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