quietly challenges my own.

The natural default drive of my soul really likes autonomy. Even when I come to the point of renouncing my autonomy from God, there are still God’s people to be faced. And, oh, how I sometimes long to be autonomous from community. But Mary’s “renunciation of autonomous decisions” presses against my own autonomy armor and invited me to be the person created for communion and community. Hold still, my soul. Release your “right” to decisions made by you alone, for you alone.

And in the place of self-determination, receive everything God would give you instead. Rouse yourself, my soul, to supreme activity. Lift up your heart and hold out your hands. For having died to self, you now can have her back—to carry the life of Jesus into the world.

Heavenly Father, by your grace, enable us to hold still, that we might renounce our right to autonomous decisions. By the power of your Holy Spirit, allow us to awaken to all you desire to give us. May we, like Mary, know the fullness of your favor in our humanity as we prepare for coming of Jesus. In the name of you Son, our Savior, Amen.

Eating Wisdom's Bread: Advent Meditation #1

2009-12-01T09:00:00.000-08:00

Godly wisdom is edible. Lady Wisdom invites us to a meal: “Come, eat of my bread…leave your simple ways and walk in the way of insight.” (Prov. 9:5,6) Mary proclaims that meal’s effects: “He has filled the hungry with good things.” (Luke 1:53)

So what kind of bread am I eating this Advent? What spiritual substance is filling my soul in this season of preparation?

The bread of forgiveness. The “love covers a multitude of sins” forgiveness. I recently found myself in a situation where I had to say, “What is at stake is far more important than what has been taken from me. Release the debt, Carla.” In so doing, joy filled the place where the yeast of resentment was more than ready to rise.

The bread of guidance. Just do the next thing. Celtic Daily Prayer said it so well this morning:

‘Follow Me.’

‘Yes, Lord, I’ll follow You…But, Lord…’

‘Yes?’

‘Where to? Where will I be going?’

‘With Me.’

When I stop striving to get on top of what I cannot see, and rest content in doing what is right in front of me, focusing on the presence of Jesus with me NOW, the bread of undistracted peace fills my soul.

The bread of patience—with myself, others, and my God. Stirrings within myself that I do not understand, responses of those I love that I cannot read, and a God who is, at times, incomprehensible. I wait. For while this bread is not my favorite recipe, nothing appears to be more nourishing in the long run.

It is Advent. We wait, allowing God’s forgiveness to feed our souls and extending part of the same loaf to our neighbor. We wait, doing what is set in front of us and receiving our daily bread—we were never promised a year’s supply at once. And we wait, in patience for the coming of the baby who IS the bread of heaven. Take. Eat. Live.

Oh, come, our Wisdom from on high,  

Who orders all things far and nigh;  

To us the path of knowledge show,  

and teach us in her ways to go.  

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel  Shall come to you, O Israel!

Thankfulness on Deposit

2009-11-24T10:45:00.000-08:00

So….I’m supposed to take a deep breath, count my many blessings, and feel thankful, right? But what if I don’t? What if I’ve just lost a loved one or a job or a friend, and my heart aches...or is numb? What then? Do I just put on my plastic smile and pretend?

Mary, Joseph and Jesus were celebrating Passover, certainly a kind of Thanksgiving as they remembered their deliverance from their oppressors. But if they had been feeling thankful, it was quickly lost under the “great distress” of trying to find a twelve-year-old son who had other plans than a trip home.

I marvel at much in this passage: the simultaneous hunger and wisdom of this twelve-year-old Jesus. The amazement of the crowds that must surely have strained to hear the conversation. But I ache with Mary and Joseph at their exchange over his extraordinary disappearance. “Your father and I have been searching for you.” “Did you not know I must be in my Father’s house?”

This must surely have been a moment of pain for this son’s mother and step-father. Oddly, the very deliverance they had anticipated in their Passover celebration is standing in front of them, taking one more clear step on the road to his destiny. Yet I doubt his response invoked immediate feelings of thankfulness on the part of his parents.

But here is what I find most moving. The Scripture tells us that Mary’s response to this distressing moment is precisely the same one she had when the shepherds had come crowding into a stable so many years earlier. She “treasured up all these things.”

And here, I submit, is a key from Mary on the Thanksgivings when the right “feelings” are eluding me. I can place thanksgiving on deposit. I “treasure up” my questions, my journey-in-progress, my losses along the way, and I hold them close as something precious in the process of a re-creation I cannot fathom in this particular moment…but will understand, likely with gratitude, someday. For this same son whispers to Mary and to me what he will one day shout: “Behold, I make all things new.”

Doing the Next Thing

2009-11-16T15:11:00.000-08:00

I have been watching some new bushes pass through autumn. They held their leaves longer than the cousins near them, and turned a mellow shade of gold before becoming barren twigs for the winter. They look right at home in the place marked out for them.

In matters of landscaping, it is good to have a plan. Colors, size, need for light and water and the proper soil—all of these factors matter, and it has taken time…and a good plan by a competent gardener to develop even a simple garden that thrives.

But in the midst of the large-scale planning comes the daily activities. Mow the lawn. Rake the leaves. Mulch those precious roses by the wall.

I find myself in a season where the landscaping for this plot of my own life appears to be somewhat established for the present. There’s been plenty of change to get here: “Oh, but Lord, that’s my soul’s favorite bush. It’s been blooming in the spring and throughout the summer and has really attractive leaves in the fall.” And it is as though the Lord says, “Yes, I know. It was lovely for a season, but I have other plans for this particular space in your life at this point.”

Having been through some tumultuous years, I am beginning to find this season surprisingly restful. And here is the reason: I only have to do the next thing. Teach the class, talk to the friend, write the next little piece. My prayer has shifted from “Lord, help me understand what you are doing with my life,” to “Lord, what is the next thing I am to do today?”

And I think often of Simplicity’s song. Of Mary who asks not for an explanation of God’s great plan, but for simple understanding of the next thing: “How shall this be, since I am a virgin?” And when she is told that the Lord has it well in hand, she responds, “Let it be to me according to your word,” and then does the next thing. Mary goes to visit Elizabeth.

And I find myself wondering how much wasted energy I have spent straining to discern the larger plan. (I’ve never really gotten it right.) I realize again that the Father is a much better gardener than I ever will be, and that “doing the next thing” may not just be a seasonal activity, but the central steps of obedience, freedom and joy in the kingdom of God.

Father, may your Holy Spirit produce in me a trusting heart that simply does the next thing. If I need to know something more, I trust you to reveal it in your time. But grant me the humility and contentment to live in the day I am in, entrusting the months and years to your loving, expert care. In Jesus’ name, AMEN

Anything But Imaginary

2009-11-13T01:24:00.000-08:00

I remember standing in front of a class of Wheaton students over a decade ago and saying, “Having ‘a personal relationship with Jesus’ is easy to talk about, but is often the very reality we struggle to step into.” And I found myself saying something similar to a class of seminarians just last week.

At this point in my life I would be swift to clarify that statement: Jesus has a relationship with us, a love that “will not let us go.” Nothing we do or don’t do can initiate what He has already won for us, and now so freely offers those who, by the enabling power of the Holy Spirit, confess him to be Lord. But this “relationship,” while based in an objectivity so deep that we scarcely can begin to comprehend it, contains a responsive dimension, as well. Our hearts are hungry to know our connectedness to Him at the level of our real experience. We long to know that He is truly present with us.

So last week, I invited my students into a simple, ancient exercise. I asked the Holy Spirit to reveal Jesus to us, and then invited us to become the blind man healed by Jesus in John 9. We took a few moments to imagine being this beggared, sightless man. They shut their eyes as I slowly read the story to them, simply changing it from third to first person. Within a few moments none of us were “outside” that story. We were in. We were the blind man. We heard the new voice of a man who refused to answer the tiresome question of whose fault it was that we were blind in the same life-sapping ways. We felt (and smelled) the mud He put on our eyes, and the tender, firm fingers that placed it there. We went and washed in the pool. We felt the frustration of not knowing what Jesus looked like so that we could find him. We were pressed into a corner by the religious leaders until we, too, were convinced of whom Jesus was. For when his eyes were opened, the scales came off ours again, too. And by the end, we, like our friend on the page, worshipped the Jesus who came, a second time, to find him.

One of my students, who, six weeks ago was the vocal skeptic as to the “relevance” of classic spiritual practices, said, “OK, I see. I’ve never realized that I’m always an outsider to the Gospels. Jesus touches someone else, but I never thought it could be me. I’ve always stood on the margins when I am being invited in.”

Years ago I read a couple of lines from Oswald Chamber’s My Utmost for His Highest that changed my life in this regard. He writes, “Is your imagination stayed on God or is it starved?...If you have never used your imagination to put yourself before God, begin to do it now.” (Feb. 11) That insight, combined with the truth that the Scriptures contain the LIVING word that does something while we are listening, has been used by the Spirit of God to draw me into life-changing relationship with the living Lord—over and over again.

This is how I wrote the chapter on Confidence. For when we come to terms with how vulnerable we really are, only the hands on protection and comfort of a flesh and blood Jesus reaching out to us through the pages of Scripture will suffice.

So while we are tempted to think of our imagination as the capacity to see the unreal, when the Holy Spirit harnesses this aspect of our humanity it becomes the capacity to see the unseen. Like Mary Poppins and the children on a “jolly holiday” we pop into the chalk picture—at the Spirit’s bidding--only to find that the view from the inside is anything but imaginary.

Grassroots Gifts

2009-11-08T07:43:00.000-08:00

The story of writing and publishing “Songs of Assent” tells a bit like a mystery. The development of each of the chapters (and their illustrations) mirrors the actual “song” they sing. The “weightless fullness” of Simplicity was written last and once. The picture of Simplicity that also adorns the cover was drawn in an afternoon—long before I had any idea of what to do with her. When the chapter with finished, the picture was already there.

Buoyancy, that “moment-by-moment adjustment of a fragile vessel renewed and propelled by God’s abounding grace,” was a voyage on the high seas. I couldn’t find the “word” to describe Mary’s response to Jesus at the wedding in Cana. For a couple of months I struggled to find the way forward. Humility? No, she was a handmaiden of wisdom. Hospitality? It wasn’t deep enough for the themes resting right under my consciousness.

But when I finally found “buoyancy” (or, perhaps more truthfully, it found me) I was at last enabled to embark on that leg of the journey. I wrote the chapter from my laptop propped up in bed, for I was ill most of last fall, with nautical books of all kinds strewn around the room.

Buoyancy’s illustration was just as much of an adventure. “Pam, I want the perspective from the deck of the ship, with rising waves and a storm in the distance. And I’d like another boat within sight.” Ah, Carla, you don’t want much. And upon seeing her hard work, I instantly said, “Oh, no, I guess the other boat really doesn’t fit.” At that moment I was grateful that my illustrator lived in Minneapolis and I was safely sheltered in Chicago. I am grateful to report that we (and our collaboration) survived.

Yet the sustained challenge in this venture has been to move forward in publishing in a manner that is as organic as the chapter on Receptivity proclaims the real work of the Kingdom to be. Seeds are planted in the soil of our souls and take root far under the ground. In time they bear fruit that can be shared with others. Nothing forced, nothing manufactured. Just seeds planted in their time. There’s an actual phrase for approaching the dissemination of a book in this manner: it’s called “grassroots.”

So here we are, coming up to the first Christmas after releasing this book. This is the season where many Christians turn a brief eye toward Mary. Yet her “habitual availability” to God not only collaborated with the Holy Spirit to give us Jesus, but her responses to the Lord’s ongoing bidding in her life renders rich lessons for own responses as we carry the Spirit of her Son in our hearts and into our communities.

And so we at WaterManuscripts—that would be Wyatt and me—want to extend a gift to you: personalized ease in offering this book to others this Advent and Christmas season. If you have found these meditations on the implications of Mary’s life helpful, we would delight in facilitating the grassroots extension of that gift to others by offering free shipping on autographed copies wherever you would like us to send them within the United States.

This organic offer comes with this prayer: Lord Jesus, may your Holy Spirit wing this book to the hands of those who need to hold it, the hearts of those ready to see. And would that same Spirit prepare our hearts to receive you anew, oh wondrous gift of God.

Riding the Ripples

2009-10-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

From one angle of vision, Mary’s rebounding “do whatever He tells you” illumines the kind of peace so anchored in her trust in Jesus that she could hold lightly to her plans and wait in harbor for her Son’s next move. But from another direction, her initial commentary at the wedding in Cana was itself a risk. Once the words, “they have no more wine” were out of Mary’s mouth, she was involved. What was it to her that the wedding celebration was about to wane?

Mary was a woman who had long known Yahweh’s priorities of mercy and care for those who are helpless. The same Holy Spirit who conceived the Christ in her womb had also brought forth a song of testimony to Jesus’ Father. It is his nature to lift up those who are struggling and fill the hungry with good things. These truths, so evident in the later ministry of her Son, had not been forgotten once the song left Mary’s lips.

Mary’s buoyancy (the moment-by-moment adjustment of this vulnerable vessel to the wind of the Spirit) did not begin with her response to Jesus, but with the initial comment itself.

When she could have minded her own business, she carried the Father’s heart for her neighbor instead. She did not remain safely in harbor when the wind was breathing in her sails. She took the risk, and with it, the adventure the Spirit sent.

Move decisively. Wait patiently. Hold the two together not as an artificial tension between “doing and being,” but as moment-by-moment obedience, now sailing into the wind, now waiting for the next thing. Sometimes I am tempted to think of these dynamics as the difference between a storm and utter stillness, but Mary reminds me that the actual choices are sometimes as simple as a word, a look in one’s eyes, a willingness to turn aside in this moment for the sake of one’s neighbor.

It is easy to see love of neighbor as as a mere ripple in the water when what I am waiting for is a dramatic voyage. But perhaps riding the ripples is far more important than I realize. Perhaps this is what most of the voyage is about. Maybe that's part of what Mary knew.

A Root of Integrity

2009-10-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

When I am in a season of seeking to remember and reclaim why I am alive, I reach for the novels of Elizabeth Goudge. Finding myself once more in that season, I am re-reading my old friends. The Scent of Water is among my top three of her stories.

Goudge, herself a devout Christian who wrote before there was a huge genre called “Christian fiction,” writes a profoundly truthful story of learning to love others in humble, hidden ways--and of discovering the meaning of one’s life along the way.

I find myself with favorite quotes the leave me pondering images and treasuring phrases. Here is one of them: "In obedience lay the integrity that God asked of her. If anyone had asked her what she meant by integrity she would not have been able to tell them but she had seen it once like a picture in her mind, a root going down into the earth and drinking deeply there. No one was really alive without that root."

Integrity imaged as a root drinking deeply from water under the surface of the earth. Such a plant must surely be the fruit of receptivity to God.

What are some of my integrity “roots?” I find myself a bit like Goudge’s character, cousin Mary. I’m not sure I can describe them head on. But when I act in accordance with them, I know water rises to the surface. When I seek to ignore these long-nurtured roots of obedience I wither. I am blocking the water of my own integrity root, choking the life out of it.

So here’s an example: yesterday I came home from Minneapolis by plane. Even a short trip is challenging these days. I would prefer to go behind the mask of my face and pull in. Anonymous. No energy expended for the stranger. I went in and out of integrity for the several hours I spent in long lines and cramped cabins. I was tired, but when I smiled and cared about the stranger next to me, the root found water. And when I pulled in as on my own desert island, I, along with my neighbor, went without the water resting just below the surface.

Lord, have mercy. May I act with the integrity of obedience that my life might tap into the depth of water that bathes those critical roots.

Christ as A Shield

2009-10-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday noon found me sitting in a local diner with one of my "girls." (My girls" are women who were students of mine at Wheaton somewhere in the 90's.) She is not, of course, a girl anymore, but a lovely young woman in her 30's with a passion for the Lord and compassion for the world. Her passion/compassion has taken her on a fascinating pilgrimage over the last decade.

So over our salads we spoke about "Confidence," and how it was that Mary had needed to walk the road from her utterly simple "Let it be to me according to your word," to the much more complicated awareness of "a sword shall pierce your soul," that I believe greatly strengthened Mary's confidence in God. My friend asked me, "Carla, why does it have to be like this?"

My response? To live in a receptive place before God means that sooner or later we have to discover the Lord as our shield. He will protect and heal our hearts, even if he permits them to be wounded. Jesus did not spare Mary. He doesn't tend to spare us, either. Since we cannot simultaneously be self-protective and find our confidence in God, we are, at times, led into places where we have to choose to walk with steady step behind the broad shield of Christ when our natural instincts would be to fight or run.

Today I am still thinking about this conversation as a Canticle of St. Patrick's runs steadily through my heart; I pray this prayer every morning these days, and find comfort in accompanying my prayer with simple hand motions that help my body as well as my soul remember that Christ's protection is all-encompassing:

Christ, as a light

illumine and guide me.

Christ as a shield

overshadow me;

Christ under me;

Christ over me;

Christ beside me

on my left and my right.

This day be within and without me,

lowly and me, yet all-powerful.

Be in the heart of each to whom I speak;

in the mouth of each who speaks unto me.

There are seasons where "yes" to God is the most delightfully simple space in the world. And there are seasons where another "yes" to the same God requires hands to unclench and hearts to stay steady under intense pressure. In these moments we need to know ourselves flanked and infused with the presence of Christ, our lowly, yet all-powerful protector.

Uninvited Solitude

2009-10-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

I've had an uninvited visitor in my home for the past several days. She isn't visible to anyone but God and me. Her visit began with a rather unwelcome, but much needed, departure. Nearly two weeks ago my husband dropped everything to be with his ailing mother across the country.

My son is here, but he is now a senior in high school. I am not ailing at the moment, and am certainly not particularly prevalent on his conversational radar. My life is quiet, because when I'm not teaching these days, most of my time is spent at home.

So Solitude decided to show up for a rather intense visit.

Solitude has long been an intimate friend of Simplicity. But I'm drawing to the end of her visit with a renewed recognition that this friend can be a challenging companion at times: especially when she appears uninvited.

I like Solitude when I'm ready for her. Enforced companionship is another matter all together. I have found myself wanting to run away, to find some else to talk to, to do something that would distract me from her presence. But here she's been sitting: in my kitchen, my study, my living room--even in my mail box and email inbox.

"Where can I go from your presence?" sometimes includes God's soul friends--like Solitude.

When I finally stopped running internally and looked at Solitude straight on, rather than just out of the corner of my eye, I discovered that, while she was searching, she was not unkind. We found dreams I didn't know I had, ideas that I have needed for the day and the season, and renewed perspectives that needed long moments to get in focus.

And we discovered other uninvited guests that have snuck in over the past few months: despair, bitterness, anger. They were my more natural dialogue partners, and I needed to get quiet enough to recognize them for what they were. I'm in the process of demanding that they leave the house.

Wyatt gets home on Saturday, and I will be so grateful to see my life's companion again. But I am now glad Solitude came for a long visit. She has given me much to think about, and, in the end, she has reintroduced me to her dear friend, Simplicity.

That Patient Gardener

2009-09-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I was making coffee and glanced out the window. The view that greeted me caused me to stop and look closer. My densely green trellis was adorned with a single bright blue morning glory. The first bloom of the summer had appeared.

As part of my gardening learning curve I am now in possession of this important piece of information: when I over-water my morning glories, they will not bloom. Unfortunately, the other plants resting next to them need that water or they will not live. So, being faced with the choice between morning glory blossoms and nothing else growing in the large clay pot, I opted for a green summer.

It's now officially autumn. The majority of my flowers have faded and I have ceased to tend them with any care. Even my hardy mums are about finished. But this morning I saw the first of dozens of morning glories ready to burst forth in the vibrant color I was waiting for...in June.

My thoughts went to my reflection on pruning in "Receptivity." Many friends have commented on the significance of finding ourselves "bound sticks" in the ground--just when we were expecting fruit. My lone morning glory reminds me of the opposite truth--fruit can appear when we are least expecting it. "Weeping may remain for the night, but joy comes in the morning" has just taken on visible imagery for me. Tonight I again affirm that "the Father will take all the time he requires...He is a very patient gardener." (Songs of Assent, 67) But rather than serving as an encouraging reflection on the cultivation of patience, I offer it tonight as a joyful reflection on the delightfulness of God's surprising timing.

P.S. As of Sunday morning there are now 15 blossoms on my fruitful vine.

Living in the Questions

2009-09-17T06:54:00.000-07:00

Jesus' response to Mary's oblique comment about the lack of wine at the wedding of Cana is "Woman, what does this have to do with me?" Mary's response? "Do whatever he tells you." (John 2:4,5) His response to Peter's cryptic question about the future of John's life at the end of the same gospel is "What is that to you? You follow me." (John 21:22)

Woman, what is that to me? Friend, what is that to you? I think my life would be lived in much greater freedom if these questions were inscribed upon the deck of my soul. I am so easily distracted by attempting to dictate what Jesus ought to be up to, and trying to control what my neighbor ought to be thinking, saying or doing.

Everything from what my son ought to be doing his last year of high school to what the church ought to be doing at this point in history churns in my soul with restless regularity. I am my own worst enemy when it comes to living in the kind of peaceful waters that navigate my heart toward the wise responses to these questions: Do whatever He tells you. You follow me.

Perhaps buoyancy, viewed from this direction, could be considered the grace of living in the right questions. When I do so, I find that I have more than enough to keep my heart and both hands fully on deck.

"Treasured"--A New Song of Confidence

2009-09-14T07:10:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has just released a new book called "Treasured: Knowing God by the Things He Keeps" Leigh McLeroy writes honestly and beautifully about encountering the God who loves her in the midst of real hurts in real life. In this book McLeroy tells her own story of confidence in the God who sees, knows and loves her. And she does it through concrete symbols that bind up reality for all of us: things like a fig leaf, a scarlet cord, a dry waterskin.

The latter belongs to Hagar. Like all of these chapters, Leigh dances between the Old Testament stories and her own journey. Both moments leap off the page. And because McLeroy is so honest, the words create a transparency that invites the reader to join her there.

For example, her chapter entitled "A Dry Waterskin" ends this way: "Like Hagar, I have a God who knows my name. A God who sees. I have never been lost to Him--and neither have you. The scrap of an old waterskin remains to tell the story. He sees. he knows your story. You are His. He has His plans for you. He has been long in the business of naming names, and oh how He loves the sound of yours!"

I need stories that strengthen my confidence in the God who sees. Life is full of vulnerable places that would benefit by concrete objects like a waterskin set right down on my soul's coffee table to be picked up and pondered at reflective moments. "Treasured" is full of such lovely stories.

Remembering "Ma"

2009-09-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight I find myself thumbing through my very worn copy of "Grapes of Wrath." I have another "clean" copy downstairs on my respectable living room bookshelves. The one resting on my desk was already used when I bought it, and is now held together with tape. But it bears the markings from the first time I read this incredible novel in my mid 40's. I return, over and over again, to the extraordinary wisdom, confidence and buoyancy of "Ma." John Steinbeck's initial description of "Ma" through the eyes of her eldest son continues to inspire (and convict!) me. Oh, Lord, strengthen my heart, my responses and my actions! May they reflect you in the good times and in the hard ones.

"Tom stood looking in. Ma was heavy, but not fat; thick with child-bearing and work. She wore a loose Mother Hubbard of gray cloth in which there had once been colored flowers, but the color was washed out now, so that the small flowered pattern was only a little lighter gray than the background. The dress came down to her ankles, and her strong, broad, bare feet moved quickly and deftly over the floor. Her thin, steel-gray hair was gathered in a sparse wispy know at the back of her head. Strong, freckled arms were bare to the elbow, and her hands were chubby and delicate, like those of a plump little girl. She looked out into the sunshine. Her face was no soft; it was controlled, kindly. Her hazel eyes seemed to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and superhuman understanding. She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials. But better than joy was calm. Imperturbability could be depended upon. And from her great and humble place in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty. From her position as healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter, she had become as remote and faultless in judgment as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook. and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone." (John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, Ch. 7)

Can we have literary mothers (and fathers) in the faith? I most certainly believe so. This description of "Ma" stirs up deep longing to be me want to rise and take firm hold of "the inadequate materials" in my life. Vision turns to prayer before the words have had a chance to settle. 'Tis a gift I do not take for granted.

Wisdom's Sister Susanna

2009-09-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

I picked up a compilation of prayers throughout the ages tonight, and found this prayer by Susanna Wesley. It sounds a great deal like my discussion of fantasy lives (p. 112ff), and I had to smile at finding such an articulate description of a similar challenge 250 years ago. Susanna writes,

"Save me from leading an imaginary life in the ideas of others, and so to be eager and forward in showing myself to the world. Forbid that I should retain, improve and adore this fictitious being, while stupidly neglecting the truth. Help me not to contend with men's interest, prejudices, and passions, that rarely admit of a calm dispute, when it can be innocently avoided. May I be so far a lover of myself as to prefer the peace and tranquility of my own mind before that of others, and if, after doing all I can to make others happy, they yet remain obstinately bent to follow those ways that lead to misery, I leave them to your mercy." (Prayers Across the Centuries)

Susanna's words rang even more true to me as I had recently engaged an honest, intense conversation over our common struggle to "retain, improve and adore the fictitious being" while stupidly avoiding the truth. I appreciate Susanna's self acceptance, preferring the peace and tranquility of her own mind, and am grateful for one more window into this internal struggle that so often robs us of energy, peace and joy. May the prayer of yet another mother of the faith encourage us as we, too, fight the mental battles that free us to live inside the present tense moments of our own lives. May the Lord lay his hands on our disordered minds and speak peace to us!

Receptivity in the Storm

2009-09-07T16:42:00.000-07:00

I suppose my Maine stories will eventually dwindle. Apparently not yet. My friends and I had been gifted with one glorious day after another, but, for me, there was one thing yet lacking as our week drew to a close. I really wanted to see a storm.

I was in the little island village on Friday noon when the wind began to pick up and the islanders began to cast concerned looks at the sky. That was my cue to head back to my cottage atop the rocks at the ocean’s edge.

For the next hour I watched the most remarkable storm blow through. We could see dark fingers of cloud formations reaching toward us from the mainland as the wind picked up. At one point I was standing bare-foot on a rock just below our steps, almost unable to keep my balance as the wind howled around me, and I watched the lighting streak across the horizon.

Eventually I moved indoors as the water, blowing sideways, hit the shingles of our weathered cottage with blinding intensity, and, then, passed on to the other side of the island and out again past the island’s eastern coast to the vast ocean beyond. Within an hour the sun shone again, and rest of the day was bathed in a cool, fresh breeze.

Today I found myself on a much calmer shore, the dunes along Lake Michigan, thinking about that storm and how often the Lord uses storms to crack against the rocks in my own soul and make room for water, and thus life, where nothing but barren land had grown before. Sometimes the storms are very visible, and I join others in hunkering down until the wind has passed. But at other times, the storm is blowing very hard in a corner of my soul that only the Lord can really see. He reaches with fingers not unlike those clouds and finds the rock he wants to crack and the tender seedling struggling to grow up through it. And my job? To stand firm and let the storm blow. For on the other side of my Lord's storms are always refreshing breezes and renewed land. For these I wait in expectation.

Deep Calls to Deep

2009-09-02T07:04:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I was searching for simple worship formats for a retreat, and found myself on a site I had discovered years ago. The site, as well as the community, has grown in the interim, and I was so attracted to the simple depth of these prayers that I ordered their prayerbook, Celtic Daily Prayer: Prayers and Readings from the Northumbria Community, HarperSanFrancisco, 2002.

The Northumbria Community is on the extreme northeast of England, a rugged place firmly bounded between Scotland and the North Sea. But, for me, the westerly orientation of my Maine Island meets their eastern coast in more than geographical affinity. I am struck this morning by two fundamental dimensions of this lovely book.

The first is the Invocation of the Holy Spirit:

Most powerful Holy Spirit,

come down

upon us

and subdue us.

From heaven,

where the ordinary

is made glorious,

and glory seems

but ordinary,

bathe us

with the brilliance

of Your light

like dew.

There she is again--the glorious ordinary, caught up into heaven that she might actually bless the earth.

The second striking feature of this book is "The Community Rule of Availability and Vulnerability"

I say 'Yes, my Lord'

in all the good times,

through all the bad times.

And here my heart sings. This is the central theme of "Songs of Assent" and they rightly name the same life lesson as vulnerability and accessibility. The community writes, "This involves availability to God and to others--expressed in a commitment to being alone with God in the cell of our own heart and to being available for hospitality, intercession and mission. Intentional vulnerability is expressed through being teachable in the discipline of prayer, saturation in the Scriptures and being accountable to one another..." (p.10)

I may live on the other side of the pond, but, in my most alive moments, my heart invokes this same prayer, and wants to live by the same rule. Deep does call to deep--even when my life is lived out in a sub-division on the west edge of Chicago (with one amazing week on that Maine coast.) But it gets pretty rugged here at times, too. May my heart remember and live in this space with the same clarity and confidence as is manifest in these wise prayers.

www.northumbriacommunity.org

Moon and Lamp

2009-08-31T07:54:00.000-07:00

I chose the back bedroom because it had a desk overlooking a path filled with flowers. The other two rooms were oceanside--with breath-taking views. But my window ledge was inches from my pillow on the bottom bunkbed, and after I covered it with a bandana and set out my flashlight to read by, I was more than content with my lot.

I did not yet know about the moon, perfectly framed in that little window beside my head. In the course of the week it would complete its movement to fullness and every night I would watch its course across a clear sky. The memory is fresh and quietly precious, stored in the treasure chest from my week in Maine.

The memory of that moon surfaced in my soul this morning as I read these familiar verses: "Your word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path." (Ps. 119:105) I was struck by my reflective moments of watching the moon and how it has taught generation upon generation to reflect with simplicity on the nature of God's guiding word. He has spoken, and like the quietly permanent moon, the words have the same orienting power now as when they were first spoken through the prophets.

A "lamp" is marvelous image for God's guidance, for we who often want a complete internal GPS system receive instead, a single direction at a time. A lamp's domain, like the moon, has boundaries. The angel Gabriel tells Mary nothing about her own family or fiance, only some pertinent information about Elizabeth. And to Elizabeth's house she goes.

This past week I have listened to the heartaches of those with broken and struggling relationships of every kind: in families, between friends, between souls and their God, in the churches that seek to nurture them. I am not immune from my own complicated path. And I have tried to resist the temptation of viewing God's word as a cosmic GPS. All I need, quite simply, is the next word for the next step. And I'm grateful for a moon that waxes and wanes, yet reminds me that the lamp is never snuffed out, and sometimes illumines us with a beauty so surprising that it is hidden, with the word, in our hearts forever.

A Bonsai of Righteousness

2009-08-26T08:03:00.000-07:00

When I was teaching in Thailand, we called them "Teak of Righteousness"--Oaks are not native to Thai soil. But this morning I found myself praying with a wry smile and said to the Lord, "If you are making me a Bonsai of righteousness, I will not fight you."

My life has been pruned back so many times that I have literally lost count of the events--nor even really give it much thought anymore. But this morning I found myself marveling at the apparent skill, time and patience my heavenly gardener is taking with me. And, in looking up the mystery of the Bonsai, I found this description: "They are kept small by pruning the roots and branches and repotting the trees." Perhaps I'm being formed into a Bonsai.

Here the questions I find myself asking these days. Can I be content when most of my days are spent in my house? When the fruit on the tree is cut way back yet again? When I cannot see the roots yet wonder if the Lord isn't reaching in and rearranging some of the deeper things in my soul as well. Can I be content to be small and intentional, a miniature work of art that does not attract attention in the streets. Will I receive the life I have been given--not as judgment or punishment--but as gift?

I wonder if knowing ourselves as small enables us to see the small things better? And if, in fact, the very limitations imposed on life are not themselves the ground for discovering new channels of beauty, truth and hope.

No plant naturally becomes a Bonsai. But then, no tree reaches the majesty of an Oak or the durability of a Teak, either. All are "the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified." (Isaiah 61:3) May we be granted the grace to wait for skilled hands of our gardener, particularly when the view from below does not look very promising.

Contagious Contentment

2009-08-24T07:51:00.000-07:00

My husband is in the midst of "rush"--that semi-annual event that descends upon college bookstores the week prior to the start of classes. He was coming home frazzled every night for days, and falling into bed by 8:00. Our conversations were brief and rather snappy. One would think that after 54 rushes (27 years of marriage times two) I would know he needed some extra support in these moments. But I was in my own world most of the week and not much help.

I woke up on Friday. The house needed major attention, there was no nourishing food to be found, and, most importantly, I was as internally distracted as my environment. So, I confessed my distraction to the Lord, professed my ongoing love and commitment to this academic book guy, and got to work. The house got clean. The groceries got bought. Dinner actually got prepared.

In the midst I found myself looking around at this house we bought 16 years ago over a whirlwind weekend visit the spring before I started teaching at Wheaton. I love it. It's small and wraps itself in warmth around us. I began to taste gratitude again.

And by the time Wyatt walked in the door, I was once again in my right mind. I received yet another infusion of contentment--which must surely be one of the Spirit's most delightful sisters to simplicity. Have you noticed that contentment is contagious?

Becoming Roadside Art

2009-08-20T07:41:00.000-07:00

The images from my last blog have been working their way down to another level in my soul. The beautifully cared for "lobsta" traps, buoys and ropes are a lovely symbol for pondering our creativity with the everyday stuff of life. But, at another level, these images remind me that, to God, we, too, are "a medium for creation..." We are the stuff of His roadside art.

The first 10 verses of Ephesians 2 are such an encouragement. In the verse 1, the Apostle begins by reminding us that we were once "dead in our trespasses." We were traps unfit for use, buoys no longer buoyant, ropes too frayed to be trusted. Nine verses (and an incarnation/redemption crowned by Christ's ascension) later, we are his workmanship, literally, his poetry--his art along life's road. For while there is a definite starting point to our redemption, Christ's re-creative care for those he has made alive is ongoing.

So let me imagine Jesus on Monhegan Island at the end of "lobsta" season. He walks through our bent traps, our water-soaked buoys, the ropes about to break, and carefully picks up each of us. "Here, Father. I recognize this one. She belongs to me. He is mine." And by a grace and a faith not of our own making, our re-creative workman again reclaims his materials for creation. He restores and renews us, preparing us for another season where, as his patiently crafted workmanship, he prepares us to be beautiful and create beauty with the materials he then sets in our hands.

Lord Jesus, may we walk alongside the road receiving the grace and faith to be the art remade in you according to the creative design of your Father. Then, and only then, will we be enabled to make beauty of the well-worn stuff of our lives. Grant us your Spirit's compassionate eye, your Father's gracious heart, and your own patient hands.

Roadside Art

2009-08-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

The “lobsta” fishermen on Monhegan Island, Maine, take “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a medium for creation” (Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker) to a whole new level. During their off-season (which, for reasons of state politics, was already in effect by the beginning of August) they turn their traps and ropes into what my friends and I experienced as roadside art. Who would think that traps, buoys and ropes could be so attractively stored or so beautifully displayed? It was so lovely that I wondered at one point if the island sponsored a contest to see who could use these utilitarian artifacts to out-create each other.

But I think not. I think, instead, that they, being surrounded by constant beauty, could not imagine doing anything else. Ugly had no visible place there. (I'm not painting the island as paradise--humans with all their foibles live there, too. Nevertheless, I rarely saw anything physically out of place, and the island isn't that big.)

And I wonder how to carry the relationship between beauty and creative use of the materials of everyday life back to my context. It isn't overtly pretty here--the Japanese beetles and I are in a fight for my roses, and my grass is slowly turning brown. My house needs more than "straightening" and my need to get organized for the fall is keeping pace.

But these meticulous fishermen challenged me to ask this question: How do I live within the beauty of a "medium for creation" approach when "problems" peak out from the roadsides of my life?

I think the answer begins with gratitude for the little things: the rose the beetle didn't get to, the comfortable chair in my living room, one more year with my high school senior. (Yesterday I got tangled up in the unexpected expenses of high school. Life was a PROBLEM.) But when I am grateful for the beauty of the little things, I seem to have more room to approach the whole of my day in a composed and composing frame of mine.

I cannot live with spectacular beauty all the time. But, but God's grace I can turn my eyes and mind to the quiet beauty around me. Who knows? I may get inspired to create a bit of roadside art myself.

Repainting the Portrait

2009-08-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

Last week I met separately with two young women. Both are in their 20’s, both are in serious dating relationships, both desire to “do this right,” and both are painfully aware that they view themselves and their beloved through the distorted lenses of difficult backgrounds.

While the nature of their immediate concerns are radically different, their fear is so similar. They are terrified of repeating what they experienced as children, and there are moments where they want to run and hide because the fear is so great.

Although neither one would have recognized the underlying symbolism in our conversation, my encouragement to both of them (while vastly different in detail) rested on the foundation I state in “Simplicity.”

In this book “feminine” includes all created things that find themselves drawn into vital connection with an outside source…(p. 30)

Vital connections are, by definition, vulnerable connections. “I give myself to you” comes with so many risks, and even as our hearts long to be known, sometimes they have a mind of their own that wants to run and hide. Our hearts can, quite literally, be “broken.”

But thanks be to God that in Jesus my friends are heirs to the wholeness of an undivided heart. For Jesus did not come only to redeem us, but to recreate what was broken and make us new. St. Athanasius pens this gorgeous word picture to speak of the fullness of Jesus’ incarnation:

You know what happens when a portrait that has been painted on a panel becomes obliterated through external stains. The artist does not throw away the panel, but the subject of the portrait has to come and sit for it again, and then the likeness is re-drawn on the same material. Even so it was with the All-holy Son of God. He, the Image of the Father, came and dwelt in our midst, in order that He might renew mankind made after Himself. (St. Athanasius, On the Incarnation, St. Vladimir’s Press, 1993, p. 41)

My young friends are pressing in, learning to love rather than to leave. They are seeking to embrace the beautiful mystery of being drawn into vital connection with another. And as they choose to nestle into their new relationships they are, in St. Athanasius' words, sitting for the second drawing. A Savior who refuses to rip up the canvas of their broken lives is re-drawing the likeness he originally intended in each of them. What a gallery he is restoring.

Drop Everything Now

2009-08-12T11:12:00.000-07:00

My senior in high school left the house this morning with a slight swagger on the way to the golf team meeting. The top of the totem pole looked great at 9:00. At 9:40 the view was slightly different. Cell phone rings: “Mom! I need a sports physical before try-outs begin at 12:15.” Hmmm. “OK. Where do you need to go?” He tried one place on his own, only to come to the dawning recognition that he needed his mother. He is still a minor.

Enter Mom, comfortably ensconced in her reading chair, blissfully developing curriculum for fall classes. “Mom! You need to get over here. And there’s nine people in front of me! I’ll never make it! Can we try somewhere else?” “I think we could go to Convenient Care.” “Can you call quick and find out?” “Yes, dear.” I watch my peaceful morning evaporate into a quick change of clothes and a testosterone-infused ride to the nearest clinic.

But here was the great thing. We were both laughing. He was a knucklehead and I was the knucklehead’s mother, and there was nothing either one of us could do except drop everything and wait for a doctor’s signature on a sports physical form.

All I had to give up this morning were a couple of hours of leisurely thought.

All he had to do was release his pride. It could have been so much worse.

And now, he’s on the green and I’m back to my day, and the wind ripples through our sails with the humor of being human and letting it be OK. It’s a good day.

Tolling Wisdom

2009-08-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

I just spent a week on an island off the coast of Maine, as close to the water as was physically possible without living in it. I saw sea gulls and sunsets, waves and rocks. But what I heard was a bell.

A small rocky island just off my own varied in visibility with the changing tide, and, except in moments of calm, high tide, a small green buoy rang its constant warning: there are hidden rocks here. Day and night: travelers beware.

Among my constant companions was the “The Dry Salvages” from T.S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets. Late in the week I read these words as for the first time: “And under the oppression of the silent fog/The tolling bell/Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried/Ground swell”

The tolling bell! Traveler beware. An unpredictable cadence of the sea’s time, with the tone of Donne’s church bell.

And now, back home with that haunting clang still ringing in my ears, I find myself praying for an increased sensitivity to the arrhythmic, tolling bell of wisdom’s deeps--

Let the rope out a little farther for your growing son, lest you both crash against the rocks. Speak these next words in kindness—or not at all—your mouth is perilously close to danger. Listen, listen to the quiet tolling bell of the Holy Spirit’s check in your spirit. It’s low tide and the rocks are sharp. Proceed with care.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)

Retreat Badminton

2009-07-30T11:02:00.000-07:00

They started it. I had called the retreat center in March with more than a little angst. For reasons beyond my control, I needed to find a place for THESE DATES this summer. I had just a few people--but no flexibility with the timing. The retreat director initially said, “Well, it’s a bit complicated. Let me work on it.” And three days later: “Come. We’ll find room for you.”

I began to appreciate what “complicated” meant when Pam and I pulled up to the retreat center—only to be greeted by several friendly nuns and dozens of adolescent girls. "St. Theresa's Camp" was gathering at the same time.

No official looking person was anywhere near the front desk so we looked at a map of the facility, found the keys to our rooms, and hastily disappeared...but I had scarcely dropped my bags when the knock came. “Hmmm, who told you that this was your room?” “It was on the map.” “What map?” Certainly not the map in the hands of this staff person. So, assuring her that we would happily go wherever they put us, we gathered up our belongings and moved them. (It turned out to be a much better location.) We then worked together on meal times (when the "camp" wouldn't be present) and when we could take possession of our meeting room—no small feat for the staff on a Sunday afternoon where several events were beginning and ending all at the same time.

Our initial volley began three days of logistical badminton between the retreat center staff and our little group. Doing a small retreat on spiritual creativity in the midst of a living amoeba of 86 adolescent girls was an adventure in its own kind of creativity–like the night the staff made a separate dinner line in the absolutely-off-limits back kitchen for the seven of us lest we be swallowed up by the spontaneously alive members of that adolescent amoeba who were running a bit late that night.

There were many lovely moments on our spiritual creativity retreat. But for me, one of the most quietly delightful was the creative game we played with the staff. We all approached the logistics challenge of the week with a playfulness that reminded me of batting a shuttlecock over a net. I do not believe it ever hit the ground.

Flexibility must surely be kin to receptivity—to God and to each other. We were all open, eager to find a way forward, and held loosely to our own plans. And with everyone playing this way, the game was delightful, indeed. I didn’t think to keep score…but I know we all won.

Well-Watered Worship

2009-07-20T20:48:00.000-07:00

One of the most precious worshipping/learning communities in my life is the Robert E. Webber Institute for Worship Studies. I was privileged to preach at our 10th anniversary convocation last month.

How are we walk in wisdom in the absence of our beloved Bob, now gone over two years? What does the Apostle Paul write in Ephesians 5:15-21 that helps us stay in the stream of the Holy Spirit's ministry to our community? This audio blog explicates a dance between addressing each other in truth adorned in beauty, making melody to the Lord, giving thanks to the Father and submitting to one another out reverence for Christ. I seek to explore wisdom close to the ground as it has been poured out among us in years past, and as we desire to remain in that living stream for years to come.

This blog is the link to that sermon, as I believe it has application beyond IWS. It's about 24 minutes if you have a bit of time. www.iwsfla.org/alumni/audio.html and click on Well-Watered Worship under June, 2009.

Unintentional Legacies

2009-07-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

My father, Carl Christenson, died last week at age 75. At his funeral we celebrated his productive life as a “surgeon’s surgeon,”—a man who both loved to work and loved to be generous. His life was rich with intentional legacies. But life wasn’t simple for my dad or our family, and I ended the funeral with these thoughts on the unintentional legacies he left us through nearly half a lifetime of suffering.

In 1976 our father contracted a neurological disease that was never diagnosed. For the next sixteen years he managed the pain with a lot of exercise…and standing on one leg while he operated. He could have written “He giveth more grace” –he certainly sang it as though it was his own. But in 1992 the pain became an intolerable snare. He shut his Unity Medical Center office door, said good-bye to his faithful nurse, Jo, and never went back.

Life would be much more to our liking if every legacy was one that we could willingly initiate. But it doesn’t always work out that way. It didn’t for Carl.

Yet, without minimizing any of the tangible legacies he left, I wonder if one of the most life-changing legacies he offered those closest to him was the unintentional legacy he left through his suffering. For while the all-encompassing suffering he experienced was certainly personal, it was not private. No one close to him remained unaffected, beginning with our mom who described the situation well when she would say: “I’ve been married twice—both to the same man.”

As his family, we, too, had a couple of different dads in Carl, and have been saying good-bye for at least twenty years. Several years ago one of my young nieces said it best, “Grandpa lives locked in a room all by himself, and no one can find the key.”

But while Dad was, in his latter years, incapable of giving us the key to himself, he gave us other keys, other legacies. And telling his story would be incomplete without acknowledging the life-changing, if unintentional, legacies that Carl’s suffering left those closest to him.

· We have been left the legacy of honest questions and genuine responses. When I look at my mom and my siblings and their spouses, I find a group that is refreshingly, authentically human. We have cried hard together—and laughed harder. We have learned, especially in the face of so many unanswerable questions and so few answers, that “we” is much more important than “I.” We’ve learned to work together and to deeply respect and love each other.

· We have been left the legacy of our inadequacy in controlling much of anything having to do with our father’s decline. And that inadequacy has sent each of us, in our own way, back to the cross of Jesus. For while there many techniques to release pain, there is only one effective place for the pain to go—because Jesus has already swallowed up the sting of our pain, and we have been learning, in ways most personal, to let him carry our pain, for weight of it has been just too heavy for too long, and any hoarded resources were long left behind.

· We have been left with the legacy of genuine repentance and forgiveness from God and each other. Carrying for Carl has been messy at times, and perfection went out the window a long time ago. In the stress of the moment we have often said things we didn’t mean—or least “in that way”, or, in my case, “not that strongly—and “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” has been flowing freely among us for a long time.

· And we have been left the legacy of gratitude for simple things. Dad knew this one. He delighted in a poorly crafted cross-stitched bookmark from his eldest daughter, and a well-turned bowl from his son. He carried Pam’s picture with the shepherd’s crook with him to all five health-care facilities that cared for him during the last two years. He sang until days before his death. And, especially when my sister, Karin, was with us, he would sing all the verses to all of the hymns, and could never understand why anyone would not want to sing Amazing Grace.

When we have suffered awhile, good moment become so sweet, and one of these is a final Dad moments. We were together at Paul and Karen’s last Thanksgiving—Carl’s presence made possible by a makeshift ramp my brother built for his wheelchair. It was not the best example of Paul’s craftsmanship, but it worked—and between the ramp and the strong men of my family, Dad was there. At least in body…until we began to sing, and my fingers gravitated toward the music he knew. And suddenly, Dad was THERE. We sang every gospel song we could think of, and my fingers kept pace as my heart was filled with gratitude. Thank you, Lord, for this gift of music that transcends words and cognitive ability, and even, for a moment, the dreadful power of pain.

As one great spiritual guide once said, “I think we have got our values all wrong, and suffering is the crown of life.” In medicine, our father was for a time, known as “the king.” Throughout his active life he displayed the generosity of a king. And by his suffering he taught us to know the King of Kings. This is a life well-lived, and we rejoice in the full measure of Carl’s legacy.

Ravens

2009-06-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

As we drove up to our old place on Lake Superior, we were greeted by a large raven who had taken dominion over the doorway. Having found something to eat, he wasn’t yielding the ground without coaxing. Tenacious old bird.

And then, this morning, I read these amazing words of Jesus, “Fear not, little flock, for it is the Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32). I’ve always envisioned a rather pastoral scene, with sweetly grazing lambs and a kind, vigilant shepherd. But this morning I looked back at the chapter, only to discover that the only “flock” in sight was a company of ravens (12:24). They are scavengers—they don’t sow or reap or place their seed on deposit to collect interest. And, as my sister points out, they are really loud and obnoxious—endowed with a similar tone of voice to mothers in our less “pastoral” moments.

So apparently the Father’s good pleasure doesn’t simply extend to relaxed, trusting herds of sheep, but to anxiety-prone coveys of ravens. And he not only claims them, but comforts them: what else would be the point of Jesus telling them to “fear not,” if they weren’t afraid?

I am so much more naturally like a raven than a lamb. Whether the goal is food and clothes, the activities I want on a short vacation or the long-term behavior of significant others, I am far more prone to grab and grasp than to release and wait. “Let it be to me according to your word” once came swiftly to the lips of an in-graced maid. May it continue to fight its way to the top of my more raven-prone soul. Apparently the Father delights to give the kingdom to those of us with a propensity to grasp even after we recognize that the truly great things can only be received as gift.

Deceitful Sharks

2009-06-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

My new friend’s email soared across an ocean, “We were really hurt, and, years later, I’m still trying to find the way forward.” A former student sat across from me on my couch, “I’m getting married and I long for the ability to a create a loving space for others. I’ve been afraid that I will, instead, repeat the patterns of my childhood. An old friend rattled her iced tea glass and said, “I’m aware that this experience was devastating and could distort my soul.” And a beloved neighbor’s voice came across the other end of the phone, “I’m trying to work with integrity, but I’m swimming with sharks.”

All of these conversations occurred in the last day, and I find myself reflecting on the relationship of fear and deceit. "Blessed is the one...in whose spirit is no deceit"(Psalm 32:2). I have generally thought of deceit as a deliberate hiding from God and others. But there is another kind: deceit that is generated by fear. We’re not naïve anymore—what “could” happen is no longer theoretical, and our strong temptation is to allow our fear of the past repeating itself to create deceitful lies about ourselves…and more importantly…about the healing, protective love of our God.

When the sharks are swimming, open-mouthed, around us, the instinct to survive is an exceedingly important one. But not all waters are infested with sharks, and the challenge is to face their shadows when they are no longer snapping. This is the hard soul work: to unfold our painful stories truthfully, including the naming of our very real fears. As long as they lay festering within, they have the power to deceive us with lies and distort our responses to God and others.

In calmer waters we can, like the invisible woman kneeling at Jesus’ feet, narrate our story to our Lord (most helpfully in the presence of others who now carry his life). As it was for the woman who was not hidden (Luke 8:47), the Lord's compassionate power both heals the places we know, and the places that lie hidden from us. For the saddest possibility in life is not that we will go through turbulent times, but that we would yield to them the deceitful power of shaping our responses to the future.

Yes, there are sharks. But there are also dolphins. I want to be free to know the difference when I get back in the water.

Tattooed

2009-06-20T18:43:00.000-07:00

I got on the plane after another gloriously intense session of the Institute for Worship Studies. IPod and book in hand, I sat down next to a strong, muscular guy in his early 30’s. His earbuds were dangling from the collar of his t-shirt. Thought: This is going to be a quiet ride. Reality: It was a voyage on the high seas.

We began with the normal chit-chat. Where are you going? Home? Business? What do you do? “I teach.” What?

Realizing that he was talking to someone who was “religious,” he leaned back, looked at me with a rather cynical eye, and said, “So you believe there is a God? Why?”

The wind that filled my sails at the moment sang out: “I need someone greater than me to worship.”

With the slightest grin, he shifted the direction of boat: “You can worship me.”

And with an emerging awareness that, despite all odds, I was talking to a potential friend, I took the tiller back and said, “Nope. You have as many problems as I do.”

The boat was launched into the deep and we had one of the swiftest and (at least to my mind) most fascinating rides I have had in quite some time.

He quickly went on to tell me that he had just wanted to know what I would say. He had been raised going to the Baptist church once or twice a month, he believed in God and in Jesus, and went to church when he wanted to, and his kids went fairly frequently. He’d been to a lot of churches over the years, told me about the church with the cappuccino machine that kept flowing until five minutes before the preacher’s sermon, and expressed a preference for the music of his childhood over new songs.

We found a lot of common ground. He learned his trade on the job. So, in many ways, have I. Our conversation bounced from military vehicles to self-publishing to family (What ARE you giving your husband for Father’s Day?) and circled round again to issues of faith.

But the moment of commonality that will long stay with me was when, in this voyage of so many delightful turns, he said, “I actually have a tattoo of Jesus. Want to see?” Sure. He lifted his t-shirt, and the entire left side of his chest was covered with a tattoo of Jesus’ face framed with a crown of thorns.

I didn’t see that wave coming.

I carry Jesus, too. It’s just that he has emblazoned himself on the inside, rather than the outside, of my heart. But after this conversation I find myself wondering how many other unlikely new friends are carrying Jesus along on their journeys in ways that would surprise me.

So here’s to an exhilarating ride home. To a new friend that I would never have met unless thrown together in the cabin of an airplane for a couple of hours. Fare forward, fellow traveler. Jesus has a permanent grip on you.

And here’s to one more reminder that Mary’s “Do whatever he tells you,” has the potential of some very interesting rebounds.

One Facet at Time

2009-06-12T16:41:00.000-07:00

Today I had two encounters about speaking the truth in love. In both conversations the parties were wrestling with the burden of carrying biblical wisdom that others were not yet ready to hear. What is the good of wisdom if it is not immediately transferable?

We read Jesus’ brief parable: “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.” (Mt 13:52) But Jesus is not referring to a divine yard sale where everything one has received is immediately placed on display. He is, rather, offering us a picture of a multi-faceted jewel in which one facet at a time is offered for the sake of others. Some truths we have carried a long time. Other insights we received yesterday. The longer we dwell with “Lady Wisdom” the more we realize that not ever good thing can be set on the table at the same time.

One can carry the core of a real truth, but learning when to speak that truth may be almost as important as the truth itself. True words out of season can overwhelm and even inoculate against that same word spoken in season. "When" is as much a feature of wisdom as "what."

We are made to carry a whole treasure, not a single facet. But a single facet, like “speak the truth in love” is often enough for the moment. The whole jewel is no less beautiful because it is hidden. Nor, ultimately, is it any less “useful.” Loving others enough to wait for the right season to speak has a way of keeping the whole treasure well polished and ready to be revealed in the right setting.

Of Soil and Prayer

2009-06-03T09:47:00.000-07:00

As the refugee got on the plane, he paused at the base of the stairs and scooped up a bit of his native soil in a small container and carefully placed it in his pocket. This image from The Kite Runner was still resting in my mind this morning as I read Romans 8. Jesus is at the right hand of the Father interceding for us (34). The Spirit helps us in our weakness, and intercedes for us according to the will of God. (26,27)

I find myself this morning musing on my aching attachment to my native soil—family, friends, church, country, world. Jesus actually claimed our earth—with all of its loveliness and brokenness—as his native soil and has carried it with the love and commitment of the ultimate patriot into the presence of his Father. He did not merely scoop up a handful of our earth and set it on a shelf. His life is inextricably bound to the soil of our earthy lives. He is one of us. He is for us. Our soil is constantly tended by him as he intercedes for us.

At the same time, the Spirit knows heaven’s soil so well that he can catch up our distressed earth and fill it again with the nutrients of heaven. The Spirit’s filling is gift: it has nothing to do with us having the right words or the clearest perspective on any given day. “For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26).

And so the refugee is not alone. We all encounter times when we are weak, distressed, groaning and have no words we can speak to God with confidence. Yet there is one who has carried our dusty lives right to the throne of our Father. And there is another who is constantly sent from the Father and the Son to fill our dusty earth with heaven’s wholeness.

I have never been pressed to place a container of my native soil in my pocket, although the image is a powerful one. Far more important is the truth that the ultimate soil of earth advocates for us at the right hand of the Father, and the grace-filled soil of heaven permeates our nutrient-drained hearts.

Helicopters

2009-05-23T12:27:00.000-07:00

Helicopters. The little seeds with wings that grow in clusters from my neighbor’s towering tree. They don’t see the fence adjoining our properties, and around every Memorial Day we are buried in these little seed-bearing conveyances. If we ignore them, hundred of them will sprout. And, since the appearance of our patio several years ago, they make an awful mess just as they are. So we are spending the better part of today capturing as many helicopters as we can contain.

But the helicopters had a different meaning in another season of our lives. Mary had come to live with us for a couple of years—Mary Poppins, that is. My son was a pre-schooler, I was going through the most difficult year of my life, and our very own Mary Poppins had come to live as our nanny. An incredibly creative and competent soul, our nanny played with our son while I taught, fixed dinner multiple nights a week, and cared for all three of us in more ways than I could possibly name.

One Memorial Day she and my son collected all the helicopters they could gather, put them in a large bag, took them to the top of a Wheaton College building and let them fly in the wind. It was an act of glorious simplicity which long delighted the heart of a curious little boy, and, to be honest, the heart of his mother who had not the energy for that kind of creativity right then.

So today, in a moment when I am not particularly enthused about the prolific seed-bearing qualities of my neighbor’s helicopter tree, I find myself pondering this unlikely symbol of an extraordinary grace in a very different season. It doesn’t make the work go away. But it does help me taste gratitude again. Responsive earth comes in unlikely forms, and a creative nanny holding good seed for a glorious purpose must surely be one of God's rich surprises.

Under Our Sun and Shield

2009-05-16T07:36:00.000-07:00

This morning I sat out in my garden--well, to be accurate, I sat bundled up in my garden, with a crocheted shawl flung around my head, a tartan plaid enveloping my shoulders and a old fleecy blanket tucked around my knees. But I was IN my garden, hearing the birds, feeling the wind, enjoying the beauty of a long-yearned for spring in Illinois.

Spring in a cold-weather climate is such a picture of simplicity. "Let it be to me according to your word" is the quiet whisper of a creation that awakens when, and only when, the Master calls it into life. In this matter of gardens, we can prune, rake and wait, but until the sun warms the earth and calls the little things into visible existence again, they stay hidden, waiting for the sound of their Master's voice.

"We have nothing but we receive...As makers made in the image of the Maker, we are also initiators and creators. But never first. The raw material of our physical and spiritual life comes at the will of a divine initiative that we have done nothing to capture. We are simply favored by God." ("Songs of Assent," Simplicity, 31)

This morning I sat pondering the deep meaning of creaturely dependency from my rather lumpy devotional posture when I read these words: "For the Lord God is both sun and shield; he will give grace and glory." (Psalm 84:11)

Sun: calling forth into life all that is creaturely and dependent. Shield: protecting all that the sun is calling forth into life.

And my thoughts went to this week, when the church around the world will celebrate one of the "quiet holy days"--so underplayed for so many of our communities--yet a moment in the church year that changed every relationship between heaven and earth forever. The Feast of the Ascension.

This week we see our Lord Jesus triumphantly take his rightful place in heaven as the king of glory. The Second Adam is also our conquering elder brother. He has come home. The gifts of heaven have been opened to all who share in his inheritance. The sun that faithfully awakens physical and spiritual life and the shield that firmly protects it all proceeds from the glory of our Lord Jesus as he takes his stand at the right hand of the Father and, with the Holy Spirit, joins to pour out grace without measure on dependent, waiting earth of all kinds.

May our hearts be found simple this week. Our ascended Lord is our sun and our shield, and he does give grace and glory--no good thing does he withhold from us. Pentecost is coming, and one good grace after another still renews his favored, if yearning, creation--whether the work is underground or finally breaking the surface. Let it be to us according to his word.

A High Storm on a Familiar Lake

2009-05-08T08:51:00.000-07:00

"If we would rise to life's worst storms, the formation will not begin in the gale, but in the small puddles that splash at our feet when no one is looking." ("Songs of Assent," Buoyancy, 167)

When I was in graduate school my husband and I spent a glorious season exploring the pristine "finger lakes" that fill the valleys amidst the rolling hills of upstate New York. We spent many a Saturday navigating around those lakes--skinny enough to see clearly through to the other shore, long enough to need a full day to make our way around the largest of them.

One afternoon we were driving up the east side of Seneca Lake as the sky grew black from beyond the western shore. We pulled our car into one of the many state parks that line the lakeshore, and spent the next two hours in the storm. We watched it creep over lake toward us--and then we were in it: rain, wind, lightning, thunder--a violent glory.

Sometimes we are fortunate enough to see the storm coming over a skinny little lake toward us, and sometime it just comes upon us. Perhaps we were just out for a bit of a ride on the lake, and find ourselves surprised by the storm. We'd like to reach our car, but we feel about as equipped as sitting in an old canoe--we're not too far from shore, but too far to make it back in the midst of the intense elements.

Maybe it's our health--we had thought we would be well--and, it would appear, we are going to have live with our infirmity instead. Or perhaps it's our finances--we thought we could see our way--and then the lightning strikes over our heads and we find ourselves spinning, holding on as we seek to stay afloat for one more day. Or perhaps we were working--planning the next project, doing the next thing--and the winds of layoffs have blown us to a place on the shore where there is nowhere to dock, and so we ride the storm's aftermath along familiar shoreline, but have no idea where we are going and how to get there.

And in these moments, when wind and water weather our hulls--not even on high seas--but simply by a high storm on a familiar lake, we need a mariner's tune for these words: "Bless our God, you peoples; and make the voice of his praise to be heard; Who holds our souls in life, and will not allow our feet to slip." (Psalm 66:7-8)

I heard the dim echoes of a jaunty tune this morning from a woman whose canoe is pitching violently--but not as violently as this time last year. At the end of the conversation she grabbed her paddle and got to work. For that is the grace of a long, skinny, familiar lake. When the storm is over--or even during its lulls--we can find a place to wade to shore, there is work to be done, and if the Spirit will grace us with yet another melody in our hearts, we will find the footing we need for the next couple of good, firm steps.

I Will Not Forget these Stories

2009-04-28T10:55:00.000-07:00

My professor friend and I arrive first in the classroom on this particular morning. She engages many of her students as they shuffle into her World Religions course at a local community college. At one point five beautiful Muslim girls come in together--heads covered with lovely scarves, chattering away to each other and to their professor. The rapport is a delight to watch. Others come, too. Old, young, delightfully colorful characters, all.

I have come to class as storyteller. A few props: an old-looking vase of ointment (which prompts a funny conversation after class on how long it takes to convert vaseline to a liquid state), a chess board with a few key pieces, a shawl and a large, wooden-looking jar. And me--dressed in black, because I, too, am a prop. The stories are about someone else.

And so my assigned topic: tell stories of Jesus' interaction with women in the Gospels. The woman who comes utterly undone at Simon's house as she encounters Jesus' lavishly forgiving love. Jesus' unique exchanges with controlling Martha and comfortable Mary whose friendship with their Lord changes them forever. An isolated woman who bears a large water jar to a well at the height of desert heat but forgets to take it home, and an invisible woman who is desperate enough to risk it all on one touch...and gets far more than she could have asked or imagined.

The details come bobbing to the surface at the right moments. They are the stories that form "Confidence," and in the re-telling, I find myself again strengthened by Jesus' life-changing touch of each life.

The room is quiet for over an hour--that lovely, full quiet of an audience that is with you--not challenging, not analyzing. They have come inside with me--because that's what a real story invites us to do. And I can think of no stories more inviting than Jesus' unique, healing interaction with women in a culture so different, with needs so familiar.

We chat for a few minutes at the end--because we all need a bit of time to come back to World Religion class at the local community college. We have been in a different world and, simultaneously, too deep in our own worlds for words, and so we all take a breath, and then they leave for their next class. One of the Muslim girls pauses on the way out the door and looks me in the eye. "Thank you. I will not forget these stories."

And I am humbled. How complicated I often make speaking of faith in Christ--when what we are all hungry for is the extraordinary Jesus who is at the heart of all the best stories.

A Few Threads of Wisdom

2009-04-28T07:02:00.000-07:00

Last month I had tea with a young woman who was in the small group I describe in "Wisdom." As we talked she pulled out a tattered piece of paper, folded so many times it was falling apart. And she said, "Remember this? I was out of the country, disillusioned because the thing I thought I was supposed to be doing wasn't happening, and I wrote to you. This was your response: I've carried for months, and sent it on to many others."

I had forgotten the email. As I re-read it, I found myself smiling inside. It was obviously one of those moments where the Lord handed me many of the threads of wisdom I've gained over the last couple of decades and wove them into a few sentences for the sake of my lonely friend on the other side of the globe. Since I personally needed to remember them again, I got her permission to pass them on:

Oh, friend, you are on such a pilgrimage. And I wonder if, at the heart of it, isn't an invitation to take another step in understanding how God works. I wonder if He isn't far more interested in forming your character for the long haul than in giving you the particular scenario you so desire. [Your specific vision] is, say, silver. Cultivating the humility to do whatever He opens up is, well, gold.

As you describe the [uninspiring opportunity before you], it does sound like the Lord's provision for you being able to be in ____. And I completely get how frustrating it would be to be there and not be doing what you came for. But I wonder if you are looking for straight lines when God seems to work much more frequently in crooked ones.

Here's a prayer that I have learned to pray over the years. "Lord, please keep me here as long as you can accomplish your will in me and through me. And when this season is over, please make it clear that you have released me."

At the same time, do continue to lift up the desires of your heart to the Lord. Yet I'm struck at how hard you are working to make those desires happen. And what you continually seem to be getting are fistfuls of sand...I recognize the dynamic from my own life.

What would happen if you stopped reaching, (not just physically, but with your heart) and waited for Lord to open a solid door--or not, as He chooses?... Sometimes we passionate souls look for all or nothing and miss the everyday opportunity right in front of us.

I'm grateful to my young friend for handing back to me these threads of truth. May they be an encouragement to others as we learn to walk in the way of wisdom.

A Prayer In the Waiting

2009-04-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

Last night I was attempting to fall asleep to music created for that purpose, when I was suddenly conscious of these words bounding in my head: "Wait for the Lord, keep watch, take heart." The words quickly found their own mysterious pathway to my heart, and I lay there for quite some time, pondering this central, grace-filled posture of a rightly directed Christian soul. I had again fallen into a moment when "the circumstances I see had become all the reality I recognize," and, like Peter, I was sinking again. ("Songs of Assent,"Simplicity, 46)

Waiting is a major theme in Songs of Assent. I return to it frequently throughout the book, but this morning I find myself grateful for a particular prayer that welled up in my heart one day last fall and stays put on the page, even when my own wandering heart must return and rest inside its truth yet again.

"Lord Jesus, please come in. You are so welcome here. You are the one who has made possible the transformation of our dust into fertile soil. Your Spirit dwells within. Your Father owns the land. Thank you for what is coming up that we can see. Thank you for what has been planted that we will not see for years. Truly blessed are we as we receive the grace to believe that you will plant your seed, protect its growth and bear your own beautiful fruit in our lives." ("Songs of Assent, " Receptivity, p. 65)

Wait for the Lord. Keep Watch. Take Heart.

A Tale of Two Sisters

2009-04-20T17:07:00.000-07:00

There were many hidden joys in writing Songs of Assent, but perhaps none of them more fulfilling than working on the text while my youngest sister, Pamela Keske, drew five "folk icons" for the book.

Simplicity was always there. I don't even remember when she appeared. I think Pam drew her well over a year before I eventually wrote the chapter that went with her. In this case, the picture helped me articulate the themes in the chapter.

Receptivity began as a quick cheap marker expression of beauty on a Women in the Kingdom retreat with undergrad women. Initially she was a much younger woman with flowing green hair and solid root systems--and then morphed into the intriguingly organic expression of fruitfulness in Christ that she has become.

Then there was the long conversation about how best to express Lady Wisdom and her home, which included my fifteen-year old niece trying on "Mother of the Bride" gowns at a couple of obliging bridal stores, and bending over trays. Thanks, Allyse!

The day came when Pam and I stood in front of my fireplace with two sets of hands gripping the brick as we began again to conceptualize Confidence... long after Pam had drawn a polished, but completely different, version. The chapter had taken on a life of its own and the drawing had to stand courageously but vulnerably at the edge of an unpredictable tunnel to keep pace with the words.

And Buoyancy? Let's just say I'm glad I was on the other side of the phone when Pam realized she not only had to tackle wind and waves, but that I wanted the perspective from inside the boat, and, oh, by the way, I would like a few really good ropes hanging around, too, if she wouldn't mind. (Pam reminds me that I also thought I wanted a second boat in the picture...until I saw it drawn in all its fully-furled glory. Nope. I guess I don't like the second boat.) Fortunately, this was the last drawing, and we'd both learned some things about the creative process along the way.

In the end, the "folk icons" took as much prayer and waiting as the book. Some thoughts came easily, others slowly...but we learned to wait--for God, for each other, for the ideas and for the way to express them in lines of text and ink.

My cover designer later confessed that, when I wrote my initial request for her assistance and mentioned that my sister was the artist, I had just played into a graphic designer's worst nightmare..."Oh, my husband drew the design I want for the book cover on a napkin over dinner last night." But not this time. This time it was God's great gift of joy to two sisters on a long journey who, together--at least for one timeless moment--have received a mutual gift of abounding grace.

This morning I read a Psalm that expresses our shared experience of publishing Songs of Assent: "Those who sow in tears, shall reap with shouts of joy!" (Psalm 126:5) We offer this book in this Spirit, and pray that those who ponder these great realities with us will also receive the Lord's great gift of joy.