a full turn

Here we are once again -

the earth has made another orbit,

the seasons another cycle,

and the wheel of life another turn.

And we return to this season

of the long night,

the stories of glad tidings,

and this brightest of days.

Here we are marking Christmas once again,

however, we do not return the same as before.

We have known other births.

We have known deaths great and small.

We have been changed.

And whoever we may be now,

whatever we may be here in this moment,

we are met here by God in love -

Emmanuel

"God with us."

May we choose to be with God,

in this moment

and the next.

winter solstice

in the longest night,
see what was not seen before:
all that shines with light!

diving up and back

I saw a yellow oak leaf twist on the wind,

and dive back up into the branches,

back among friends -

unready to fall.

what bread dough says

kneaded dough whispers

in the flour on countertop:

"now, is arising."

kneel

this morning, the moon
beckoned all to kneel
and pay homage to life.

however,
we were slow to awaken,
and bend.

now, it is late,
the sun is up,
and we slumber.

All Saints Day

On this All Saints Day, may there be blessing in all of your remembrances and wakefulness in all of your living and loving.

Here is a poem for the occasion from Zen Master Dogen.

"Death Poem"

Fifty-four years lighting up the sky.

A quivering leap smashes a billion worlds.

Hah!

Entire body looks for nothing.

Living, I plunge into Yellow Springs.

- Translated by Kazuaki Tanahashi

sunlight

pulling up the shade,

sunlight enters a dark room -

no longer alone

seeing our way

in this face, and the next,
light that outshines summer's sun -
more than enough
to un-blind the world.

in aisle #4

while shopping with crowds
i met the infant's brown eyes -
her smile was free!

passing judgment

A brother in Scetis committed a fault. A council was called to which abba Moses was invited, but he refused to go to it. Then the priest sent someone to him, saying, "Come, for everyone is waiting for you." So he got up and went.

He took a leaking jug and filled it with water and carried it with him. The others came out to meet him and said, "What is this, father?" The old man said to them, "My sins run out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another."

When they heard that, they said no more to the brother, but forgave him.

From Daily Readings with the Desert Fathers. Edited by Benedicta Ward SLG. Templegate Publishers: Springfield, IL.


This story feels like a sister story to the story of Jesus being confronted by the religious leaders and a crowd who are about to stone a woman caught in the act of adultery. Jesus disarms and dismantles the deadly tension and vicious judgment of the moment by simply saying "Let the one who is without sin be the first to cast a stone at her."

An enduring axiom of the Christian faith is this: "We are all sinners in the sight of God." We've grown less comfortable with such a statement in our current era where we are much more inclined toward statements of self-affirmation and self-confidence. To identify oneself as a sinner feels rather self-deflating and self-defeating. Many in the church would rather speak of our inherent goodness and blessedness in God, and many outside of the church would say that one of the great problems with Christianity is that it has held human nature in such low esteem.

As with so many things, the truth is likely found somewhere in the tension-filled middle: we are both "sinners" and "saints," we are both broken and blessed. We are each capable of causing great wounds in ourselves and others, and we have all been guilty on some level of seeking to satisfy our own "personal programs for happiness" (to borrow a choice phrase from Father Thomas Keating) and shoring up our false selves and personal idolatries.

We are also capable of astounding creativity and blessing the world with our love and compassion. There are gifts that we are each given by the Spirit that, if freely shared, serve to reveal the truth of who we are individually and collectively as children of God.

Judgment diminishes the truth in ourselves and in our neighbor. We do it so easily, and sometimes it is quite literally "passing judgment" as we do it in fleeting moments while we pass one another on the street or bring someone to our minds eye along with feelings of jealousy, anger, fear or resentment that we may have surrounding that relationship.

Forgiveness becomes a transforming possibility when we are freed of our judgment, and remember another axiom of the Christian faith: "We are all beloved in the sight of God."

know-it-all

Abba Amoun (of the place called Raythu) came to abba Sisois saying: 'When I read Scripture, I long to prepare elaborate comments, so that I will be ready to answer questions about it if I am asked.' The old man said, 'There is no need. It is better to speak the word simply, with a good conscience and a pure mind.'

From Daily Readings with the Desert Fathers. Edited by Benedicta Ward SLG. Templegate Publishers: Springfield, IL.


The desire to have right answers at the ready, the desire to be relevant and responsive to a given situation, the desire to be seen as in-the-know -- these are very common human desires. So, we might be sympathetic of Amoun in this confessional and transparent moment when he acknowledges a longing that may be driven more by self-centeredness or self-protectiveness than faithfulness.

He makes me think of those moments that often arise in the course of weekly sermon preparation when I find myself struggling for just the right words to illustrate a point, or when I feel like I need to do just a bit more research on a thought in order to "back it up." Sometimes it can be important to find a good word and sometimes a bit more research is exactly what is needed, yet, oftentimes these desires are arising more from ego-consciousness, my need to prove myself or shore myself up in the eyes of others.

Abba Sisois responds with gentle and wise counsel: speak simply, with a good conscience and a pure mind. I wonder if this may mean, at least in part, speak truthfully and simply from your understanding and insight rather than trying to speak what you think you should say or what you suppose others would like you to say.

Speak from the heart of your true self. Trust that God has given you (and each person whose path you cross) truth to speak with your life. Your speech may be with words, and it also may come through your actions, or through simply being present to another in their time of need.

You and I need not have all the answers, and we don't need to prepare well-defended answers just in case someone asks us the questions we may most fear. God simply asks that we speak the truths and understandings we have come to know in love, and then live with curiosity, listening for the truth spoken through others and through the world.

want to be blissed-out?

This entry will begin a series of entries reflecting on the tales of the fourth century Desert Mothers and Fathers. These women and men went to the deserts of Egypt, Syria and Palestine to practice their Christian faith during the time when Christianity was becoming the faith of the Roman Empire. To put it differently, Christianity was becoming Christendom. These desert dwellers seemed to move in a different direction as they prayed, worked, and taught those who came out to seek their wisdom and insight. Their stories continue to challenge and inspire others who seek to life lives faithful to the Way of Christ today.


It was said of abba John the Dwarf that one day he said to his elder brother, 'I should like to be free of all care, like the angels who do not work, but ceaselessly offer worship to God.' So he took leave of his brother and went away into the desert.

After a week he came back to his brother. When he knocked on the door he heard his brother say, 'Who are you?' before he opened it. He said, 'I am John, your brother.' But he replied, 'John has become an angel and henceforth is no longer among men.' Then John besought him, saying, 'It is I.'

However, his brother did not let him in but left him there in distress until morning. Then, opening the door, he said to him, 'You are a man and you must once again work in order to eat.' Then John made a prostration before him, saying, 'Forgive me.'

(This story is from Daily Readings with the Desert Fathers, edited by Benedicta Ward SLG, Springfield: Templegate Publishers, 1988.)


I remember my first visit to a monastery. I expected serene, quiet, still, praying monks. They were there, yes, but in some moments these same brothers were also boisterous, hard-laboring, playing, moody monks. They reminded me very much of congregations I have been a part of, and they reminded me sometimes of my family. Their life together involves deep prayer and doses of stillness, silence and solitude, but it also includes hard work - sometimes tedious and monotonous work - and the day-to-day, mundane decision making that easily fills the waking hours of our lives.

None of the great spiritual paths in this world promise a blissed-out release from the quotidian labors of life. If you meet a teacher, a pastor or priest who promises you such an angelic escape, it might be best to run the other way!

The Way of Jesus, like other great spiritual paths in this world, calls us into a deeper, more wakeful engagement with ourselves, our fellow human beings, and the work we are each given to do. When Jesus invited those first disciples to follow him he asked them to "fish for men," which they soon found out meant touching lepers, comforting the grieving, eating at tax collector's tables, and getting into some rather sticky situations with the religious and political powers of that day. They had to work at being disciples.

Even when the disciples got an affirming glimpse of the deep, eternal and expansive sea of love that Jesus embodied - such as in that moment of transfiguration on the mountaintop - Jesus asked them to take that love right back into the messy demands of life.

We are not angels. Thank God we are human beings! Bless you in your labors, your loves and your journey this day.

a kingdom of little things

the text from our morning prayer & meditation today:

He put before them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches."

He told them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened."

MATTHEW 13:31-33

These images, the mustard seed and the yeast, are little things, perhaps the sort of things that are easily overlooked and seemingly inconsequential. I think prayer can be like that in the midst of our busy and burdened lives. Time apart, time in silent listening and time in attentive conversation with God can seem like time wasted when there are important tasks to be done and much that weighs on our minds.

Prayer is like the tiniest of seeds that germinates beyond the scope of our gaze; it is like the miniscule grains of living, leavening yeast that slowly permeate the dough with the stirring of a spoon and kneading of hands. Prayer is not about immediate response or instant gratification. Prayer knows nothing of our desire for efficiency or efficaciousness. It is whatever we do attentively and intentionally to open ourselves more completely to the seeds of the kingdom of heaven (which, I suspect, is far closer than we might imagine!).

first light

a prairie primrose,

having captured last night's moon,

lights my morning path.

the day after

This morning I wonder what it was like for those disciples long ago on the day after Pentecost. Did the tongues of fire now burn within them? Could the rushing wind still be heard, roaring in the chambers of their hearts? Or, was there something of a letdown, that subdued space which sometimes follows experiences of wild, creative abandon and deep seeing?

Often we seek the inspired moment, the experience of being blown on powerful winds of the spirit and led to deepened insight and understanding. We seek the high. Such moments are precious and rare. And usually they find us and surprise us more than they are sought or found by us. We can practice openness to them, but cannot manufacture or create them.

When I think of those disciples on the day after Pentecost, I remember that one of the great challenges on the spiritual journey is to willingly step into the day that appears quite ordinary, the relationship that feels rather dry, or the experience that seems mundane or predictable, and to do so with the awareness that, even here, one might get blown and burned.

mon Dieu! tres magnifique!

This is worth a listen whether you are a fan of opera or not. Beauty and gifts of the Spirit are always something incredible to behold . . .

A rare encore at The Met

the bound and unbound word

adapted from a meditation given at Shalom Mennonite Church
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Reading: John 14:23-29


The Word of God.
The Word of the Lord.

What comes to your mind when you hear these terms?

When I hear them used in contemporary Christian circles
it seems that they are most often used to refer to
the Bible, to the written text of Scripture.

In our Mennonite hymnal there is a small section of
hymns collected under the heading, "Word of God."
Most of these hymns in some way reflect a focus
on the biblical texts.

When some Christians are gathered in worship,
a reading from the Bible
is immediately followed by the response:

(Leader) The Word of the Lord,
(Congregation) thanks be to God.

For other Christians I know,
"the Word of the Lord" not only refers to scripture,
it quite literally is scripture.
According to these sisters and brothers in faith,
The Bible is the definitive Word of God
for all people, for all time.

Such usage of these terms is interesting
given the fact that when you look in the Bible
for references to the Word of the Lord and
the Word of God, you will find many
and most are not references to sacred texts
or written words.

In the Hebrew texts, God's word is a central theme.
At the very beginning of all things it is God's word
and speech that calls forth the elements of creation.
God speaks the word of the Law to Moses on the mountain.
God's word makes promises to Sara and Abraham and others.
The prophets speak the word of God that is spoken to them.

God's word is in the raging whirlwind of Job,
and in the silent stillness heard by Elijah.

In the central proclamation of the Hebrew Bible,
we find reference to God's word:

Hear, O Israel:
The Lord is our God, the Lord alone.
You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart,
and with all your soul, and with all your might.
Keep these words that I am commanding you today
in your heart. (Deuteronomy 6:4-6)

And then, later in that same book
there is the beautiful verse:

The word is very near to you;
it is in your mouth
and in your heart
for you to observe. (Deuteronomy 30:14)

The writers of the New Testament texts
refer to Jesus' preaching and teaching as "the word."
The gospel message that Jesus proclaims
in word and in action is called "the word of God."
And, as we can see especially in the gospel
and letters of John, as the tradition developed,
Jesus himself became known as the Word:

In the beginning was the Word
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God.
He was in the beginning with God.
All things came into being through him,
and without him not one thing came into being.
What has come into being in him was life,
and the life was the light of all people. (John 1:1-4)

The people of Old and New Testament times
would have found it difficult to understand
the notion of God's own Word being bound
and contained between the covers of a book,
or held in any kind of entirety on the parchment of a scroll.

According to the texts themselves,
the Word has much more to do with
the Presence of the living God in every moment.
This is a God who speaks and acts
in the here and now.

The Word of God
is written in hearts,
it is spoken by mouths,
and lived into life
for us to observe
and understand.

Perhaps you have seen the more recent
ad campaigns for the United Church of Christ.
It focuses on the message:
"God is still speaking."

Amen to that.
God is still speaking.

We listen best together,
because our senses are "tuned" differently.
We each listen differently with our lives
as unique children of God.
I need you to help me listen to
and discern what is the voice of God
and what is not.

So, we listen together to the Word of God
that is written in our own being,
that speaks through the lives of others -
the neighbors and strangers we meet each day -
that speaks through the natural world,
and that speaks through the story, the poetry,
the prophecy and the proverbs of Scripture.

One way of thinking about our relationship to the Bible
would be to say that we study scripture,
and enter into a living conversation with the texts,
so that we might be better oriented
and more awake to the Word of God
speaking to us this moment and the next.

The Word of God is indeed very near,
it is in our mouths
and in our hearts
and in this life
for us to observe
and follow.


For a wonderful story of hearing the Word of God
amidst the ordinary flow of life see:
http://www.mennoweekly.org/2010/4/5/gift-life/?print=1

somewhere South, the earth bleeds out

It really is difficult to comprehend,
from the plains of Kansas,
what it's like for 50,000 gallons of oil to bleed out
and up from the ocean floor today.

So, I look at the field of wheat and
try to imagine gummed-up beach sand.

I see the red-tail hawk overhead and
try to picture the gull, with oil soaked feathers,
unable to fly.

I see the white clouds coasting above the prairie and
try to see the thick smoke of oil fires
hanging over the Gulf.

I see the farmer planting corn and
try to understand the hope of the fisherman
whose boat blackens in the harbor.

today, in one room

today, in one room,

birth and death came together -

as they always do

feed your wolf

Reflections related to my most recent post caused me to remember a story about St. Francis of Assissi. Here it is, as I remember it . . .

The people of the small Italian village of Gubio were fond of their home, and therefore they were deeply troubled when something began attacking and killing their livestock. An older woman recounted that late one night she heard a strange sound, peered out the window and saw a shadow that looked like a wolf, heading into a neighbor's livestock pen.

The situation became even more serious when the villagers awoke one morning to find that the creature had entered the village during the night and mauled one of their neighbors. Things had gone too far, so the terrified villagers decided to call on Francis for help. Francis was known for having a gentle way with animals and they hoped he would be able to stop the attacks.

The people had very clear ideas about what they wanted Francis to do. Some wanted him to preach to the wolf and remind it of the peaceful way of the gospel and the commandment against killing, while others wanted Francis to convince the wolf to move on and go some place else.

Francis listened to the people's requests and then went off into the woods in search of the creature he addressed as "Brother Wolf."

After several days Francis returned to the village of Gubio. He said, "Good people of Gubio, the solution to this problem is very simple. You must feed your wolf."

The people were at first shocked, and then many were outraged. "Feed our wolf?! You want us to actually feed this monster?"

"Yes," replied Francis. "Feed your wolf and the attacks will cease."

So the people of Gubio began to feed their wolf, and the killing stopped.

coming clean

Some of the most amazing and agonizing moments in this life come when we bring into full awareness (our own awareness and the awareness of others) some part of our own brokenness - a wound we have caused, an egregious error in judgment, a "trespass" we have willfully committed, a sin. We would rather such things remain under the rugs of our attention, or at least tucked away enough so that they appear to be of relatively no import or consequence.

Sometimes, it is someone else or some unexpected moment that pulls these inner shadows out into the light - very much against our will. We can be thankful for such truth-telling people and experiences that help us expose things we would rather keep hidden, because in the end they are instruments of our healing and transformation.

To have our broken places exposed, our sins revealed, is to be given an opportunity to become more fully human, which can also be described as growing more completely in the image of God that we each bear. This is because such honest, humble exposure invites us to let go of the falsehoods we carry and use to shore up our self-involved ways, and then yield even further to the truth of who we are as beloved children of God.

"Coming clean," is a term often used for this path of confession, honesty and reconciliation. It is a meaningful term because it describes how this path involves a cleansing and uncovering of what is, underneath it all, most true and real and blessed.

slowing down

fallen pear blossoms
curl across lanes of traffic -
I slow down, and yield.

looking (and believing) like a fool

A Meditation for Holy Humor Sunday
April 11, 2010
Shalom Mennonite Church

Text: John 20:19-29 (Thomas' encounter with the risen Jesus)

"looking (and believing) like a fool"

A toilet plunger is a symbol for foolishness in our household; it has been ever since Yolanda and I lived in Denver during our years of graduate school and seminary. One day the toilet in our small apartment backed up and we had to borrow a plunger from some friends. After employing it (successfully) it came time to return it. Yolanda suggested that since it was such a nice day we should walk the two miles to our friends' home. I considered walking across campus, through nearby neighborhoods and at least one busy business district carrying a toilet plunger. I replied, "No thanks, I'd rather drive."

I didn't want to look foolish. Most of us don't. We'd rather be seen as competent, capable, relevant and responsive to the situation at hand. We want to be seen as having our act together. For most of us, this fine art of fitting in happens almost reflexively and unconsciously; we learned it from a very young age. It is embarrassing to look foolish! It's to be avoided!

I think Thomas wanted to avoid appearing as foolish. He didn't want to go out proclaiming something outlandish like, "Jesus is risen!", without some kind of proof. So, he makes a rather ridiculous and absurd statement; "I'll believe it when I can poke my fingers in the nail wounds in his hands and stick my hand in the spear wound in his side."

The next time the disciples gather in the cloistered "upper room" Thomas is with them. When Jesus appears he gives his now familiar greeting, "Peace be with you," before turning to Thomas and saying "Alright Thomas, feel free to have a poke around!"

I imagine a stunned Thomas turning to Peter and saying "I'm not going to touch it, you touch it." And Peter replying, "I'm not going to touch it, you touch it!"

It is difficult for me to imagine this scene unfolding without there being laughter erupting at some point. In fact, I can't imagine any of the resurrection stories happening without laughter - Jesus laughing, the disciples laughing, and those of us reading the stories today laughing at the sheer joy of it all! Why is it we tell these stories of resurrection with such solemnity and seriousness most of the time?

Certainly it wasn't all laughs for those first disciples after the resurrection. They were sent out to share the Good News with others. And we know from the stories that have been passed down that they were often met with disbelief, resistance, or even aggression.

This really isn't a surprise given the message they were bearing: A messiah who was condemned a heretic and crucified a criminal, a man who rose up from the dead, and a Way that included befriending tax collectors and sinners, nonresistance to evil and violence, poverty, forgiveness, and letting go of self-centered living and self-righteous believing. Pretty foolish stuff in the eyes of the world.

As the Apostle Paul would later tell folks in the early church, the wisdom of God is foolishness in the eyes of the world (1 Corinthians 1:18-21). To be a disciple, one must become a "fool for Christ."

We continue to proclaim a Way that runs against the grain of much in this world, and it can seem quite silly to many. And for those who come and ask us for proof, for empirical evidence for our belief we have no data to offer - no more and no less than the first believers. We are meant, quite simply, to reflect it through our lives.

This is not an easy Way. Great leaps of faith, hope and love are required of us to follow the example of Jesus in this world today. And perhaps one of the greater risks we face is getting really, really serious about it. There are a great many really, really serious people in the church! (And we don't need any more).

It's kind of funny, really, because we profess to follow one who knew how to party, and laugh, and savor life in its fullness. Jesus never once told his followers to "get serious." Yes, he did call their attention to quite serious and important things in this world and in people's lives. However, we might pay attention to how he did this. By gathering with people at table, by sharing in conversations, by engaging life in a wakeful, passionate way, Jesus taught his followers to love passionately! And how can one do that without joyful exuberance and a good laugh from time to time?

Jesus grounded his teaching in earthy, homey, ordinary things: mustard seeds, oil lamps, fish, bread, wine, water, wind, mud. Perhaps he did this to remind folks that when we take ourselves and our religion too seriously, we tend to remove ourselves from living in touch with our world - we get "holier than thou" and "holier than now."

Who know, Jesus may have been earthy enough to make a parable out of a toilet plunger . . .

The Joy of God is like a toilet plunger. It has the power to unclog the messy gunk that plugs us up and blocks us from flowing in this life with grace, peace and playfulness!

Easter Day

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, April 4 - Easter Sunday

Text: John 20:1-18

“behold”

“Behold! I have seen the Lord!”

Mary Magdalene's words are

a proclamation and a prayer,

made with eyes wide open.

She has seen with “the eyes of her eyes,”

and with the eye of her heart.

She has seen and believed.

It took some looking, though.

While others remained in hiding,

Mary came to the tomb while it was still dark.

Perhaps she wanted to see the place,

to touch the tomb,

to be sure that it wasn't all just

a horrible nightmare.

At first Mary looks from a distance.

Peering through the darkness

she sees that the displaced stone.

Running to get help, she returns with Peter

and the one called the Beloved Disciple,

and they, too, look to see what has happened.

Together, they look more closely . . .

An empty, stuffy tomb.

Grave clothes left, as if the body

had just disappeared.

This was enough, it seems, for the Beloved Disciple.

“He saw and believed,” we are told.

He and Peter return to their homes.

But Mary Magdalene remains.

Perhaps it is her pain that compels her to stay

and to look more closely, still.

She looks deep into the empty tomb.

In time she sees two angels

where her teacher's body should have been.

They see her. They see her tears and ask,

“Woman, why are you weeping?”

It is after responding to their question,

and giving voice to her pain and confusion,

that she turns to find that

there is someone else with her.

At first she sees gardener of the tombs.

But when he speaks,

she sees even more deeply,

and beholds the face of Jesus.

“Behold! I have seen the Lord!”

The Resurrection is a wonder

to be beheld, proclaimed and prayed

with eyes wide open.

To see it we must sometimes

peer into the darkness.

To perceive it we must sometimes

look closely and patiently –

sometimes for a very long time.

Then, to believe it – perhaps that

is the greatest gift and leap of all.

In her book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,

Annie Dillard tells of a young woman,

who, at 22 years of age, received a surgery

that gave her sight after a lifetime of blindness.

At first she was overcome by the world's brightness,

the brightness and light that you and I take

for granted each day when we have eyes to see.

It was so overwhelming for her

that she closed her eyes

and did not look again for two weeks.

Then, as she gradually began to look,

and to see more and more -

to see color, and shape and shadow for the first time -

she said again and again:

“O God! O God! How beautiful! How beautiful!”

For those of us with eyes to see sunlight

shining off and shining through

the stuff of this world,

it may be a rare moment that we make such an exclamation.

We might say it when standing

on the edge of the Grand Canyon for the first time,

or seeing a spring storm roll over the Flint Hills,

or witnessing some tender, heart-opening moment.

These are moments of beholding – deep seeing.

Much of the time, however,

we cast our gaze only briefly, skimming across

things and people as we move through life.

How often do we look long and deep,

with the eyes wide open?

It is a gift we offer to the world and others

to behold in this way.

And when someone looks at you in this way

you feel the gift of it.

It isn't easy to look with patience

when we're in a hurry.

It isn't easy to look deeply

when so much seems ordinary.

It isn't easy to look with hope

when it is dark.

It isn't easy to gaze carefully into a tomb,

when death is near.

Yet, this is where the Resurrection is first seen,

and it is where it is first believed -

precisely where it is least expected.

Here and now, centuries after Mary's moment

of recognition and wonder at the empty tomb,

we proclaim “Christ is risen!”

Unfortunately, it is easy for that

to remain a remembrance, to be a memorial

proclamation about the past and not

a affirmation about the present.

What if we said with Mary Magdalene:

“I have seen the Lord!”?

I have seen the Lord!

He was sitting at Druber's this morning

drinking coffee and eating a donut

and he said: “Isn't the sunrise glorious?”

I have seen the Lord!

She was at the Sister's of St. Joseph monastery

last weekend and she was stooped over in a backbrace,

but she managed to look up into my face with a smile

and hold my hand and say, “Welcome.”

I have seen the Lord!

He was there when I told my friend

“I'm sorry for betraying your trust.”

And I saw his face when my friend said,

“I forgive you.”

I have seen the Lord!

She was holding a spoon

and feeding her lover

on the nursing unit at Kidron Bethel Village.

The face of the risen one

can be seen everywhere once our eyes are open.

Even in the darkness

and even among the tombs.

The resurrection of Christ,

God's living Word of Love,

changes everything in this world,

not just in one moment, but through all moments!

And there is nothing that can overcome it.

No sin can overcome its power to heal.

No darkness can overcome its light.

No violence can overcome its peace.

No passage of time can overcome its vitality.

If you want to behold the resurrection

you must sometimes

look beyond the light-filled places

and peer into the darkness, both inside and out.

To behold the resurrection you must

slow down and look carefully and patiently -

sometimes for a very long time.

And when you behold it

with the eyes of your eyes

and the eyes of your heart,

you might be led to believe

and to proclaim with those who've come before:

“O God! How beautiful!”

“I have seen the Lord!”

Easter - before sunrise

in the dark, a pause . . .

silence between indrawn breath

and outpouring song.

Holy Saturday

a mouth with no breath,
two eyes beholding no light:
sometimes day is night.

Good Friday morning

gray, pressed on prairie -

thunder goes no where but through,

to sound in hollows.

Thursday of Holy Week

By this everyone will know . . .


Little children, I am with you only a little longer.
You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews
so now I say to you,
"Where I am going, you cannot come."

I give you a new commandment,
that you love one another.
Just as I have loved you,
you also should love one another.
By this everyone will know that you are
my disciples, if you have love for one another.

JOHN 13:33-35


not by our creeds or our complex confessions,
not by our great edifices or our well-honed arguments,
not by our style of music or the hipness of our speech,
not by who we vote for or whether we're red or blue,
not by our comfortable circle of friends
or our hard-won credentials,

but by our love for one another
will we be known
as disciples.

Tuesday of Holy Week

Unless . . .

Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies,

it remains just a single grain; but if it dies

it bears much fruit. - John 12:24

Here in southern Kansas, there are abundant signs of what happens when a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies. There is a great greening of the winter wheat this time of year. Soon it will grow and wave in the South Wind, and sooner than seems possible it will be time for an early summer harvest.

Jesus' parable makes me think, too, of other natural cycles of what might be called "dying to live." I think of the nurse logs in the coastal forests of the Northwest. When a great Douglas Fir or Sitka Spruce tree dies, it falls to the ground and soon becomes alive again as it is filled with the life of all manner of creatures, fungi and molds. These fallen trees also become the perfect spot for Hemlock seeds to germinate and grow, wrapping the dead log with their roots as they send them down through its tissues and into the ground.

photo by Yolanda Kauffman

Isn't this also the cycle of our relationships of love? Such relationships are so much more than an equation of simple addition: my story + your story = friendship. No, a loving friendship, spousal relationship, or familial relationship requires far more than this, and part of what it requires of us is a certain amount of emptying and letting go - a subtraction of sorts - to make room for the presence of the other and for the Presence that moves when "two or more are gathered."

Love so often requires that we die before we die, so that we can more fully live.

Monday of Holy Week

where a low branch was cut
the budding maple bleeds,
and a ladybug drinks.

chatter at dawn

starlings in elm at dawn,

chattering beside silent buds -

now, a wave of wings!

present

adapted from a children's time reflection
Shalom Mennonite Church
March 21, 2010 - the 5th Sunday of Lent


Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. John 12:1-3


I like this story about Jesus going to visit his good friends from Bethany. Maybe Jesus knows that there are some hard days ahead, and maybe he just wants to go and spend a day or two with people he cares about and who care about him. It feels good to spend some time with good friends, doesn't it? Especially when we are scared or lonely, or when we're wanting someone to play with or share with.

I notice in this story the different things his friends are doing to show that they care about Jesus.

Martha is making and serving a meal. That is a great way to show someone you care about them!

Lazarus is sitting at the table and visiting with Jesus. Maybe they're telling stories, or jokes, or talking about all the places that Jesus and the disciples have traveled to. Just sitting together and talking, and listening, can be a great thing to do with a friend to show them that you care about them.

Then there's Mary, who brings out this expensive bottle of perfume, pours it on Jesus' feet, then wipes his feet dry with her hair! Have you ever done that with your friend to show them that you care about them?! Nope, I haven't either. I'm pretty sure that my friends would be surprised if I did!

And it seems to surprise and shock some of the people who were in that house long ago, except Jesus. He knows that in this moment this is the way that Mary can best express how much she loves him and cares about him. It doesn't need any words to explain it; it is simply a great and generous gift.

In what great, generous and wordless ways can you show the people you love that you care about them?

mind

the cat is put out,

the dog is in the kennel -

still, the monkeys play!

it's a wonder

It's a wonder,
how quickly I assume what
you will think of a few words
written on a page,

even when it's a love letter.

And you?
Do you presume
to know my agenda
and which way I lean?

We've got each other's number:
boxed,
pegged,
nailed to a T.

My riposte ready for your retort.
en garde!

Such a meeting we have!

Or, is ours a missing?

It's a wonder,
how we miss each other,
especially when we keep
getting tossed out
the same back door,

into the same beautiful garden.

standing at mercy's door

from a sermon given at Shalom Mennonite Church
Sunday, March 14, 2010 - 4th Sunday of Lent
Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

an excerpt from the reading:

^{26272829303132}Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

This second half of the parable leaves us
with an unfinished story.
It leaves me wondering, hoping that
there might be another celebration
and another feast table set
once the elder brother decides to come home.

The story ends with the elder brother
standing outside the door of the home,
unable to enter - in his own way, a prodigal.

He is angry, resentful, and confused.
Nothing about this moment seems fair.
It's almost as if he is standing there
and seeing the truth of his home and
his father for the very first time;
and he's not so sure that he wants any part of it.

The complaint to his father reveals his pain,
and his perception of home.
For him, home is a place of duty and a
place of responsibilities that must be fulfilled.
If you fulfill your duties, and makes the right choices,
you should be rewarded.
If you do not, and you make the wrong choices,
you should be punished.

He has done the right thing.
He has stayed home
and has been the responsible son.
His brother is the one who has strayed
and betrayed their father.
So, why is everything backwards?
Why is there a party rather than punishment?
Why is he the one standing outside?
"It's not fair!" he cries.

Notice how he refers to his brother as
"that son of yours," when talking
to his father in this angry moment.
Perhaps the language indicates the
separation he now feels from his family.

Then notice the father's language
as he refers to the younger sibling as
"this brother of yours" when talking
to the elder son.
Perhaps the language indicates the
father's desire to reunite the sons.

Perhaps in this moment, standing outside
the door of his home, the elder son
is not able to fully accept or understand
his father's words when he hears
the message of mercy and welcome:
"Son, I am always with you.
What is mine, is yours."

Luke begins this section of the gospel
by describing the way some Pharisees and scribes
were upset by the way Jesus was hanging out
with "all the tax collectors and sinners" (15:1-3).
Immediately following this statement
we hear the parable of the lost coin,
the parable of the lost sheep,
and then the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

It may be that Luke understood Jesus
as telling this story against those pious religious
leaders who were unhappy with his choice
of friends and companions.
So, perhaps the elder brother
reflects something of the spirit
of those Pharisees and scribes.

This can certainly be extended on through history -
this is a timeless, human story after all! -
to include religious folk here and now.
We in the church can be much like that elder son
when we assume the church to primarily be
a "house" of duty and responsibility,
a community in which we are measured
by whether or not we do the right thing:
those who do are rewarded,
those who do not are punished.

When we look beyond ourselves
and complain about and judge others
as being beyond the bounds of mercy - ours or God's -
then we are very much like that older brother
whose sense of justice is not tempered by mercy.

Even beyond and beneath this, though,
there is a way in which this story strikes
deep within each of us on a personal level.
We each possess the capacity to see
the world through the eyes of the elder son,
as a place of duty and responsibility,
as a place where the right are rewarded
and the wrong are punished.
And it is terribly tempting, with such a worldview,
to place ourselves squarely on the side of the right.
Then, when life does not turn out the way
we think it should, we assume that
we are the ones who have been wronged.

To know where the elder prodigal resides in you,
simply pay attention to the moments in a day
when you find yourself moving into
complaint about someone else,
judgments about someone else,
blaming someone else,
or strong feelings of resistance toward someone else.
Often these indicate places of fear or hurt within us,
places where we feel we have been wronged
or where life seems unfair.

It isn't easy to pay attention to this within ourselves.
It isn't easy to stand where the older brother stands
at the end of this story, and see how the father's mercy
extends way beyond anything that seems
just or reasonable.

We might notice that the father does not tell the elder
brother that he must forget or even immediately forgive
all the mistakes that the younger brother has made.
He simply wishes to welcome him through the door
and to find a seat at the feast table, too.

The message is clearly given to each of us from God:
"I am always with you.
What is mine, is yours."

By the tender mercy and patient love of God,
may the homecoming celebrations continue on.

love dogs

At a church council retreat today we were asked to choose a favorite hymn or song, and then reflect a bit on what it says to us about humanity, about God, and about living in community. It's an interesting exercise and one I recommend for meditation. Music - whether it is deemed "sacred" or not - has a formative impact in many of our lives. It is an interesting exercise to consider the messages we receive from a favorite song or melody.

What immediately came to my own mind were the words and haunting melody (which, unfortunately, I cannot share here) of the following hymn:


I Sought the Lord

I sought the Lord, and afterward I knew
he moved my soul to seek him seeking me.
It was not I that found, O Savior true,
no, I was found of thee.

Thou didst reach forth thy hand and mine enfold,
I walked and sank not on the storm-vexed sea.
'Twas not so much that I on thee took hold
as thou, dear Lord, on me.

I find I walk, I love, but, oh, the whole
of love is but my answer, Lord to thee!
For thou wert long beforehand with my soul,
always thou lovedst me.

words: from Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads, 1880

There is an important message here for organized religion, which sometimes feels defensive or reactive in the face of people's questions, challenges and seeking, especially when these impulses begin to push out what have been considered some of the acceptable edges and boundaries of our religious institutions. What if we understood the yearning and the seeking and questions to be the Presence? What if we sought to affirm the questions, the challenges, the impulses to explore, as expressions of the One who is first and always seeking, moving, holding and loving us?

It makes me think of a wonderful story from the Sufi mystic, Jelaludin Rumi:

One night a man was crying, Allah! Allah!

His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
"So, I have heard you calling out,
but have you ever gotten any response?"

The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick green foliage.

"Why did you stop praising?"

"Because I never heard anything back."

"This longing you express is the return message."

The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog
for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love-dogs
no one knows the name of.

Give your life to be one of them.

From The Illuminated Rumi,

translation by Coleman Barks

crossing paths

This day, like most days, will bring many crossed paths.

I consider how often these encounters happen with little awareness. A greeting, "How's it goin'?" happens while the feet are still moving, and the eyes have already cast their glance further down the road. We have such important duties and destinations.

I consider how often my way of encountering you contains silent assumptions: surely your thoughts are not traveling as far as my thoughts, and surely your feelings do not dive as deep as my own.

Yet, how often have I been surprised by an I-had-no-idea sort of moment, when there is enough of a pause in time and attention to learn that you have been carrying a loss beyond my imagining; you are bearing a burden that surpasses my strength; you are bursting with a joy that the world so dearly needs; you are ready to speak a mystery that will raise the hair on my arms. How often have I been surprised by the wonder of Presence, in the one who crosses my path?

I am tempted to say, "Not often enough." But such thoughts only make my feet move faster and my eyes look beyond what is here. Perhaps we can simply linger a bit longer when our paths cross this day.

full and empty

If what most people take for granted were really true-- if all you needed to be happy was to grab everything and see everything and investigate every experience and then talk about it, I should have been a very happy person, a spiritual millionaire, from the cradle even until now....

What a strange thing!
In filling myself,
I had emptied myself.
In grasping things,
I had lost everything.
In devouring pleasures and joys,
I had found distress and anguish and fear.

- Thomas Merton

What a strange thing, indeed, this impulse to "grab everything" and "see everything" and "know everything" so that we do not miss out on anything. It sounds like hyperbole, and perhaps it is, but how far from the truth is it, really?

Merton wrote these words of self-insight long before the Information Age, and long before the foundation of a Facebook nation and the fast-paced communication we have at our fingertips at every moment. How much more do we feel this pressure to stay on top of it all?

Then come those wakeful moments - moments of bare simplicity and still-point awareness - moments that may be quite serendipitous, and that call forth a very old wisdom and a timeless way of emptying out rather than filling up.

getting up, getting out

Quick: toast and grapefruit.

Rush: hair brushed and books loaded.

Patient: Spring's rain falls.

comparison shopping

i squeeze a dozen avocados
wanting one for tonight's meal.

i check milk dates
wanting one that will last.

i eye the lines
wanting one that is short.

i consider my son
wanting one who won't complicate.

i shop the aisles of Plato's cave
judging shadows
when, really, it is i
dancing darkly on the wall.

would it be as special if it happened every day?

"Well, it wouldn't be as special if it happened all the time."

This was my reply a couple of days ago when my son was lamenting the conclusion of the Winter Olympics. It had occupied our attention for two weeks worth of evenings, just as it had in my own family growing up. We celebrated with the winners, we cheered on those who were "off the podium," we shed some tears at the unexpected death at this Olympiad as well as the touching human interest stories that peppered each broadcast. It was sad to see it end.

So my son said, "I wish the Olympics kept going."

And I said, "Well, it wouldn't be as special if it happened all the time. It only comes every four years, which makes it all the more exciting and special!"

Now I'm left wondering about my statement. Yes, thank goodness for those special occasions and markers in life that stand like cairns, reminding us where we've been, where we are, and where we might be heading with a next step on the path. Thank God for those serendipitous surprises that catch us off guard with their unusual bliss.

Yet, it makes me wonder about how much I value the special, the rare and the unusual more than the "ordinary."

Why do we value the diamond more than the piece of gravel sitting on our driveway?

Why do we sometimes live in anticipation of those special days marked on our calendars and try to survive and slog through the rest?

This moment, this one finger-pressing-down-on-the-keypad-click-and-then-letter-appearing-on-screen moment, is just as rare and special, just as much of a here-then-gone-gift, as any other. How do we learn to treasure this, too?

a God who lets go

Sunday, Feburary 28, 2010

Second Sunday of Lent - “Holding on and letting go”

Texts: Psalm 27 and Luke 13:31-36

God is love.

The may be one of the most frequently

spoken, sung, and prayed claims about God.

God is love.

With all of the expressions of church in the world,

and the many different confessions of faith,

it may be one of the few theological

statements that most believers can give assent to.

God is love.

Contemporary theologian, Geddes MacGregor once noted:

“One of the most breathtaking affirmations

in the Bible is that God is love.”

Macgregor quickly adds, however, that

“it is also the most misleading thing we say about God.”

It is misleading if we leave such a statement unexamined,

and risk letting it become a sort of vague, warm and fuzzy

affirmation about God - a God of all things bright and beautiful,

a God of all things lively and colorful,

a God of Xs and Os at the bottom of letters,

and a God of healing, birthing and comforting things.

The God who is Love may indeed be all of this,

but as we know from our limited human experience

love is far more deep and wide than these comforting things;

therefore, we might presume that God

is far more deep and wide than this.

I think this short story from Luke’s gospel,

Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem,

invites us into such an expanded understanding

of the God who is Love.

When Jesus speaks his lament over Jerusalem

it almost sounds like he is quoting a psalm or poem:

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets

and stones those that are sent to it.

How often have I desired to gather your children together

as a hen gathers her brood under her wings . . .

It is an image of both tenderness and fierce protection.

Jesus has already called Herod a fox.

So, here he extends the metaphor,

as if to say, “The fox may be in the coop,

but God seeks to be the mother hen who

offers protection for the small chicks.”

Jesus is speaks with a prophet’s voice.

He isn’t just speaking about the few times

he has been to Jerusalem, but he is speaking

from a much broader perspective

that encompasses centuries,

that encompasses the timelessness

of God’s own desire for the people.

God is love.

God desires all that gives us life,

and desires our response, our gathering in love.

Then comes the next phrase of the lament:

. . . but you were not willing.

It is a simple statement that points to

a very profound reality in our human existence:

we are free.

You have a free will, and with it you can make choices

about what you will do,

where you will go,

what you will believe,

whether or not you will choose to love.

God is love also means that God relinquishes control,

and does not pull strings to force

us to recognize, or believe, or return God’s own love for us.

This freedom is one of the greatest gifts we are given.

And sometimes, in our great freedom,

we are not willing to receive, or acknowledge,

or share in the love of God.

And this is the very thing that Jesus laments,

and that he later weeps over as he stands on a hill

looking over the city of Jerusalem,

the place of his own death.

And then comes the final and maybe

most difficult statement of Jesus’ lament:

See, your house is left to you.

What does this mean?

Does it mean that God turning God’s back?

Is the message to Jews of Jerusalem,

“Well, you’ve made your bed

and now you’ve got to sleep in it”?

This has often been interpreted

as a statement of God’s judgment.

But I wonder if an alternative reading is possible.

See, your house is left to you . . .

Perhaps this is an expression of deep anguish.

Perhaps these words represent another great and

painful letting go of God - not abandonment,

but a letting us be in our freedom.

Love wouldn’t be love if it were forced.

God still remains, and God still loves, God still desires.

Have you ever loved someone,

and wished the best for them with all of your heart,

and honored their freedom to make their own choices,

and then felt pain and and anguish

when that person made choices

that were hurtful to themselves, or to others, or to you?

And did you still love them?

This is the love of the parent

who releases a child into the world, as all parents must.

Then, as that parent, you feel anguish when your child

makes choices that you cannot understand or condone,

choices that seem harmful and damaging.

Yet, you still remain in love.

This is the love of the friend who companions

someone through the darkness of an addiction.

As that friend, you tell your loved one

how much you love him,

how much you desire his freedom

from all that is binding him and harming him.

In the end you must release your friend

to make the choice for healing on his own.

And even if he keeps diving toward rock-bottom,

you still remain in love.

There is suffering inherent in love.

Not the suffering that comes when our

own feelings get hurt or expectations get thwarted -

that is the sort of suffering love asks us to let go of.

The suffering of love is the suffering

that comes when we experience life as shared,

when we know our life to be inextricably linked

together with the lives of others -

and with Life in its fullness -

and when we find that the joy of our beloved is our joy

and the sorrow of our beloved is our sorrow.

Though it exists in such deep connection and union,

love also requires of us such freedom.

Loveasks us to surrender and let go -

of control, of expectations, of judgments.

It asks us to seek the life and well-being

of the other without any assurance

that our love will be returned.

This is what makes love

so free and so powerful,

so able to heal and redeem.

God is Love.

There a depth of meaning in this claim

that we will never fully plumb.

But we can give thanks

for a God who loves us enough

to let us go,

to set us free

so that we might freely choose a life of love.

And when we choose a different path,

God loves enough

to feel sorrow, to know our pain,

to remain,

and to redeem.

Blessed is the One

who comes in the name of Love,

and shows us Love's Way.

AMEN