It is Wednesday of Holy Week, and I find myself looking back at Lent in preparation to walk forward into the most ancient and Holiest days of the Christian calendar. Although I prefer Advent to Lent, and Christmas to Easter (the incarnation has such power for me), who can resist a love story that brings life out of death!
Lent this year was not what I expected. I had clear expectations and plans for how things would evolve, and those were quickly up-ended. But instead of getting the Lent I expected, I got the Lent my heart and soul needed. In the process, some things I thought were very important to me (both vocationally and personally) were stripped away under the searing heat of the Lenten desert sun. But this bright light and the uncompromising view it provides allowed me see great beauty in my midst that I had missed - overlooked - minimized. Expectations can blind us from the truth in our midst. What a gift to have those blinders ripped away - painful though that process is.
I was left with a sense of awe as I saw the beauty around me - the immeasurable intangibles that were covered with God's fingerprints, and held the scent of God's fragrance. It was here that I found the invitation to grow more deeply in service of cultivating these immeasurable intangibles - in service of the realm of God, whose values share very little with what society deems important or successful.
As I prepare to walk through the next few days into a different kind of light - the light of Easter morning - I confess some fear and trepidation. Life-time patterns, be they vocational or personal, are difficult to shift. Can I trust that change is possible - that I can release to death and dissolution that which needs to die, and trust that this embryonic new life will be nurtured into full flower? Can I resist the temptation to cling to the familiar and stand with open hands and hearts in God's garden?
No promises - and probably an epic number of stumbles along the way - but the tomb of expectations and past patterns is not my home. God is rolling the stone away - and the garden awaits.
What do you need to release - need to let die - in order to be free to enter the garden? What entombs you? Are you tired of trying to push the stone away? Can you trust God to move the stone?
Walking the journey from desert to garden,
Kim
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Friday, January 30, 2015
Common Threads
We cannot know whether we love God although there may be
strong reason for thinking so, but there can be no doubt about
whether we love our neighbor or not. Be sure that, in proportion
as you advance in affection for sisters and brothers, you are
increasing your love of God. - Teresa of Avila
Love within the faith community has very much been on my mind during these cold, damp, foggy days of winter. The "Add the Words" campaign caused me to reflect on how Christians respond to each other here in Boise, and this period of transition in my congregation has invited me consider the role that love for one another plays in encouraging congregational engagement.
On both counts, I have more questions than answers.
The Idaho State Affairs Committee finally agreed to have a hearing on a bill that would add the words "sexual orientation and gender identity" to the Idaho Human Rights Act - and if passed, give important protection to members of the lgbtq community. This hearing has been nine years in the making, and gave people on both sides of the issue an opportunity to testify regarding their views on adding this protection to the Human Rights Act.
The testimony brought the sharp divide within the Christian community in Idaho into clear focus. Individuals who expressed their love of God through a literal interpretation of single verses of the Bible and a desire to defend God (and the Bible) in an almost aggressive/warrior way shared the same auditorium with other individuals who expressed their love of God through a desire to defend those who had been abused and marginalized not only by government and society, but often by other churches. Both sides were equally passionate, but that passion was expressed in two different directions - one side created walls behind which their God and their ideals (and way of life) could be protected, and the other side sought to bring down walls and create a more inclusive, tolerant, and respectful community.
I am hardly an objective observer of this process, as I strongly support the Add the Words movement and lead a progressive Christian Church within a denomination that proudly seeks to be open and affirming. But as a contemplative, I spend a good part of my time seeking the common threads that God is weaving through our spiritual journeys. Where will we find the common threads in such a divided and divisive situation? What do those who want to protect and defend God and their way of life share in common with those who have a more open and inclusive view of God and the faith community? How can two groups who want to do what is right and best, and be faithful to their God, reach such fundamentally different conclusions?
Is there any common ground - any common threads? And if not, what does that say for the amputated and amputating Body of Christ?
What would it be like if members of the Body of Christ who held such different views were to commit to sitting together in a room for 30 minutes each week for silent prayer, and would make a commitment to pray for each other. After a time, what would it be like if that 30 minutes included a time for gentle sharing? Would those gathered find common ground - common threads of experience with which they could weave a different outcome? Or are we destined to separate into groups of people who share similar beliefs, opinions and viewpoints?
I also ponder this question as I watch our mainline denominational churches deal with our "post-modern" world, and our need to change/adapt to this new reality, or perish. In recent history the emergent/emerging church movement has invited us to the edge of what is possible, creating a discussion that often pits those who want to celebrate/preserve the traditional/familiar with those who want to embrace change. My congregation is no exception to this discussion, as we try to discern how to be faithful to our heritage while being vital/relevant in 2015. The old ways/structures do not work so well anymore, and reality strongly invites us to change/evolve, or risk eventual death. Like many other congregations, we are in a time of transition.
None of this surprises me - it is the reality of our time. What does trouble me, however - and in no small proportion - is the acceptance I see in our mainline churches of consumer Christianity. "I want what I want when I want it, and if I cannot have it, I will go elsewhere to get my needs met."
When did the mantra for the Body of Christ become "my way or the highway?" How in the world did we get to a place where it is "all about me?"
We have lost something precious in our post-modern church life: We have lost the reality that we come to church to serve God and one another. We come to worship to open our hearts, minds and lives to something greater than ourselves - God and our sisters and brothers, and the world that surrounds us. We are not the center of the experience. And the gratification of our personal needs cannot and must not be the sole criteria by which we determine our participation in our faith community. As uncomfortable as that is to contemplate, church really needs to stop being an exercise in spiritual consumerism, and more an exercise in service.
I want to propose a new series of responses for faithful Christians who want a thriving, growing church community that is inclusive and diverse:
Instead of saying "I hate it when we have "X" in worship, and if this continues, I will worship elsewhere" - try saying - "I did not like that we had "X" in worship today, but I noticed that others were touched by it, so I offered thanks that their needs were being met." Notice the shift in emphasis - you may not personally like "X," but you can be thankful that it touched other hearts and lives. Such a simple shift takes us from consumer church to the Body of Christ. And in a congregation that actively seeks to have inclusive and diverse experiences in worship and community life, it means that everyone can guarantee that they will regularly experience things they love, hate, and feel pretty neutral towards. The key is to remember that what you love is something that someone else (maybe someone sitting right next to you) might hate, and their choice to be gracious instead of angry and self absorbed will enhance the experience for all.
Of course we can avoid all this compromise and the discomfort of having to accommodate aspects of community life that we do not like by dividing into smaller and smaller affinity groups - a danger, I fear, in some thinking within the emergent church movement. It may be comforting and comfortable to only be around people who like what I like and want to do what I want to do, but the church would be diminished by such homogenization. Diversity is one of our greatest strengths. We learn so much from the different experiences of one another, and we lose many of our rough edges by being sandpaper for one another! And community is a great place to learn the subtle distinctions among the concepts of self-aware, self-care, self-less and self-ish.
Perhaps those of us who are committed to embodying a faith expressed by our open, inclusive still-speaking God of love and justice, can use our life in the local Body of Christ as a way to deepen our ability to find those common threads of understanding, respect, tolerance and experience with our sisters and brothers who love what we hate (and vice versa). As we learn this skill and develop the maturity that comes through practicing it, maybe we will be able to apply it within the wildly diverse group of people who call themselves Christian, and then to the even greater diversity found within community of people of faith.
May we seek to find those common threads, and may Teresa and Los Tejedor guide us on our journey.
With love and hope, even in the fog,
Kim
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Synchrodipity, Part 2
Advent is my favorite spiritual season. The long nights and short days mean morning and evening prayer is done by candlelight - Advent wreath candlelight. I began praying before an Advent wreath forty years ago, and look forward to it every year. I am never disappointed. Each time I light the candle and hear the ancient Celtic words "As I light this flame I lay myself before Thee," I settle into a reality that is beyond time - sacred, mysterious, kairotic time. A reality that is saturated with grace and takes the experiences of synchronicity and serendipity and weaves them into what I call synchrodipity - the unexplainable, implausible experience of finding exactly what you didn't know you were looking for, when you least expected it. Like if you suddenly come upon the dazzling and exquisite pearl of great price, when you were actually just looking for a parking space. Unexpected. Unexplainable. Unbelievable, and powerful enough to reorient those who encounter it - and are open to it. Grace can be like that.
I have been living on grace these past few months, but especially since the middle of November. God bless the French (and the Eastern Orthodox), who liken the season of Advent to the forty day season of Lent, and thus begin it in mid-November (as opposed to those who worship at the altar of consumerism, and begin observing the Christmas season before Halloween). I have a devotional written by a French monk that starts the Advent journey on the fifteenth of November. How pleased I was to start my Advent reading on that day (even though my Advent wreath was not lit until the eve of the First Sunday of Advent - some habits are hard to break). The discipline of sitting morning and evening in Advent meditation has sustained me and opened me to grace in ways I never felt possible...
...grace like honey dripping from the honeycomb that satisfies and soothes - grace that gently melts away all the defenses that keep the emerging shoot of truth and reality buried and near dormant. Grace that heals and gives life. And that feels good.
And it feels good to feel good. This has been a hard year - a pain-filled year. A year of change and loss, trauma and rebirth. As I move through my congregation, I experience, in a limited way, the pain, change, trauma and loss so many people are experiencing right now. I see individuals shoulder realities that could crush a person without a second thought.
I watch the evening news and see the wars and rumors of wars throughout the world, not to mention the intense pain and trauma in our own country, as people take to the street and express rage over injustice and call our nation to behave as though "Black lives matter." The raw pain - this open wound so bound up in the history of our nation - where is the healing balm that can cause this open wound to truly heal?
As I ask these questions, my mind and heart turn back again to grace - that gift that comes from the very heart of God. That healing balm that has the ability to first abrade the wound so it can heal - cleaning away all the artifice and death and defenses (such as denial, displacement and rationalization) so that the emerging shoot of truth and reality can receive light and air - and live. And thrive. It is grace that heals and grace that sustains. But here is the kicker: we cannot create grace or merit it - we can only open our hearts to it and channel that gift into our world.
So the question is this: How can we become more open and receptive to grace, so it can transform us and spill out from us into our world?
Tonight I will sit in the dark and light the first and second Advent candles - "As I light this flame, I lay myself before Thee." I will do a little reading, and then I will sit. I will look back over my day, and try to identify moments of grace. And as I remember one, another will come to mind - until I am amazed by God's generosity. I will say prayers of intercession. And then, in the stillness of the Holy Darkness, I will open my hands and say "yes" to God and "yes" to grace - and trust Spirit to do the rest. The only things I can control are whether or not I show up, and the intention I bring to the experience. That is my part of our relatioship - to be present, receptive, and real. God takes things from there.
I have learned to do this in this way because this is who I am - this is me - and this is me in relationship with God. It has taken me decades to accept who I am, and to let grace heal me from the need to be who others thought I should be. What a gift it was to finally know, deep in my soul, that God longed for me to be myself - and accept myself - and say yes to God's gift of grace (and all it brings).
So that is me - now how about you? How do you experience grace in your life? What does being present, receptive and real look like for you as you experience your relationship with God? And how does this help you to be part of the transformational work of God's realm?
With love and Advent blessings,
Kim
I have been living on grace these past few months, but especially since the middle of November. God bless the French (and the Eastern Orthodox), who liken the season of Advent to the forty day season of Lent, and thus begin it in mid-November (as opposed to those who worship at the altar of consumerism, and begin observing the Christmas season before Halloween). I have a devotional written by a French monk that starts the Advent journey on the fifteenth of November. How pleased I was to start my Advent reading on that day (even though my Advent wreath was not lit until the eve of the First Sunday of Advent - some habits are hard to break). The discipline of sitting morning and evening in Advent meditation has sustained me and opened me to grace in ways I never felt possible...
...grace like honey dripping from the honeycomb that satisfies and soothes - grace that gently melts away all the defenses that keep the emerging shoot of truth and reality buried and near dormant. Grace that heals and gives life. And that feels good.
And it feels good to feel good. This has been a hard year - a pain-filled year. A year of change and loss, trauma and rebirth. As I move through my congregation, I experience, in a limited way, the pain, change, trauma and loss so many people are experiencing right now. I see individuals shoulder realities that could crush a person without a second thought.
I watch the evening news and see the wars and rumors of wars throughout the world, not to mention the intense pain and trauma in our own country, as people take to the street and express rage over injustice and call our nation to behave as though "Black lives matter." The raw pain - this open wound so bound up in the history of our nation - where is the healing balm that can cause this open wound to truly heal?
As I ask these questions, my mind and heart turn back again to grace - that gift that comes from the very heart of God. That healing balm that has the ability to first abrade the wound so it can heal - cleaning away all the artifice and death and defenses (such as denial, displacement and rationalization) so that the emerging shoot of truth and reality can receive light and air - and live. And thrive. It is grace that heals and grace that sustains. But here is the kicker: we cannot create grace or merit it - we can only open our hearts to it and channel that gift into our world.
So the question is this: How can we become more open and receptive to grace, so it can transform us and spill out from us into our world?
Tonight I will sit in the dark and light the first and second Advent candles - "As I light this flame, I lay myself before Thee." I will do a little reading, and then I will sit. I will look back over my day, and try to identify moments of grace. And as I remember one, another will come to mind - until I am amazed by God's generosity. I will say prayers of intercession. And then, in the stillness of the Holy Darkness, I will open my hands and say "yes" to God and "yes" to grace - and trust Spirit to do the rest. The only things I can control are whether or not I show up, and the intention I bring to the experience. That is my part of our relatioship - to be present, receptive, and real. God takes things from there.
I have learned to do this in this way because this is who I am - this is me - and this is me in relationship with God. It has taken me decades to accept who I am, and to let grace heal me from the need to be who others thought I should be. What a gift it was to finally know, deep in my soul, that God longed for me to be myself - and accept myself - and say yes to God's gift of grace (and all it brings).
So that is me - now how about you? How do you experience grace in your life? What does being present, receptive and real look like for you as you experience your relationship with God? And how does this help you to be part of the transformational work of God's realm?
With love and Advent blessings,
Kim
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Ending Arboreal Extrications - or - Synchrodipity, Part 1
Late one evening a few weeks ago, I shifted some books to get to the volume they were hiding - Melody Beattie's "More Language of Letting Go." This is one of my favorite devotionals, and I like to read the daily entry before I go to sleep. On this particular night, I read about an experience Melody had when learning to skydive. The landing area they were using had only one tree, and so given the size of the area, it should be easy to miss the tree. But Melody noticed during this skydive that as she got closer and closer to the landing area, she could not take her eyes off the tree...until lo it came to pass that she went straight into the tree! A more experienced jumper explained to her that "you'll always go to where you look. Look at something long enough to be aware of the potential for trouble, but don't fixate on the object. If you don't want to land on top of something, quit staring at it so hard."
Click. I could feel the gears of awareness meshing in my soul - "you'll always go where you look...if you don't want to land on top of something, quit staring at it so hard."
How easy it is to focus on problems and challenges with an intensity that causes us to land on top of them. Perhaps a better strategy is to look long enough to be aware of the potential trouble, and then to shift focus to where we want to land. It sure sounds worth a try - I, for one, am tired of the all the cuts and bruises gained by my arboreal extrications.
I felt a deep sense of peace as this new/old teaching seeped into my bones. Old dog, new tricks...nice. Then I noticed that one of the books I moved to get to Melody's devotional was Peck's "The Road Less Traveled." I felt drawn to take it off the book shelf several months ago, (which was odd, given the fact that the last time I read it was back in the '80s). I now had a sense that it was time to read it again, so over the next week I made it through Part One (it was ok), and Part Two (better, but still a mystery as to why I was reading it now). I finished Part Three wondering if I had totally misheard the invitation to read this book, but then I got to Part Four, and knew exactly where I was called to fix my gaze...(to be continued...)...
Where is the focus of your attention? Do you keep hitting the tree (again and again), or are you landing safely in the place you heart is leading you to? Notice where you fix your gaze - and adjust accordingly.
Practicing safe landings,
Kim
Click. I could feel the gears of awareness meshing in my soul - "you'll always go where you look...if you don't want to land on top of something, quit staring at it so hard."
How easy it is to focus on problems and challenges with an intensity that causes us to land on top of them. Perhaps a better strategy is to look long enough to be aware of the potential trouble, and then to shift focus to where we want to land. It sure sounds worth a try - I, for one, am tired of the all the cuts and bruises gained by my arboreal extrications.
I felt a deep sense of peace as this new/old teaching seeped into my bones. Old dog, new tricks...nice. Then I noticed that one of the books I moved to get to Melody's devotional was Peck's "The Road Less Traveled." I felt drawn to take it off the book shelf several months ago, (which was odd, given the fact that the last time I read it was back in the '80s). I now had a sense that it was time to read it again, so over the next week I made it through Part One (it was ok), and Part Two (better, but still a mystery as to why I was reading it now). I finished Part Three wondering if I had totally misheard the invitation to read this book, but then I got to Part Four, and knew exactly where I was called to fix my gaze...(to be continued...)...
Where is the focus of your attention? Do you keep hitting the tree (again and again), or are you landing safely in the place you heart is leading you to? Notice where you fix your gaze - and adjust accordingly.
Practicing safe landings,
Kim
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Life-Savers that Kept Me from Drowning
The aftermath of this morning's thunder storm brought sheer bliss to the birds living around Boise First. With puddles of water pooling near the curbs, Woodlawn Avenue had its own spurdie waterpark! I sat for many minutes enjoying the scene - birds of all different "denominations" playfully popping in and out of the puddles. No time to fight for territory when blessed with a late summer shower! Appreciation for blessings seems to make it easier to get along, whether your two legs come with feathers and wings, or skin, clothes, and walking shoes!
It feels good to be back to work. I am still in the "easing in" stage - meaning my best intentions still sometimes get short-circuited by energy fade. The technology I regularly bash enables me to work flexibly, and prayer works wherever I am. I have enjoyed reconnecting pastorally - that is what drew me into ministry, and is a significant part of who I am. Connecting one person - one family at a time...that feels good.
And it is good to feel good. Pain levels are now discomfort levels, and aside from the cough that will be my companion for awhile longer, life is slowly settling into a new normal that is acceptable (as opposed to terrifying). Exploring this new normal is a daily event - one step at a time. It also gives me a safe place from which to reflect on my recent experience...
...and it was a really awful experience. But that was not the total reality - there were also incredible moments of grace and life - times where I felt God's presence so vividly that I could feel myself being held - being supported - by God. I have enough distance now that I can start asking some important questions: What made a difference? What helped? In the midst of crisis/trauma, what made the situation bearable, and opened up space for grace, healing and transformation?
Upon reflection, these components made a great difference for me:
1. My prayer/meditation practice: Taking time in the morning and evening to sit and meditate/pray - to be still and open to God's presence - has sometimes felt very inconvenient, especially during busy times when I had important things that needed to get done (with no disrespect to God). But doing this again and again, day after day and year after year, left me familiar with the journey into the heart of God, and sensitive to signs of God's presence. The middle of a crisis is not the time to try to learn these things - it is better to have them in place before life explodes. In the midst of this turmoil, I would find myself deep in prayer without consciously choosing to pray. I would experience myself in that peaceful place that occasionally is found during meditation, having somehow followed the spiritual breadcrumbs that led me there. And I could quickly see signs of God's movement and presence - all of which gave me great comfort and hope. The experience was more than and better than just routine and "muscle memory" - it was as if a part of my being, totally untouched by pain, morphine, or fear, just knew where to go, what to do, and how to keep me in the boat. I would hear my soul silently singing a prayer song from January Intensive at SFTS: "Peace, be still...peace, be still. The storm rages - peace, be still." In those frightful times, hearing that inner song would remind/invite me to go down into the boat and hunker down next to the sleeping Jesus - and rest.
Not only does a prayer/meditation practice deepen one's experience of God on a day to day basis, it is a life saver when the storms come. I found myself thankful for every previous moment I had sat in prayerful meditation - every second spent watching and noticing God's movement in the world. It all helped keep my head above water.
Another benefit a meditation/prayer practice provides is it teaches us to sit with uncomfortable emotions without racing off to fix/cover/deny them. So much pain is created by covering or fleeing from unpleasant emotions! By learning to sit with them, one discovers that the emotions, in time, will pass, and can offer us the opportunity for insight. Physical illness brings a host of emotions, and often keeps you from using the strategies that normally manage/cover those emotions (try as you might, you just can't do what you did before). As feelings would arise, I would treat them like clouds in the sky (or leaves floating on the river), and watch them float by, knowing that they would pass, and listen to see if they invited a new insight (at least I tried to do this some of the time, and when I did, it was very helpful).
2. "God With Skin On:" The presence of calm, loving, supportive people also helped to save my life during the crisis. People who felt secure enough to just let things be as messy as they were (especially the emotions) without trying to fix, explain or "pretty things up" were truly "God With Skin On (to use Anne Robertson's phrase). These people also knew when to let the mess be, and when to offer help in bringing order to chaos. Whether it was simply by gently sitting with me, fixing a meal, taking out the trash, or reassuring me that this may be my experience today, but my experience next week (or month) might be very different - in all these ways and more, God upheld me through the presence of others.
3. Time: I thought of using the word "patience," but when I was in the midst of the experience, that word was extremely unattractive to me. But the word time made sense - healing would take time - feeling "normal" again would take time - having a sense of meaning and purpose again would take time - knowing what was going to happen next would take time. This notion of time became a reality that was like being in a boat on the river, with the currents and experience of the river varying with circumstances, and almost completely outside of my control. This new experience of time meant that I would never look at life and plans and schedules and expectations as I had in the past . Things were happening "in their own time" - in "God's time - and I would hear the prayer song from chapel: "Your way, your time, your will, not mine, Sweet Light, not mine." I acutely experienced the fluidity of time - and how, for the most part, we really do not manage it - despite what we might tell ourselves.
I am just now going back to my formal prayer/meditation practice. It required significant modification during my initial recovery (which wasn't a bad thing). Now I feel ready to resume my intentional participation in this important rhythm of my life - morning and evenings - "bookending" my day. Time to float in the river - sometimes in the boat, and sometimes (now that I feel stronger) I can let myself out of the boat so I can float in the water. In my encounters with others, I actively look for the opportunity to bring the kind of presence that was so helpful to me - opening up space for Spirit to work to help me be "God with skin on." And as for time - well, it flashes past like a shooting star, and slowly rolls along like a river of syrup. I love its many manifestations, and have lost the urge to tame it. It takes as long as it takes.
Life - learning - healing - growth - it takes as long as it takes. Amen.
What songs does your heart sing when you are afraid? What invitations does it offer? When you feel lost, where do the bread crumbs lead you? When life explodes, what is your lifeline? These are questions best answered on a peaceful, sunny day, when the waters are calm and no storms are on the horizon. In a crisis, God does most of the heavy lifting. But when there are small things we can do that help, it is good to do them. Now. Before the storm.
Floating along,
Kim
It feels good to be back to work. I am still in the "easing in" stage - meaning my best intentions still sometimes get short-circuited by energy fade. The technology I regularly bash enables me to work flexibly, and prayer works wherever I am. I have enjoyed reconnecting pastorally - that is what drew me into ministry, and is a significant part of who I am. Connecting one person - one family at a time...that feels good.
And it is good to feel good. Pain levels are now discomfort levels, and aside from the cough that will be my companion for awhile longer, life is slowly settling into a new normal that is acceptable (as opposed to terrifying). Exploring this new normal is a daily event - one step at a time. It also gives me a safe place from which to reflect on my recent experience...
...and it was a really awful experience. But that was not the total reality - there were also incredible moments of grace and life - times where I felt God's presence so vividly that I could feel myself being held - being supported - by God. I have enough distance now that I can start asking some important questions: What made a difference? What helped? In the midst of crisis/trauma, what made the situation bearable, and opened up space for grace, healing and transformation?
Upon reflection, these components made a great difference for me:
1. My prayer/meditation practice: Taking time in the morning and evening to sit and meditate/pray - to be still and open to God's presence - has sometimes felt very inconvenient, especially during busy times when I had important things that needed to get done (with no disrespect to God). But doing this again and again, day after day and year after year, left me familiar with the journey into the heart of God, and sensitive to signs of God's presence. The middle of a crisis is not the time to try to learn these things - it is better to have them in place before life explodes. In the midst of this turmoil, I would find myself deep in prayer without consciously choosing to pray. I would experience myself in that peaceful place that occasionally is found during meditation, having somehow followed the spiritual breadcrumbs that led me there. And I could quickly see signs of God's movement and presence - all of which gave me great comfort and hope. The experience was more than and better than just routine and "muscle memory" - it was as if a part of my being, totally untouched by pain, morphine, or fear, just knew where to go, what to do, and how to keep me in the boat. I would hear my soul silently singing a prayer song from January Intensive at SFTS: "Peace, be still...peace, be still. The storm rages - peace, be still." In those frightful times, hearing that inner song would remind/invite me to go down into the boat and hunker down next to the sleeping Jesus - and rest.
Not only does a prayer/meditation practice deepen one's experience of God on a day to day basis, it is a life saver when the storms come. I found myself thankful for every previous moment I had sat in prayerful meditation - every second spent watching and noticing God's movement in the world. It all helped keep my head above water.
Another benefit a meditation/prayer practice provides is it teaches us to sit with uncomfortable emotions without racing off to fix/cover/deny them. So much pain is created by covering or fleeing from unpleasant emotions! By learning to sit with them, one discovers that the emotions, in time, will pass, and can offer us the opportunity for insight. Physical illness brings a host of emotions, and often keeps you from using the strategies that normally manage/cover those emotions (try as you might, you just can't do what you did before). As feelings would arise, I would treat them like clouds in the sky (or leaves floating on the river), and watch them float by, knowing that they would pass, and listen to see if they invited a new insight (at least I tried to do this some of the time, and when I did, it was very helpful).
2. "God With Skin On:" The presence of calm, loving, supportive people also helped to save my life during the crisis. People who felt secure enough to just let things be as messy as they were (especially the emotions) without trying to fix, explain or "pretty things up" were truly "God With Skin On (to use Anne Robertson's phrase). These people also knew when to let the mess be, and when to offer help in bringing order to chaos. Whether it was simply by gently sitting with me, fixing a meal, taking out the trash, or reassuring me that this may be my experience today, but my experience next week (or month) might be very different - in all these ways and more, God upheld me through the presence of others.
3. Time: I thought of using the word "patience," but when I was in the midst of the experience, that word was extremely unattractive to me. But the word time made sense - healing would take time - feeling "normal" again would take time - having a sense of meaning and purpose again would take time - knowing what was going to happen next would take time. This notion of time became a reality that was like being in a boat on the river, with the currents and experience of the river varying with circumstances, and almost completely outside of my control. This new experience of time meant that I would never look at life and plans and schedules and expectations as I had in the past . Things were happening "in their own time" - in "God's time - and I would hear the prayer song from chapel: "Your way, your time, your will, not mine, Sweet Light, not mine." I acutely experienced the fluidity of time - and how, for the most part, we really do not manage it - despite what we might tell ourselves.
I am just now going back to my formal prayer/meditation practice. It required significant modification during my initial recovery (which wasn't a bad thing). Now I feel ready to resume my intentional participation in this important rhythm of my life - morning and evenings - "bookending" my day. Time to float in the river - sometimes in the boat, and sometimes (now that I feel stronger) I can let myself out of the boat so I can float in the water. In my encounters with others, I actively look for the opportunity to bring the kind of presence that was so helpful to me - opening up space for Spirit to work to help me be "God with skin on." And as for time - well, it flashes past like a shooting star, and slowly rolls along like a river of syrup. I love its many manifestations, and have lost the urge to tame it. It takes as long as it takes.
Life - learning - healing - growth - it takes as long as it takes. Amen.
What songs does your heart sing when you are afraid? What invitations does it offer? When you feel lost, where do the bread crumbs lead you? When life explodes, what is your lifeline? These are questions best answered on a peaceful, sunny day, when the waters are calm and no storms are on the horizon. In a crisis, God does most of the heavy lifting. But when there are small things we can do that help, it is good to do them. Now. Before the storm.
Floating along,
Kim
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Minding the Gap
It has been forty-one days since my last blog post. Thirty-nine days since I tore my abdominal wall during a fit of coughing. Surgery was thirty-six days ago, was complicated, and lasted for over four hours. I stayed in the hospital for nine days, coming home twenty-eight days ago. I was so depleted that I could barely remember my name. I came home to a not unexpected family transition, and ten days later (eighteen days ago) my personal life changed dramatically. I have large gaps in my memory about many of the events of the past thirty-nine days. But as my brain processes in narrative, I have been living it through metaphors.
Soon after waking up from surgery, I remember feeling as if I had been in some type of explosion - some kind of concussive shock. I couldn't move - it hurt to breathe - it hurt to be - it felt surreal - I was sure I could smell the smoke. I was lying face down and twisted some place just outside the blast zone. I could not scream for help, and did not know if anyone would come to help me. I could pray (help!) and use the Buddhist technique of tonglen to send energy to all persons who were living through a literal or figurative bomb blast. My brain was too scrambled for eloquent verse - help and peace was all that would come to mind. I would pray, and accept every moment of kindness and compassion that was offered to me.
A few days later I was moving and much more aware of being in my body (thank you, pain). When the morphine would help me to relax and close my eyes, I found myself transported to that valley filled with dry bones that Ezekiel observed. But this time I was not surveying the scene - I was face down in the valley. Dry. Parched. Dismembered. Feeling lifeless. "The hand of The Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley; and they were very dry. He said to me, 'Mortal, can these bones live?' I answered, 'O Lord God, you know.'"(Ezekiel 37:1-3). Each time I would close my eyes I would be back in that valley, wondering if these bones could live, and thankful for the ministering angels who would visit and reassure me that there was life on the other side of this experience. These bones would live, even if they felt lifeless.
By the time I came home I was in that awkward place of not really being well enough to be home, but having stayed in the hospital as long as my insurance would permit. I felt horribly overwhelmed and inadequate for the tasks at hand, even the simplest of tasks. I kept reminding myself that in the story of the dry bones it was God who pulled them back together and gave them life, and that my job was to trust and follow my care plan. But progress was so slow and I wanted things to move more quickly - and there was no way for me to make that happen.
So I left the valley of dry bones and instead found myself in a deep pit with steep walls - arriving there after being dropped from a great height without the benefit of a parachute - or anything else to break my fall. For awhile I just laid face down in the dirt, but eventually managed to sit up and survey my circumstances. Steep walls - no ladder - no exit - and when I looked up, I could just see the night sky in the distance with a few shimmering stars. It felt hopeless, and I again felt helpless. And I understood that I could give up in this place - it was just too hard to keep going. I felt there was no hope for climbing out. In my moment of despair, a friend reminded me that she, too, had been to that pit, and that the way out was not by the sheer force of climbing up the walls - instead, in time, the pit will open and I will be able to walk out. "God makes the way," she said. I was skeptical (and kept looking for a ladder).
But in time, the pit opened and I walked out onto level ground. I was in a valley - not of dry bones, but of green fields and trees. I still had a long way to go, but I was surrounded by life. And I was beginning to feel alive again.
It has been four days since the pit opened up and I walked out into the valley. Life is still difficult, with many challenges to face. But when I stop and rest, and reflect back on this journey, my heart fills with gratitude for the way in which I was sustained and encouraged - especially in those moments when it felt too difficult to even go on. When the only prayer I could pray was "help" and I felt completely helpless and hopeless, an angel in the guise of a friend, colleague, or family member would be there to speak a word of hope and bring a moment of grace - just enough - to get me through that moment.
Just enough. All along, there has been just enough. Sufficient for the moment, and for the day. Not enough for the next week or month, but just what was needed. Daily bread. Water from the rock.
Enough.
Months ago I realized that part of this phase of my spiritual journey involved deepening my ability to trust God - to know in my bones that God is trustworthy. The past thirty-nine days have given my first-hand experience to test whether or not God can be trusted. And what I know to be true in the depths of my soul is what my Sunday School teachers taught me long ago: God does not spare us from the pain and difficulty of life, but God journeys with us to the very depths of pain and despair and never turns away. And, when we are ready, God leads us forward into life transformed.
Margaret Silf and her wise book "The Other Side of Chaos: Breaking Through When Life is Breaking Down" has been a companion on this journey. In her chapter "Mind the Gap," she invites the reader to ponder a metaphor that was very important to Henri Nouwen:
"Henri Nouwen, inspired by his encounter with the trapeze artists the flying Rodleighs, captures this tension perfectly in the image of the trapeze artist, who has to let go of one bar and risk the flight through the air before coming within reach of the other bar. But the point of the exercise is really about how the trapezist handles the gap. What takes the crowd's breath away is the grace and confidence with which he flies through the air and that open question, every time: once he has let go of one bar, will he really reach the second bar safely? A lesson to be learned from this image, to help us in our life transitions, is this: the space between the no longer and the not yet is an uncomfortable and risky space. We might not reach that second bar safely, especially since we feel as though we don't even know where it is and how stable it will prove to be. But there is no shortcut to the not yet. We can arrive there only via the now. The 'now' is the flight between the two bars. The now is where we really are, with all our doubts and fears. It is the only place in which we can experience and actualize the growth that is inherent in all transition and waiting for us to embrace it. It is our now that is shaping our future, whether personal or global. The now is the only place where we are really empowered to choose our path."
So my wilderness journey has taken me from the explosion to the valley of dry bones to the pit to the green valley and now to mid air (as I have let go of one bar and fly towards the next). I clutched the first bar so tightly that I know I left finger marks on it, and I sure wish I could see the next bar (or the net). But I know God can be trusted, so I will enjoy the flight - and see what awaits me. I hope this journey has made me a more compassionate person, and hopefully a wiser pastor. It has certainly deepened my sense of gratitude, especially for all the ministering angels who helped to sustain me during the darkest moments of the past thirty-nine days. Thank you.
Minding the gap - and grateful to be emerging from the wilderness (one day shy of forty days)!
Kim
Soon after waking up from surgery, I remember feeling as if I had been in some type of explosion - some kind of concussive shock. I couldn't move - it hurt to breathe - it hurt to be - it felt surreal - I was sure I could smell the smoke. I was lying face down and twisted some place just outside the blast zone. I could not scream for help, and did not know if anyone would come to help me. I could pray (help!) and use the Buddhist technique of tonglen to send energy to all persons who were living through a literal or figurative bomb blast. My brain was too scrambled for eloquent verse - help and peace was all that would come to mind. I would pray, and accept every moment of kindness and compassion that was offered to me.
A few days later I was moving and much more aware of being in my body (thank you, pain). When the morphine would help me to relax and close my eyes, I found myself transported to that valley filled with dry bones that Ezekiel observed. But this time I was not surveying the scene - I was face down in the valley. Dry. Parched. Dismembered. Feeling lifeless. "The hand of The Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley; and they were very dry. He said to me, 'Mortal, can these bones live?' I answered, 'O Lord God, you know.'"(Ezekiel 37:1-3). Each time I would close my eyes I would be back in that valley, wondering if these bones could live, and thankful for the ministering angels who would visit and reassure me that there was life on the other side of this experience. These bones would live, even if they felt lifeless.
By the time I came home I was in that awkward place of not really being well enough to be home, but having stayed in the hospital as long as my insurance would permit. I felt horribly overwhelmed and inadequate for the tasks at hand, even the simplest of tasks. I kept reminding myself that in the story of the dry bones it was God who pulled them back together and gave them life, and that my job was to trust and follow my care plan. But progress was so slow and I wanted things to move more quickly - and there was no way for me to make that happen.
So I left the valley of dry bones and instead found myself in a deep pit with steep walls - arriving there after being dropped from a great height without the benefit of a parachute - or anything else to break my fall. For awhile I just laid face down in the dirt, but eventually managed to sit up and survey my circumstances. Steep walls - no ladder - no exit - and when I looked up, I could just see the night sky in the distance with a few shimmering stars. It felt hopeless, and I again felt helpless. And I understood that I could give up in this place - it was just too hard to keep going. I felt there was no hope for climbing out. In my moment of despair, a friend reminded me that she, too, had been to that pit, and that the way out was not by the sheer force of climbing up the walls - instead, in time, the pit will open and I will be able to walk out. "God makes the way," she said. I was skeptical (and kept looking for a ladder).
But in time, the pit opened and I walked out onto level ground. I was in a valley - not of dry bones, but of green fields and trees. I still had a long way to go, but I was surrounded by life. And I was beginning to feel alive again.
It has been four days since the pit opened up and I walked out into the valley. Life is still difficult, with many challenges to face. But when I stop and rest, and reflect back on this journey, my heart fills with gratitude for the way in which I was sustained and encouraged - especially in those moments when it felt too difficult to even go on. When the only prayer I could pray was "help" and I felt completely helpless and hopeless, an angel in the guise of a friend, colleague, or family member would be there to speak a word of hope and bring a moment of grace - just enough - to get me through that moment.
Just enough. All along, there has been just enough. Sufficient for the moment, and for the day. Not enough for the next week or month, but just what was needed. Daily bread. Water from the rock.
Enough.
Months ago I realized that part of this phase of my spiritual journey involved deepening my ability to trust God - to know in my bones that God is trustworthy. The past thirty-nine days have given my first-hand experience to test whether or not God can be trusted. And what I know to be true in the depths of my soul is what my Sunday School teachers taught me long ago: God does not spare us from the pain and difficulty of life, but God journeys with us to the very depths of pain and despair and never turns away. And, when we are ready, God leads us forward into life transformed.
Margaret Silf and her wise book "The Other Side of Chaos: Breaking Through When Life is Breaking Down" has been a companion on this journey. In her chapter "Mind the Gap," she invites the reader to ponder a metaphor that was very important to Henri Nouwen:
"Henri Nouwen, inspired by his encounter with the trapeze artists the flying Rodleighs, captures this tension perfectly in the image of the trapeze artist, who has to let go of one bar and risk the flight through the air before coming within reach of the other bar. But the point of the exercise is really about how the trapezist handles the gap. What takes the crowd's breath away is the grace and confidence with which he flies through the air and that open question, every time: once he has let go of one bar, will he really reach the second bar safely? A lesson to be learned from this image, to help us in our life transitions, is this: the space between the no longer and the not yet is an uncomfortable and risky space. We might not reach that second bar safely, especially since we feel as though we don't even know where it is and how stable it will prove to be. But there is no shortcut to the not yet. We can arrive there only via the now. The 'now' is the flight between the two bars. The now is where we really are, with all our doubts and fears. It is the only place in which we can experience and actualize the growth that is inherent in all transition and waiting for us to embrace it. It is our now that is shaping our future, whether personal or global. The now is the only place where we are really empowered to choose our path."
So my wilderness journey has taken me from the explosion to the valley of dry bones to the pit to the green valley and now to mid air (as I have let go of one bar and fly towards the next). I clutched the first bar so tightly that I know I left finger marks on it, and I sure wish I could see the next bar (or the net). But I know God can be trusted, so I will enjoy the flight - and see what awaits me. I hope this journey has made me a more compassionate person, and hopefully a wiser pastor. It has certainly deepened my sense of gratitude, especially for all the ministering angels who helped to sustain me during the darkest moments of the past thirty-nine days. Thank you.
Minding the gap - and grateful to be emerging from the wilderness (one day shy of forty days)!
Kim
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Unfocused Eyes and God's Laughter
For the past three years I have focused intense study on the process of discernment - both for individuals and groups. How fitting it is that I should find myself neck deep in my own discernment journey! The books and exercises have been helpful - knowledge and experience is a good teacher. Each discipline has helped to build a foundation of "listening" - which is the most important discernment faculty. That and, perhaps, not taking myself or the process too seriously...
...but it is a serious process, worthy of my best effort. And so I have methodically and prayerfully worked my way through each question. I have journaled and colored and wandered through many a labyrinth. I have bench-pressed my weight in discernment exercises. And here is what I have learned:
Sometimes discernment comes in an instant, like a white-hot flash of insight! Unexpected, often unbidden, it contains enormous power, and can singe the recipient.
Sometimes discernment burns slowly until the insight is fanned into a red-hot flame by the Spirit. Burning deep in the soul, it gives light and warmth for the journey.
But sometimes discernment arrives like the earliest of spring days - and you know it is here because as you pass that old tree that looks dead and lifeless, you notice just the faintest hint of an electric green aura emerging from its branches. Stare at it and you miss it; unfocus your eyes and look just past the branches and the not-yet-leaves of green shimmer with possibilities. You did nothing to awaken the tree from its winter slumber, and yet new life is emerging right before your eyes. By the end of the week leaves are visible, and soon you confirm what the birds had been singing since winter - that new life emerges even from places that long seem dead. Before too long the tree is bedecked in glorious leaves, and life is renewed - and not only for the tree.
All the work - all the exercises - each and every prayer - every positive affirmation - helps prepare the eyes to see the new life, and the heart to embrace it. But the work of discernment does not cause the movement of Spirit - God is not a puppet to be manipulated, even by the loveliest of discerning strings.
I have seen the shimmer of green in my heart - God has been quietly working all along, bringing the signs of new life just when needed (what impeccable timing God has)! I note with interest that I could not see the emerging green until I relaxed, unfocused my eyes, and looked past that upon which I was focused. Sheer effort is not the answer; surrender is.
God laughs - of this I am sure. I smile - and offer thanks that the unfolding of God's grace and wisdom is not dependent on my actions, or my accomplishments - like unconditional love, it cannot be earned. It is pure gift - extravagantly given. Like in the Parable of the Sower, God seems to scatter seeds (transformative possibility) with great abandon. I offer thanks that, today, I am not food for the birds, nor am I planted in rocky, shallow soil. I feel my roots deepening and my soul being nourished - and veriditas (thank you, Hildegard), emerging.
The answers will come. I have only to see them, not create them. Time to breathe deeply, and follow the love.
Veriditas!
Kim
...but it is a serious process, worthy of my best effort. And so I have methodically and prayerfully worked my way through each question. I have journaled and colored and wandered through many a labyrinth. I have bench-pressed my weight in discernment exercises. And here is what I have learned:
Sometimes discernment comes in an instant, like a white-hot flash of insight! Unexpected, often unbidden, it contains enormous power, and can singe the recipient.
Sometimes discernment burns slowly until the insight is fanned into a red-hot flame by the Spirit. Burning deep in the soul, it gives light and warmth for the journey.
But sometimes discernment arrives like the earliest of spring days - and you know it is here because as you pass that old tree that looks dead and lifeless, you notice just the faintest hint of an electric green aura emerging from its branches. Stare at it and you miss it; unfocus your eyes and look just past the branches and the not-yet-leaves of green shimmer with possibilities. You did nothing to awaken the tree from its winter slumber, and yet new life is emerging right before your eyes. By the end of the week leaves are visible, and soon you confirm what the birds had been singing since winter - that new life emerges even from places that long seem dead. Before too long the tree is bedecked in glorious leaves, and life is renewed - and not only for the tree.
All the work - all the exercises - each and every prayer - every positive affirmation - helps prepare the eyes to see the new life, and the heart to embrace it. But the work of discernment does not cause the movement of Spirit - God is not a puppet to be manipulated, even by the loveliest of discerning strings.
I have seen the shimmer of green in my heart - God has been quietly working all along, bringing the signs of new life just when needed (what impeccable timing God has)! I note with interest that I could not see the emerging green until I relaxed, unfocused my eyes, and looked past that upon which I was focused. Sheer effort is not the answer; surrender is.
God laughs - of this I am sure. I smile - and offer thanks that the unfolding of God's grace and wisdom is not dependent on my actions, or my accomplishments - like unconditional love, it cannot be earned. It is pure gift - extravagantly given. Like in the Parable of the Sower, God seems to scatter seeds (transformative possibility) with great abandon. I offer thanks that, today, I am not food for the birds, nor am I planted in rocky, shallow soil. I feel my roots deepening and my soul being nourished - and veriditas (thank you, Hildegard), emerging.
The answers will come. I have only to see them, not create them. Time to breathe deeply, and follow the love.
Veriditas!
Kim
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