hall of mirrors

Here in the Hall of Mirrors
there are many choice vantage points for

gazing on yourself       gazing on yourself
gazing on                         gazing on
yourself                           yourself

If you are fortunate enough to stumble
across a

w
i
n
d
o
w

don't be afraid of the strange view.

Climb
           through
                          it!

Alternately, a HAMMER may prove useful,
that is,
if you want to see what you really look like.



photo: public domain

slow

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Season of Lent: Ashamed No More

Lent 1: God will show us salvation

Texts: Deuteronomy 26:1-11 and Luke 4:1-13

Eric Massanari

“slow”

This sign sits alongside the driveway

on our church property.

It is not an indication that the children

of Shalom are particularly slow;

it of course means that drivers should

slow down and be careful

because children are often out playing

and walking to and from school

around our church building.

Unfortunately, the sign is often ignored.

Parents who are dropping off and picking up

their children before and after school

are sometimes in a great hurry,

and they drive too fast around the blind corner

on the east end of our church building.

The windows of my office happen to look out

on that very spot of the driveway,

and I have witnessed too many close calls.

Once I went out to talk with

a young mother in the parking lot

after she nearly hit a group of students.

She was not pleased with my

reminder to slow down.

She was in a hurry.

She had her own kids to get places,

herself to get places,

and much to get done that day.

There was not time

to slow down,

to pay attention,

to listen,

to look,

to be aware,

to be.

Slowing down can be difficult.

When we slow down it seems

we can't get as much done;

we don't feel as efficient or productive.

It might feel like we're wasting precious time.

Slowing down may seem a privilege

and a luxury we simply can't afford.

That is, until we may be forced to slow down.

Have you had that experience when you

come off a really busy time and suddenly

that's when you get sick—your body says, “Enough!”?

Sometimes it's a cold or flu, and sometimes far worse.

Or, perhaps we are suddenly slowed

by a relationship that has finally atrophied

from extended neglect, but we just hadn't

really taken the time to notice until

it reached a point of crisis and separation.

Or, perhaps, we are finally slowed down

by an addictive pattern of thinking or acting

because it has taken us to a “rock bottom”

sort of experience we can no longer ignore.

Slowing down,

clearing out,

making room,

paying attention

seeing your self with honesty,

facing your own fears,

your temptations—

many sorts of experiences in this life

can invite us to this important work.

Sometimes the slowing is chosen,

and sometimes it chooses us.

In his book “The Wisdom of Wilderness,”

Gerald May reflects on such experiences in life:

the slowing that came to him as he aged,

the slowing that came as death grew near,

and the slowing that he willingly chose

when he would venture out into the silence

and the solitude of wilderness places.

As I drive into the Appalachian foothills, a little obsessiveness comes to me; I filled the tank with gas, but I don't think I checked the tires. What if I get a flat up in the mountains and my spare doesn't have enough air? I pull into a gas station and check. Everything's fine. back on the road, I am a little ashamed for the worry. But it was a reasonable concern and I had become only just a tiny bit paranoid. I smile. I realize now that I'm starting to guard against obsessiveness; I'm trying not to be paranoid, and somehow that doesn't seem right. For God's sake, I don't want to obsess about becoming obsessive, be paranoid about getting paranoid. I take a grinning breath, A prayer comes. "God, I don't know what you want. Hell, I don't even know what I want. But I want to want what you want. I just want to be available, open, for...whatever."

I relax again as I drive into the mountain forest's arms, feeling an encircling warmth, more and more. The closer I get to the State Forest, the stronger the welcoming becomes. I feel it like a caress, and I sense myself responding to it, wanting to be welcoming myself, wanting to enter gentleness...Somewhere on the final road the words actually come: "The Power of the Slowing."

It is a naming, and the name is absolutely right. What I am experiencing is exactly the Power of the Slowing, yet I have no idea what it means. I cannot get my mind around it--and that also feels absolutely right. It mystifies me...I have been beautifully, exquisitely mystified.

[He continues on the road and eventually reaches his backcountry campsite.]

I am still sitting behind the wheel when my mind suddenly erupts with ideas of things to do. Get the tent out, set up camp, light a fire, get everything arranged so I can start enjoying myself. The impulses are almost desperate, as if my mind has awakened startled, terrified by its own depth of peacefulness, abruptly afraid of dying from inaction. I respond immediately. I have the car door open, my foot on the ground, ready to unpack, when I am simply stopped by something. I feel it within me, inside my very muscles, yet it seems to come from somewhere outside me. It is powerful, as if a great gentle hand has taken my arms and legs and simply stilled them, and a sweet irresistible voice is speaking in my belly, "Be still now." It is not a real voice, not actual hearing, but the message is clear: no rush, no need to do anything, just be.

May, Gerald G. The Wisdom of Wilderness: Experiencing the Healing Power of Nature, San Francisco, HarperSanFrancisco, 2006. pp.15-19    

As he captures so very well,

the “power of the slowing” has a great tension.

Entering such a space

may cause us to confront the hard stuff:

our busy minds, our assumptions and judgments,

our temptations and our sins—

the places where we “miss the mark.”

At the same time, by slowing down,

by accepting the invitation to enter

the wilderness places of our own being,

we also receive the gift of grace and peace.

We open the door of possibility

to an encounter with our own goodness and blessing,

and the goodness and blessing of all life. 

The ancient Israelites and Jesus of Nazareth

are both led by this path.

Their journey must pass through the wilderness,

Not just a physical wilderness

but a wilderness landscape within themselves.

It is a time when they are tempted and tested;

they must confront evil,

not in some exterior form,

but the potential for sin and evil 

within their own being.

It is an experience of trial and hunger,

and it seems that this must be

accepted and passed through

in order for a deepening to happen.

There's the old childhood play chant

about going on a bear hunt.

With each obstacle encountered on the bear hunt

there's the refrain:

can't go over it....

can't go under it....

can't go around it....

gotta go through it.

The children of Israel,

in their flight from slavery

and journey to the promised land

come to the wilderness and

they “gotta go through it.”

They don't even get to pass

through it by the short path

according to the ancient story.

It seems they will need to linger there,

and know hunger, and confront

their impatience, their need to be in control,

their misplaced desires, their fears.

They also confront there

their God in whom they hoped.

Jesus is led by the Spirit into this arid wilderness,

his forty days of fasting there

a remembrance of his people's

forty year desert sojourn.

Luke and Matthew speak of him as being “led” there.

Mark puts it even more pointedly:

And the Spirit immediately drove him

out into the wilderness.

Driven into the silence,

the solitude

and the slowing.

Couldn't Jesus, the Messiah,

have spent those forty days

far more productively?

Couldn't he have faced

temptation a bit more efficiently

and maybe with a little less

silence, solitude and hunger?

There were multitudes to feed,

sick people to heal,

broken lives to mend.

This wasn't very Christian of him,

to leave all that behind and

head out into the wildlands.

Wasn't he squandering precious time

and the power of God within him?

This was, in fact, the very nature

of his temptations:

Be all-powerful!

Be relevant!

Be in control!

Be the answer the world is looking for!

Jesus, too, needed to pass through the wilderness,

and the “power of the slowing.”

He had to face the demons in his own being,

and by doing so, to discover the

true blessing of his own being.

He couldn't go over it,

he couldn't go under it,

he couldn't go around it,

Jesus had to pass through it

before he could be prepared

to journey through all

that came beyond it.

It seems this is the path we all must take.

Evelyn Underhill once wrote:

No Christian escapes a taste of the wilderness

on the way to the promised land.

It will come to us in many forms.

We will have the choice whether or not

to receive it as an invitation or as a unwelcome burden.

We are also given the opportunity as we live

to willingly choose to enter the wilderness,

to practice the “power of the slowing.”

We practice it in those moments when we

literally slow our pace, when we make room

for quiet, for solitude, for Sabbath,

for things our culture considers wasted time

like playing and praying.

Why choose such things?

Why pray when there is so much to do?

Why observe Sabbath rest when

there is so much necessary labor?

Why slow down if it means you aren't

helping as many people as you possibly can?

Why fast when you're surrounded

by much good food and drink?

Why go to the wilderness when there's

much more fun to be had right here?

Why silence and why solitude when

it makes us so vulnerable and uncomfortable?

Why observe Lent when Easter seems

much more happy and reassuring?

Perhaps it is because we truly need these things.

Perhaps we are better able to confront

the temptations and fears of the world

when we first recognize them in ourselves.

Perhaps we are better able to serve our neighbor,

and to respond to injustice and evil in the world,

when we first see that the line between

good and evil is drawn within our own hearts.

Perhaps we can better recognize the blessing of life

all around us, when we seek, look, listen

and find that blessing in our own being.

May God lead us, alone and together,

through the wilderness, to our true home. Amen

the hands of the dervish

                                                                                                                                                 photo: public domain

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Theme: Unbound and Set Free

Texts: Isaiah 6:1-13 and Luke 7:36-50

Eric Massanari

“the hands of the dervish”

I hear these two passages of scripture

as stories of grace.

Isaiah finds himself in a rather humbling

position, standing before the throne of God.

And, understandably, his conscience is pricked.

“Woe is me Lord, I don't deserve to be here,

I am a man of unclean lips.”

Which is to say, "I've been a hypocrite.
I've professed faith with my mouth,
but not with my life and my actions."

But rather than shame, blame, or guilt

being imposed on Isaiah, the angel touches

his lips with a hot coal and proclaims

him forgiven, and now called

to be a messenger of God.

Grace flows through Isaiah.

The woman in Luke's gospel,

who enters a Pharisee's home uninvited

and weeps on Jesus' feet,

dries them with her hair,

anoints them with costly oils,

should be ashamed of herself,

according to her host and many guests.

However, Jesus welcomes her,

proclaims that her faith has saved her,

and sends her with a blessing of peace.

Grace flows through this woman.

Grace is another one of the big words

we frequently use in the church.

Sometimes we toss it around haphazardly,

peppering prayers with a dash of grace-talk.

Sometimes we use the word “grace”

when we try to describe very real

and deeply transforming experiences

on the journey of faith.

We use it to speak of things like:

forgiveness,

mercy,

unconditional love,

unexpected epiphanies,

long-awaited healing,

newly found hope,

or the simple, blessed moments when we say “yes,”

and sense that with our “yes” we are somehow

living in harmony with the natural flow of Life.

Grace.

We all stand in need of grace—amazing grace.

In scripture and in the traditions of the church

we speak of God's grace,

and we also speak of grace as

something that we share in as well.

Human beings can be grace-full;

we can live with a spirit of grace

pervading our being and our doing.

Grace is one of those elemental powers

of living and loving that defies

rational explanations.

We cannot grasp it for safe-keeping.

It cannot be conjured up on demand.

it seems that grace is more often found

when we do not go looking for it,

and it becomes ours when

we cease trying to realize it.

And when we do encounter grace,

there is that strange sense

that it has been there, ever-present, all along.

Poets probably do a big word

like grace far more justice than

the preachers and the scholars.

Here are a few poet's voices on the flow of grace ...

• Psalm 131

          O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,

          my eyes are not raised too high;

          I do not occupy myself with things

          too great and too marvelous for me.

          But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

          like a weaned child with its mother;

          my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

• William Stafford's “Yes”

           It could happen any time, tornado

          earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.

          Or sunshine, love, salvation.

          It could, you know. That's why we wake

          and look out—no guarantees

          in this life.

          But some bonuses, like morning,

          like right now, like noon,

          like evening.

• Rumi's “I am the guest”

          For sixty years

          I have been forgetful 

every moment, but

not for a second

has this flowing

toward me

stopped or slowed.

I deserve nothing.

Today I recognize

that I am the guest

the mystics talk about.

I play this living music

for my Host.

Everything today

is for the Host.

The poets capture the truth that

the flow of grace has as much to do

with what we receive as it does

with what we give and pass along.

We become conduits of grace.

Rumi, the Persian poet and Sufi mystic

who wrote that last poem,

offered the world a beautiful, physical

image for the flow of grace through our lives.

The story is told that one day

when Rumi was walking through a village

when he became captivated by the sound

of the workers hammering out gold.

He heard in the rhythmic pounding

the ancient prayer of his people:

la elaha ella'llah

“there is no god but God alone”

And with the rhythmic hammering,

and that prayer echoing in his heart,

Rumi began to turn, and spin in a circle,

one hand open and raised to heaven,

and one hand open and turned to the earth.

This turning became a prayer practice

of the Mevlevi Order of Sufism,

the mystical stream of Islam.

More commonly, the practitioners of

this form of dancing prayer have

been referred to as the “whirling dervishes.”

Yolanda and I were given

an opportunity to practice this form

of praying a number of years ago

when the retreat center we were working at

hosted a week-long retreat for a

Sufi community in the Pacific Northwest.

The Sufis are a very ecumenical tradition,

and would see themselves as our

sisters and brothers in faith in the One God.

They openly welcomed us to join them

in their worship and prayer life

which included group circle dances—

“Dances of Universal Peace” they called them—

and the turning, whirling prayer of the dervishes.

Beyond fighting initial dizziness

I remember being struck at what

a beautiful image this turning

is for the journey of life:

our constant turning into change,

the ongoing, unfolding path of

birthing, dying, rebirthing,

wounding, confessing, forgiving,

suffering, living, hoping,

receiving, holding, and giving.

For me the image of a dervish

spinning in prayer embodies

the path Christ calls his followers to:

the path of becoming a channel,

a living conduit for the flow of God's grace.

Grace allows us to risk stepping into

life with a “yes” on our lips,

to trust God more and more,

not only in the parts of life

where we are competent and successful,

but in those places where we truly

step into the unknown, where we are vulnerable,

and where we risk something in love.

The woman who stepped into the house

of Simon the Pharisee was risking a great deal;

she was not welcome there.

It was not a place for the likes of her.

The story reveals the personal thoughts

of the Simon, who says to himself,

“If Jesus knew what kind of woman

this is he would have nothing to do with her.”

In fact, according to custom, no woman

should have approached a man in

that setting, and certainly not in such

a provocative and suggestive way.

She should be ashamed of herself.

Jesus should be ashamed of himself.

He's no prophet,

no rabbi.

The woman becomes Simon's teacher

on the flow of grace.

Jesus points to the risk she has taken,

and the gift she has shared,

and holds it in the light alongside

the things that Simon has withheld

in his fear and his judgment.

She is our teacher.

Her posture, kneeling at the feet of Jesus

and anointing his feet with her

tears and the ointment of nard

is, like the whirl of the dervish

with hands open to heaven and earth,

a posture of pure openness and grace.

And Jesus makes this curious statement:

Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven;

so she is now able to show great love.

But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little. (v.47)

Jesus' words suggest that our need for forgiveness,

and our capacity to share love in this world are linked.

If we are not willing to humbly acknowledge

our own need for forgiveness, our own need

for mercy and grace, then our ability

to live with love and openness to life is diminished.

We are less grace-full.

We can love more fully

when we remember that we, too,

stand in the need of grace.

I remember, years ago, when our congregation

was faced with a very difficult decision

about whether or not we would be able

to welcome into this fellowship a man who

had hurt others—hurt children—very deeply.

For many important reasons,

he and we needed to struggle

with what it would mean for him

to be part of our community of faith.

Much was risked in that time of discernment,

much grace was needed, and much expressed.

I remember one day, months into

our congregation's journey with this man,

sitting at a restaurant with him for lunch.

During our conversation he confronted me,

letting me me know that I had violated his trust,
I had shared something with someone
that he had told me in confidence.  

From the moment I met him and heard

the story of the violence he had done to others,

I had felt many things about this man,

many of which were not very pastoral or compassionate.

I believe I had largely viewed him through the same eyes

that Simon the Pharisee viewed the woman

anointing Jesus' feet at the dinner table.

And here he was holding me accountable,

honestly pointing out my sin.

In that moment in the restaurant he became my teacher,

and I needed to ask him for forgiveness.

And when I asked for it, he freely, graciously offered it.

He taught me in that moment

that we each stand in need of grace,

we each need to receive the gift of

knowing how we are truly seen

through the eyes of the God who loves us

and who longs for us to be freed

of the blame, shame, fear and guilt

that hold us in bondage.

And when we get a glimpse of this, of the way God sees us,

we are able to turn and offer that love back into the world.

We are all created to be

conduits of God's grace,

and channels of Christ's peace. Amen.