Greetings, and welcome to the Brea Congregational UCC reflection group. This began as a daily email but we thought it might be helpful for others if we made it available online for others.

I hope that you find it helpful and, perhaps, even an encouragement to write your own reflections.

~ Jeanyne

Rev. Dr. Jeanyne Slettom is a co-pastor of Brea Congregational United Church of Christ, director of Process & Faith, and adjunct theology professor at Claremont School of Theology. Bible quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version or The Message, a vernacular version by Eugene Peterson.

REFLECTIONS

Reflection 40	Reflection 30	Reflection 20	Reflection 10
Reflection 39	Reflection 29	Reflection 19	Reflection 9
Reflection 38	Reflection 28	Reflection 18	Reflection 8
Reflection 37	Reflection 27	Reflection 17	Reflection 7
Reflection 36	Reflection 26	Reflection 16	Reflection 6
Reflection 35	Reflection 25	Reflection 15	Reflection 5
Reflection 34	Reflection 24	Reflection 14	Reflection 4
Reflection 33	Reflection 23	Reflection 13	Reflection 3
Reflection 32	Reflection 22	Reflection 12	Reflection 2
Reflection 31	Reflection 21	Reflection 11	Reflection 1

Reflection #40

Holy Saturday is a weird, in-between time, usually neglected in the Protestant tradition. But it, like Good Friday, is integral to Easter. In the early church, it was the day that Jesus “descended into hell” to bring out the souls of the righteous. But Holy Saturday is for us the time of waiting, of uncertainty, of anxiety. One door has closed, the other has not yet opened. What is this strange hallway between them? Is it really, as noted humorously in an earlier reflection, hell? It sure can feel like it. But psychologists and anthropologists have another name for it. They call it liminal space, from the Latin word for “threshold.” It is an ambiguous space, a marginal No-Man’s Land of indeterminate boundaries, where we are no longer what we were, but not quite yet what we will be.

Liminal space is, in short, a hidden realm where the work of God unfolds. It is the place where the real work of transformation occurs. It is, in many respects, a peregrinatio of our inward being—a pilgrimage to which we called, but with no clear sense of our goal or destination.

Liminal space is the invisible space where essential things happen, but out of sight. Think of roots growing in the dark earth, going down, before any sprout breaks the surface. Imagine a spring-fed lake, into which flows water from some deeper source underground. Think of the transformation in the disciples, who somehow turned their devastation and fear into an experience of the living Christ.

Thinking It Through

Some of you have learned from previous sojourns in this space to welcome it as a time of creativity, also as a sign that you really have separated yourself from the old and are making progress toward the new. But even knowing this doesn’t make it easier, nor does it shorten how long a person stays “betwixt and between.”

I know of only one way to traverse that hallway, and that way is trust in God—trust that this hallway does lead to another door, and I will cross that threshold. And, somehow, all will be well. We have the supreme example of this trust from Jesus of Nazareth, who by his faith and trust in God was transformed into the living Christ. But first he had to—we have to—live through Holy Saturday, that strange day when everything is suspended between what was and what will be.

The disciples went to bed the night before Easter not knowing what the next day would bring. As we finish this time together of Lenten reflections, let us also go to bed on this night before Easter with some of that uncertainty. We know what happened in the Gospel stories, but we don’t know what will happen in ours.  May you dream tonight in liminal space, and may you be surprised tomorrow. What will you find when the stone is rolled away and you cross your own soul’s threshold?

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb . . .” (John 20:1).

Prayer

 Let all that is within me bless your holy name. Amen and amen.

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Reflection #39

Everything within us strains for the end of suffering, the restoration of wholeness and health, the liberation from hardship and injustice, but this one, long day—Good Friday—we are asked to resist the rush to closure. We’re invited to identify with Jesus’ suffering—not so that we can be martyrs—but so that we can take that next crucial step with him, the step where we acknowledge our fear but nevertheless choose to put our trust in God. That is the essential bridge between Good Friday and Easter.

When we trust in God, we are invited to contemplate the paradox: that out of pain and death, out of hopelessness and despair, out of persecution and injustice, can come transformed lives and a transformed world.

So today and tonight I invite you to sit with your doubt, sit with your weakness, acknowledge what is lost, feel the pain—not just your own, but of the broken places and people in the world. And as you do, fill your body and mind with trust, simple trust in God. Try to hold that feeling. Return to it during the course of the day and through the evening. Hold what is wounded in you, in those you love, or in the world. Fill your heart and mind with trust in God. And then let us see what arises in us.

Thinking It Through

This is the paradox and the power of Good Friday that is still at work in our lives whenever we put our trust in God:

That deep doubt calls forth deeper faith
That strength is rooted in what was thought to be weakness
That what is lost will be found, and found again
That power shared is power multiplied, not diminished
That pain is the prelude to healing
That the sacred is carefully folded into the ordinary
That from the hopelessness of death comes resurrection and life
That out of Good Friday comes Easter 
And that there is no human life—not Jesus’ and not our own—without the Spirit of God incarnate within us, breathing in us and through us, transforming us

“And then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly; your vindicator shall go before you, the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help, and God will say, ‘Here I am’” (Isaiah 58:8-9).

Prayer

May your light break forth in me, in all the dark places where I hold my anger and fear, where I hoard slights, where I conceal my weaknesses, where I justify my inaction when confronted by the world’s needs.

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Reflection #38

At some point Jesus had to make a choice: continue on his present, increasingly dangerous course, or cut and run. The gospel accounts put that ultimate decision in the Garden of Gethsemane. There he confronted his impending death, and in a wrenchingly human moment, confessed: ”O Lord, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”  

And then in a dramatic move, he turned it over to God: “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.” He made a choice: to put his trust in God. And the power of his choice has resonated through every century ever since. It is a power felt year after year in Christian communities that gather to hear the story read again, and it is a power felt in all our dark Gethsemanes, when life events bring us to our knees.

The story of Jesus’ betrayal and death reminds us that suffering is an all-too human experience. It can’t be avoided or ignored or brushed aside so that we can get on with our lives. The bitter cup of tragedy, suffering, and loss, is part of human existence. But suffering is not redemptive. There is no special power in suffering. The power comes from putting our trust in God, as Jesus did in the garden.

Thinking It Through

Consider Gandhi, taking a nonviolent stand against the British Empire; then urging peace between Hindus and Muslims in a divided India and Pakistan . . .

Consider Martin Luther King, Jr., continuing to lead the fight for racial equality, despite death threats, stepping out on that balcony in Memphis . . .

One can imagine for each of them a dark, terrible night—perhaps brought on by exhaustion, the loss of someone close, a crushing setback—a night when they asked,  “Why am I doing this? Why did it have to be me?” And one can imagine the temptation:  “Let this cup pass from me.”

Or any of us, for that matter, worried about those we love or struggling ourselves with loss, with illnesses of mind and body, or problems we have struggled against our whole lives, but that never go away: temptations, fears, weaknesses . . . Who among us has not said, “Let this cup pass from me”?

“Then Jesus went with them to a placed called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, ’Sit here while I go over there and pray’” (Matthew 26:36).

Prayer

May I trust all things—my life itself—to your compassionate care.

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Reflection #37

Years ago, after one of those awful high school shootings, I heard that the principal called his colleagues in Columbine, asking for advice. What’s the best way to get through something like this? he asked. Only one way, he was told: time. In other words, you just have to go through it. There are no special techniques to help students and teachers rush through recovery. There’s no way to hurry the process. It’s what we all know, but wish weren’t so: there is no way past hard times except through them.

And here we are again in Holy Week, still telling the story of one man’s painful betrayal and death. We know how it ends, so why dwell on this part? Why do we have to be dragged through the story again? Can’t we skip it and go straight to Easter? But it’s the same thing: there’s no way to rush it. To get to Easter, we have to first go through Good Friday, then through Holy Saturday—that weird time of waiting, of suspension between death and life, when everything is up in the air and no one knows anything for certain except pain and fear.

It’s the same with our lives. We want to leapfrog over the hard parts, get past them as quickly as possible. But to experience transformation—to get to Easter—we have to go through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. 

Thinking It Through

Holy Week is a story told in five chapters. It’s the story of Jesus, of course, but it is also a story that gets lived by many people, and in any given year, any one of us can be living in any one of its chapters. That’s because the metaphorical journey through Holy Week is a meta-narrative. It reprises at a deep, symbolic level, the story of human experience. We begin on Palm Sunday with an ideal vision of wholeness and celebration of life. We come to Thursday and the experience of betrayal. Thursday turns into Friday, the experience of suffering and the death of hope or dreams or you fill in the appropriate word. Lots of people get stuck in Holy Saturday, the day suspended between life and death, when the Apostles’ Creed tells us that Jesus descended into hell. Some people can spend years in Holy Saturday. But the story doesn’t end there; it needs the final chapter: recovery, new life—resurrection. When we know the whole story, when we know the pattern, then when we find ourselves in one of the earlier chapters, we can trust we will make it through to the end. We can give ourselves time to get there.

And that is why we tell the story—because it traces an arc from innocence to struggle to transformation. It is a promise. It tells us what we can hope for, especially at those times when our vision is obstructed by trauma, loss, or confusion.

“You will have pain, but your pain will turn to joy” (John 16:20b).

Prayer

Teach me this truth in my inward being: when I am lonely and frightened, you are there; when I am overcome with wonder and gratitude, you are there; when I am hurt or angry, you are there; when I am subdued and waiting, waiting . . . you are there, and your promise of resurrection is unfailing.

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Reflection #36

Yesterday I wrote about what sinks to the bottom of lakes, so today it seems only fair to write about what gets dredged up. I grew up in a house on a hill, and at the bottom of the hill was a small lake. When we first moved there, the lake was shallow and muddy, and the land around it was not quite a swamp, but not quite ready for grass, either. So one day the earth-moving truck came, and the big bucket with its iron teeth dredged the lake bottom down about ten feet and brought all that mud to the surface. It was left in big piles on the shore until it dried out, then another truck came in and leveled it. Seed was the last step, then finally we had a grassy shoreline. I’m sure it was not ecologically correct, but that was then.

There was no treasure that emerged from the deep. Truthfully, it was just muck. But it was nutrient-rich muck, and it became the soil in which the grass and the willow bushes grew, where the vegetable garden was planted, and, frankly, it was where I grew. The lake bottom became the top soil, much like the psyche dredges up unknown resources from the unconscious, exposes them to the light of consciousness, and uses them to grow the spirit.

Thinking It Through

Sometimes, what falls to the bottom re-surfaces as the very thing that is needed for growth. And it’s not always a gentle process. Like the iron teeth of the dredger, sometimes what is needed is wrenched violently from the deep because of trauma or acute necessity. Can we find God even in these moments?

“God uncovers the deeps out of the darkness, and brings deep darkness to light” (Job 12:22).

Prayer

In all that forms me, both seen and unseen, may I know your guiding presence.

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Reflection #35

Fishing, as you might imagine in a state with thousands of lakes, is a big deal in Minnesota. The season opener—on Mother’s Day!—is practically a holiday. Certainly ministers are expected to understand that some of their parishioners will be worshipping on lakes rather than in pews that day. . . and maybe on other Sundays throughout the summer, too. And the really die-hard fisher folk don’t let a little ice and snow stop them. Whole communities spring up on lakes in the winter. When the ice gets thick enough, the trucks pull fishing houses onto the lake. On the bigger lakes, you can even find “streets” with helpful street signs to guide you to your location. All you really need to go ice fishing is a campstool, an auger, and the ability to withstand cold, but over the years, some fishing houses have gotten really elaborate and quite toasty, too. Ice fishing, however it is undertaken, is a great north country tradition.

There’s one tradition, however, that I think our ecological awareness has stopped, and that was driving an old beater onto the lake and letting it sit there until spring. The game was to guess when the ice would have thawed enough for the car to fall through the ice. The whole town got into it, placing bets on different days. I shudder to think how many rusted old cars are sitting at the bottom of Minnesota lakes, the corrosion subtly seeping into those waters.

We can do that, too. We can take whole aspects of our lives—old habits, old memories, whole blocks of experience—and let them sink to the bottom of our unconscious. But are they really gone? Or do they—like those sunken cars—come to rest in some submerged world, where their influence continues, all unseen?

Thinking It Through

How do we effect change in our lives? Is it by a process of abandonment, wherein we jettison all the things we no longer want? Or is it a process of recycling, wherein we acknowledge all our past experiences, but use them as raw material for new self-understanding? How do we reconcile the words of Ecclesiastes—there is “nothing new under the sun”—with the words of Revelation, about making all things new? What does “new” mean in an evolving creation? How do we make ourselves “new” when we are created in God’s image and accepted by God “just as I am”?

“What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9).

“And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new’” (Revelation 21:5).

Prayer

Take all that I am, O God, and all that I have been, and guide me toward the best I can possibly be.

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Reflection #34

When my grandfather died, we discovered what many of you have perhaps found when a loved one dies. He had marked the passages in his Bible that he wanted read at his funeral. At the top of his list was the 23rd Psalm.

I think if we did a nationwide poll of Christians and asked them to choose the most comforting words of all time—words they want to hear at a funeral or have spoken at their own—I’m confident the 23rd Psalm would be in the top ten. There is something about these words, uttered so long ago, in a vastly different world, that continue to speak to us. Their power crosses time and geography and culture, so that even someone who’s never met a shepherd or even seen a sheep, except maybe in a petting zoo, still finds these words speak directly to the human heart.

The words are powerful, I think, because they tell a story. The words comprise a deep narrative—a story that tells a common truth about what it means to be human. Like any good story, it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And also like a good story, the end takes us back to the beginning; that is, it starts with God—“The Lord is my shepherd”—and it ends with God—“I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” The middle is like a journey—experiences of blessing and woe along life’s way as we travel from God, to God, from birth to death.

Thinking It Through

While we live, we can be at any point in the story. We may find ourselves going through quiet times of rest. We may find ourselves in times of recovery. We may find ourselves urged by God to leave off one path and find another, better path. We may find ourselves in the midst of unexpected blessing. And we have all found ourselves at one time or another in the valley of the shadow of death, or surrounded by enemies. These days, of course, the enemies we face are not Philistine warriors. They are likely to be more subtle forces like anger, or illness, or alienation, or more impersonal forces, like economic hardship. But they are enemies nevertheless, and we overcome them by knowing that we are in the presence and care of God. Where in the psalm do you find yourself today?

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.
He leads me in the path of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil.
Your rod and your staff—they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Prayer

May I recite the words of this psalm and believe them.

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Reflection #33

“Put your question before God,” she told me. “Ask. Trust that you will get an answer. And God will answer you.” So I asked—a variation of “why me?”—the most basic of queries put before God. And I waited. A few weeks later, I had a dream about a synagogue I had visited the previous year. This synagogue, in St. Paul, had an exhibit of artifacts from the Holocaust. In one glass case I had seen a scroll, about three feet tall, with silver spindles, and the charred remains of a Torah that had been held between them. The placard told a simple but terrifying story. German soldiers had wrapped this Torah around a three-year-old child. They had doused her with gasoline and set her on fire, in front of her parents.

When I woke up, I knew God had answered my question, and in a way that Job would have understood. Why me? Well, why not me? We live in a web of people and events where evil abounds. It was not the will of God that I suffered, any more than it was the will of God that this child and her parents should have suffered. If God didn’t suspend the laws of nature and history to intervene on behalf of this child, why should I expect God to have done so for me? I realized I had been asking the wrong question. “Why me,” however heartfelt, is the question of a victim. Behind the question is a theology of God that asks “Why did YOU do this to me? Why did you LET this happen to me?” “What did I do?” There is something very different behind the question, “Why not me?” that indicates a theology of God where no one is singled out for favor or punishment, because we are ALL children of God.

Thinking It Through

To say that God loves us all, without discrimination, is to say that God grieves as much for the soldiers as for the child and her parents. To say “why not me?” is to listen for a different kind of response, one in which God acknowledges, with pain, that grievous things happen in this world. This is the “I am here” response. But then God challenges us. “You, you who are living. You who survived. What will you do when confronted again with evil? What will you do to protect the innocent?”

“But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45).

Prayer

Give me the courage to fight violence and injustice and the grace to accept that you love even the people who have hurt me.

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Reflection #32

In this season when we reflect upon the death of an innocent man who championed economic and social justice for the poor, it is fitting to recall that 30 years ago, on March 24, 1980, Archbishop Oscar Romero of San Salvador, in El Salvador, was also killed for his solidarity with the oppressed. In a country silenced by the brutal governmental use of torture and death squads, Romero became a voice for the people, denouncing the violence and repression and urging justice. He was assassinated while celebrating Mass.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God" (Matthew 5:9).

The Romero Prayer

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view. 
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work. 
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.

~ Bishop Ken Untener

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Reflection #31

John Cage was a 20th-century avant-garde composer with a great sense of humor. His music was decidedly playful: he once held a microphone to his throat while he gargled water. Another composition was written for radios—he lined a bunch of them up on stage and then went from one to another, fiddling with the dials and tuning to different stations. But his most famous piece is called 4’33” (Four Minutes, 33 Seconds). Picture this: the musicians are seated, music on the stands in front of them. The conductor’s baton is raised, the downbeat given, and . . . nothing. For 4 minutes and 33 seconds the orchestra sits there in silence. Occasionally the conductor turns a page. The “notes” one hears are the environmental sounds that are normally inaudible or muted when an orchestra is playing—a rustling program, a cough, the sound of your own breathing. The point is that there is no silence. When our ears are attentive, expectant, and the orchestra isn’t playing, then we become far more aware of other sounds—the ambient sound all around us.

The piece can be performed by any combination of instruments. Pianist David Tudor has performed it as a piano solo; I was present for a performance by the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra. There are televised performances; also several available on youtube.

Cage got the idea after he entered an anechoic chamber—essentially a sound-proof, sensory deprivation room. He expected to hear nothing, but was surprised to hear two sounds—one high pitched, the other lower. The engineer told him that the high-pitched sound was his nervous system; the low-pitched one the sound of his blood circulating.

Thinking It Through

It is intriguing to read that when Cage first conceived of such a composition, he wanted to call it Silent Prayer. More intriguing: he later wrote that in entering the anechoic chamber, he had gone to a place where he expected total silence, and yet there was sound. This “impossibility of silence” led him to write, “Until I die there will be sounds. And they will continue following my death.” He was writing about the future of music, but what does the “impossibility of silence” suggest about life, death, and the nature of God? What will we hear when sound, as we know it, has ceased? Cage expected silence, but heard instead the life in his body. If death can be likened to an anechoic chamber, what will we still hear when we enter into it?

On a more mundane note, what happens when the “orchestra” of our lives is silent? Can you imagine scheduling 4 minutes and 33 seconds to tune out what you expect to hear and listening instead for other sounds in your environment? What if, at low times in our lives, when we think that God is silent, God is actually speaking in the ambient sounds all around us and within us, just waiting for us to tune in?

“Let anyone with ears listen!” (Matthew 11:15).

Prayer

Tune my ears to hear your coming; tune my heart to sing your grace.

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Reflection #30

I don’t know how he did it, but every spring my grandfather grew dozens of Easter lilies, and every spring they were all in bloom by Easter. This was Minnesota, of course, so he grew them indoors. He didn’t have a greenhouse, so he grew them in the walk-out basement. He cleared everything away from the west-facing windows, set up long tables and water-tight trays that he had soldered together himself. He planted the bulbs, watered them, fed them, gave them sunlight, but even more, he figured out how to time them just right. And without fail, on Easter Sunday when we gathered after church for an Easter feast prepared by my grandmother, more than sixty lilies were blooming, all leaning toward the sun. The whole house was redolent with their fragrance
 
Lilies are grown from bulbs. Like other spring flowers, they are dormant in the summer and fall and awaken in the spring. One could argue that because of its reflective nature, the season of Lent is more likened to a period of dormancy, with Easter as the flowering. But I like the imagery of awakening. Isn’t that what reflection is about? A time when we set aside the usual excuses and distractions and look inward? And in the very act of looking, of turning our attention on neglected, ignored, or unknown aspects of ourselves, hidden things stir, grow restless, seek light, even blossom. What are you growing in the cool, moist places of your being?

Thinking It Through

Recently, I saw these words from a friend: “When one door closes, another opens, but the hallway is hell.” That’s where my grandfather had the advantage. He knew how to time things so the lilies would bloom when he wanted them to. We are not so lucky when we are going through periods of dormancy. Even when we can, in our imagination, glimpse the blossom, we still have little control over that slow period of awakening, when it looks like nothing is happening, nothing at all. How do we grow patience along with the flower, patience for its unfolding? Where do we place our trust?

“I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth” (I Corinthians 3:6-7).

Prayer

Help me to trust that what you have planted in me will indeed grow, will flower, and will bring beauty to this world. Help me to trust not only my being but my becoming.

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Reflection #29

When I worked in downtown St. Paul, two friends and I used to walk every day on our lunch hour. We would walk through the streets, heading for the Mississippi River, and then walk down one side to the Wabasha Street Bridge, cross over to the other side, walk up to the Robert Street Bridge, then cross again and head back to the office. We would pass storm drains along the way with these words painted on the curb: “No dumping—leads directly to Mississippi River.”

“Leads directly to the Mississippi River” . . . yes, and the river flows from Minnesota through several states, all the way to Louisiana. So if I dump toxic waste down a storm drain in St. Paul, it will work its long way down the river, potentially as far as the Gulf of Mexico. It will affect everyone and everything downstream from me. The obvious response is to think carefully about what goes into the drain.  

The same is true about the things we do and say. In a sense, whatever we dump out there in the world goes downstream from us. Words leave our mouths and are carried away. Actions enter the currents of time, going far beyond our reach. Who knows what kind of influence they will have downstream? The obvious response is to think carefully about how readily we dump our negative feelings—our anger, impatience, fear, sarcasm, cynicism—into the world.

Thinking It Through

This is the last week for Jesus to be on the road. On Palm Sunday he arrives in Jerusalem and all the events of Holy Week are set in motion. So it seems a fitting time to pick up again the theme of peregrinatio—a pilgrimage with an unknown destination, but one the pilgrim understands to be initiated by God. What does God call us to safely discard? Where is the place to which we are called? Is it to a geographic location or is to some inner state, to a better—here’s an old-fashioned word—character? Lent lends itself to this kind of reflection, but of course we are always being called forward by God. Life itself is a peregrinatio. It’s just that Lent is a season that encourages particular attention to this way that God is present in our lives.

“May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer” Psalm 19:14).

Prayer

Help me to grow into the person you know I can be. Help me to discover in myself the goodness you created, and let my words and deeds flow from that goodness.

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Reflection #28

These early spring days are a delight for many reasons, not the least of which is the birdsong that fills my neighborhood. The songs are so melodic and distinctive that I wish I could identify them.
 
Birdsong always puts me in mind of Charles Hartshorne, who was an American philosopher and unusual, for philosophers, at least, in that he argued for the existence of God. Hartshorne, who died peacefully at home at the age of 103, also loved birds, and after years of careful observation, this is what he concluded: Some birds, like some people, sing for pure enjoyment. They sing to attract mates and to protect territory, he wrote in his book, Born to Sing (1973), but they also sing simply because they love to.
 
This brings to mind two questions. What do you do for sheer enjoyment? Whatever it is, do you do it often enough?

Thinking It Through

Maybe I respond to this because I am also a singer, but I think there’s more going on here. First of all, surely it is not an accident that when creatures do what they love, they also contribute beauty and value to the world. Second, doesn’t it make sense if God created birds with such a capacity for enjoyment that God would create the same capacity in us? We have many abilities that enable us to get along with people, earn a living, and generally make it through the day, but we also have—all of us—something within us that is there for our enjoyment. And if birds are any indication, then when we do what we enjoy, we also bring beauty and value to the world.

There are plenty of bleak things in the world, as this season reminds us. But it is still the world that God “so loves.” What does it reveal about the nature of God and life itself to say that God enjoys our enjoyment?

“Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises. Sing praises to the Lord with the lyre, with the lyre and the sound of melody. With trumpets and the sound of the horn make a joyful noise before the King, the Lord. Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; the world and those who live in it. Let the floods clap their hands; let the hills sing together for joy at the presence of the Lord” (Psalm 98: 4-9).

Prayer

Unleash from within me the gifts you implanted, that in their joyous expression I may contribute something of value to this world.

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Reflection #27

My grandfather could grow anything. His backyard ended in a swamp, and over the years he reclaimed that land for growing, turning it into vegetable gardens, flower beds, and an orchard. At a certain point, he needed a greater challenge, and so he began to graft apple trees. He started by grafting Haralsons onto a McIntosh tree. When he had two varieties successfully growing on one tree, he added another variety, Red Delicious. For fun, I think just to show he could, he grafted a plum branch unto the same tree, so from one apple tree we could pick Haralsons, McInstoshes, and Red Delicious, as well as some hardy Minnesota plum the name of which I have no idea.

When I think of the things that divide us, the people we reject or ignore or fear because they’re “not like us,” I think of my grandfather’s Haralson-McIntosh-Red Delicious-apple/plum tree. Would Jesus have picked the Red Delicious and shunned the plum? Is it even possible to imagine that God, who made them all, would love the Haralson and hate the McIntosh? And isn’t it just possible that God especially loved the creativity of it all—my grandfather’s inclusive vision that brought all these things together?

Thinking It Through

What is it that really holds us together?  Is it some ideology or affinity group? Or is it that we are all the work of one Creator? That we are all, imperfect as we are, beloved by God? The power to grow and produce fruit wasn’t in the branches that were grafted onto that tree. The power was in the root system they all shared, in the water and nutrients those roots pulled from the soil, in the sun that shone without prejudice on the leaves, and on the bees who pollinated the blossoms without distinguishing one variety from another. We abide in life itself, and life is what God gives to all creation.

“Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:4-5).

Prayer

Help me to find you in the diversity of life. Help me to see that we are held together in your love, which sustains all creation.

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Reflection #26

In Minnesota, with its thousands of lakes, the water table is high, so it is relatively easy to find water. All you really need is a shovel. Dig down far enough, and the hole will fill with water. But it is easier to push water away than to pull it up, so all the old farmsteads have old-fashioned hand pumps that you operate by moving a long lever up and down. The one I know best is painted red, and we use it to water the gardens. It has never failed.

But here’s the thing with hand pumps: to get water, you need to add water. That is, the suction valve has to be moistened, or primed, with water before it will work. Once it is primed, the water will come gushing up from the ground and out of the spout. But you must use the water you have in order to get the water you need. Is there something deep within you that needs to be primed before it will flow out of you?

Thinking It Through

If, as I’ve suggested, God is like a lake of the heart, or in the words of the song, “a fountain ever springing,” then what does it take to bring this to your conscious awareness? How do you “prime the pump” of God consciousness? To get water, you must add water. Is it possible that to “get” God’s presence in you, you must be alert to God’s presence in others (human and nonhuman), in nature, in music and the arts? Is it possible, even, to prime the pump without realizing it, that is, to experience something in the world and then to feel God bursting out of you? What would it be like to be intentional about it, to practice this kind of priming every day?

“Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly . . . your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday. The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail” (Isaiah 58:8-11).

Prayer

May I feel your presence within me as a spring of never-failing water. As I am nourished by you, may I pour myself into the parched places of this world, bringing hope and help.

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Reflection #25

I have always lived by water (although in California, that water is chlorinated). I grew up on a small lake in Minnesota and spent a good part of my time on it (rowing, ice skating) or in it (swimming) or along its shores. I poured into that lake every ounce of the feeling one experiences so intensely in childhood and adolescence, and I drew from it all the comfort and beauty and sustenance I could. Given that association, is it any wonder that years later, when I came upon a certain phrase in the prologue to Dante’s Inferno, it pierced me to the bone.
 
The phrase was “lake of the heart.”  For Dante, the “lake” is the blood that gathers in the cavity of the heart. It is the seat of emotion, especially strong emotions, such as love and fear. It is also the intersection of body and soul, for the substance that flows through our veins and is the life force of our bodies is analogous to the mysterious substance that flows through the soul and is the life force of our being.
 
Well, yes. That makes sense. The feeling that fills my heart when I look on a lake is connected to the feeling that fills my spirit. I think most of us have a “lake of the heart”—something that connects the strongest feelings of our hearts to the very spirit that enlivens us. Because the connection begins in childhood, it is often experienced in nature—for me a lake, for you the ocean, or a tree, or for so many people, an animal. Beloved pets are also a “lake of the heart,” beings into which we pour every ounce of our emotions and from which we connect to the source of their being.

Thinking It Through

In the 38th chapter of Job, God responds to Job’s demand for an answer to his suffering by asking Job one question after another, with each question serving to point out the enormous difference between God and any human being. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” God asks, a question that seems to invite Job to abase himself completely before the power of God. Elie Wiesel offers a counter reading, however, when he suggests what happens in this chapter is that Job finally realizes that his experience of God is greater than his experience of suffering.
 
In that spirit, I offer an unorthodox answer to this question: “Have you gone down to the springs of the sea or walked in the unfathomable deep?” (Job 38:16). The answer is yes, yes, I have, in the lake of my heart. And there I found You.

Prayer

Fill my heart until it overflows into the world, enriching me and all those I meet.

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Reflection #24

I have always loved the imagery of wells. I think it’s the idea of a resource, hidden but necessary, that lies deep below the surface and is accessible only by lowering a bucket—a vehicle sufficient to bring up some of that essential stuff from the well, but not all of it. I like the idea of the well of my being, a place deep and dark within me that supplies me with what I need, but only when I seek it; that is, when I lower the bucket. I also think of a well as my own personal reservoir—the place that collects all my memories and dreams. All of my experiences go into the well, get mixed up together, and become something that I can draw on later for creativity and insight.
 
This is language that suggests the personal unconscious, but it also evokes something more, something far larger and more mysterious, because even as the bucket is a vehicle to the well, the well is a vehicle to an aquifer, an underground reservoir that is who knows how wide, or how deep, and into which the well is drilled.
 
Is the aquifer Jung’s collective unconscious? Or is the aquifer an image of God? The ancients viewed the cosmos with human creatures associated with the earth and God with the heavens, but the image of God as a vast, unseen reservoir of water is an organic image that places God at the root of all life. To lower the bucket is to fashion a question, to express a need. It descends the well of my being, which is nourished and fed by the aquifer. When the water comes to surface, who can say from how far down it has come?

Thinking It Through

Wells are important places in the Bible—not surprising for an arid setting. Rebecca meets the servant of Abraham at a well, which leads to her marriage to Isaac. Five chapters later (Genesis 29), Rachel meets Jacob at a well. But when the reference is “the woman at the well,” most people think of the Samaritan woman that Jesus met by the well, the one to whom he offered “living water.”

“So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, ‘Give me a drink’. . . The Samaritan woman said to him, ‘How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?’ . . . Jesus answered her, ‘If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?’ Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water’” (John 4:5-15).

Prayer

Loving God, give to me your living water. Nourish me in body, mind, and spirit with your wisdom and truth.

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Reflection #23

“I surrender to God the nerve center of my consent. This is the very core of my will, mainspring of my desiring, the essence of my conscious thought.
 
“I surrender to God the outlying districts of my self. These are the side streets down which I walk at night, the alleys of my desires, the parts of me that have not been laid out with streets, the wooded area, the swamps and marshlands of my character.
 
“I surrender to God the things in my world to which I am related. These are the work I do, the things I own or that threaten me with their ownership, the points at which I carry social responsibility among my fellows, the money I earn, my delight in clothes and good food.
 
“I surrender to God the hopes, dreams and desires of my heart. These are the things I reserve for my innermost communion; these are the fires that burn on the various altars of my life; these are the outreaches of my spirit enveloping all the hurt, the pain, the injustices and cruelties of life. These are the things by which I live and carry on” (Howard Thurman, Meditations of the Heart).

Thinking It Through

 “The outlying districts of my self . . . the parts of me that have not been laid out with streets . . .” Such evocative language. Yes, we do have public selves, well-lit streets where we present our lives and our dreams to the world. And yes, we do have “outlying districts”—areas of ourselves more private (“wooded”), where our desires are still present, but perhaps less visible to others (and even ourselves). More to the point, these desires still shape us; still form our character.
 
Thurman uses the word “surrender”—one we hear less often these days, maybe because psychology has made it more problematic. But I think he is talking less about giving up our wills, and more about conforming our desires with God’s vision for our own and the world’s well-being. The idea of conforming our desires—the public and private ones—to God, is, after all, as ancient as the plea made to us by the Apostle Paul to be of the same mind as Jesus.   
 
“If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in one accord, and of one mind . . . let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 2:1-5).

Prayer

Conform my desires to yours, O God, that in both my public and my private life I contribute to your vision of justice and peace.

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Reflection #22

Today, many northern Minnesota lakes are ringed by summer cabins, but a hundred years ago this was farmland. Back then a farmer on Clear Lake (one of many so-named), built a causeway from the lakeshore to an island about 75 yards out, and on summer mornings he led his cows across the causeway to graze on the island, then led them back to the barn in the evening. Over the years the cows went away, and then the farm. The causeway, however, remained, but year after year it settled, until it slipped below the surface of the water. So it’s still there—but you can no longer see it. It’s a road, but it’s completely submerged underwater.
 
To this day, you can walk across the lake to the island. From the shore it looks impossible, but the way is there—it’s just hidden from sight. Are there solutions to problems that confront you—hidden pathways—lying just beneath the surface, waiting for you to discover them?

Thinking It Through

So many times it’s fear that holds us back, fear that keeps us from getting our feet wet, from trying new attitudes, new ventures. It doesn’t occur to us that there may be a road, hidden from view, that can take us from familiar shores to new places. It doesn’t occur to us that maybe God is the one who built the causeway in the first place, and that God is the one who calls us to find it and to venture across.
 
 “Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid’” (Matthew 14:22-27).

Prayer

Make a pathway in my heart from love for you to love for the world, and may I follow that path without fear.

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Reflection #21

Did you know that you can drive for days in the Sahara Desert and not see any vegetation or animal life? There's so little rain that even an oasis can go without rain for decades. Consider the Farafra Oasis in Egypt. It rained in 1945 and didn't rain again until 1973. And that's an oasis—a place you expect to find water!
 
For centuries, the Sahara was crossed on foot, in caravans, along trade routes discernible only to the desert nomads who made the journey. The old routes travel from oasis to oasis, for that was the only way to survive the crossing. Some of these oases are large enough to be towns. Others are little more than indentations in the sand filled with brown, brackish water. If you didn't know where they were, or if they shifted, you would die. In fact, archeologists have dug up whole caravans of camels and traders who died of thirst a hundred yards from a well.
 
The Saharan wilderness is a barren place, without water, without life—on the surface. The amazing thing is this—beneath the arid surface, beneath the mountains, the pebble-strewn plains, and the sand, there are rivers. The whole desert is criss-crossed with underground rivers that no one knew about or could see until they showed up in modern satellite and radar pictures taken high above the earth. Imagine. If such rivers exist below the surface of the Sahara, what resources flow, unseen, through you?

Thinking It Through

There is another way we think of wilderness, and that is metaphorical. Probably most of us have experienced a time in our lives that seemed barren, empty, and inhospitable to life. And while we're in it, it stretches before us like a vast, trackless desert of pebbles and desert sand. It can feel like a time of captivity, of exile from any center of meaning. There is no way out, no path our eyes can see, no wells hidden under the sand. Our spirits are parched. It is a wilderness as arid as the Sahara Desert, but it is a wilderness of the heart.
 
How does God make a path through the trackless interior of a spiritual wasteland? The rivers of life are present in us, too, but in our wilderness times they are like Saharan rivers—underground, unconscious, below the surface. These are the rivers that Isaiah invokes, the pathway that God opens up, the life-giving water God promises.

“Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, . . .  Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. . . .  for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people” (Isaiah 43:16-20).

Prayer

Help me to trust that even when it is invisible to me, your life-giving love flows through me, that even now, when I am stuck in old habits, old attitudes, you are doing a new thing in me. 

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Reflection #20

When European explorers came to this continent in the 16th century, they quickly “discovered” the Mississippi River, the largest river in North America. They explored various stretches over the next three centuries, but the headwaters eluded them. Claims were made for several northern Minnesota lakes, but it wasn’t until 1832 that the first European located the river’s source in Lake Itasca. How did he find it? He asked! Seriously, he asked the Ojibwa. They promptly pulled out a map and showed him, then led him to the spot. For this Henry Schoolcraft is given credit for “discovering” the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Today you can visit Lake Itasca and walk across the river on the stones helpfully arranged there. You can have your picture taken, standing at the source of the mighty Mississippi.
 
How many times have you made something harder than it has to be? How much time and effort have you put into searching for something that is easily found simply by discerning the right person to ask? Is it conceivable that there might already be a map, a way, that takes you to your heart’s desire?

Thinking It Through

Is it right to give Henry Schoolcraft credit for discovering the headwaters of the Mississippi when there is archeological evidence that indigenous peoples had lived there since 8000 bce? Is it just when all he did was ask the people who already knew?
 
The question of justice is important, and it puts me in mind of this: The Mississippi River is long and wide. Downstream, its currents are swift and too dangerous to cross, except by some kind of watercraft, and even then it is tricky. But at the headwaters, you can simply walk across in a few steps. Like the river, injustice can seem overpowering. Downstream—that is, with the weight of years and oppression—injustice can seem like a river that is too wide to cross, with unnavigable currents.
 
So how do we practice justice in an unjust world? Maybe it’s a matter of finding the place where we can take just one step, then just one more. And from the headwaters of those small steps, a stream begins to flow, and as it flows, it grows deeper and wider, until justice rolls down over a whole nation, a whole people, a whole planet. “But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24).

Prayer

Guide my feet and take me to the place where I can take a step—even one step—that will make a contribution toward your vision of justice and peace.

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Reflection #19

One of the great oratorios of Western music is Mendelssohn’s Elijah, first performed in 1846 in Birmingham and thereafter in cities all over the world. Perhaps the most unique performance took place during World War II in Theresienstadt, the Nazi concentration camp, where it was performed by Jewish inmates, by order of the Nazis. The oratorio tells the biblical story of the prophet Elijah and it opens with a great choral lament, for the people have suffered long years of drought and famine. With great pathos, the chorus sings, “Help, Lord, help Lord! Will you quite destroy us?” The Germans, well into the Final Solution, apparently failed to grasp the bitter irony. But it was not lost on the Jews.

In the Antebellum South, slave owners converted African slaves to Christianity, teaching them from a Bible that slaveholders interpreted as a divine defense of slavery. Is it surprising that Africans enslaved in the American South learned Christianity better than their white slave owners? Slaveholders somehow missed the great theme of liberation at the heart of Moses’ struggle against the Egyptian Empire, and in Jesus’ challenge to the Roman Empire. The slaves did not.  
 
When Moses and the escaping Hebrews were halted by the barrier of the Red Sea, two things happened. First, Moses raised his arms, parting the waters and creating a passageway for the people to safely cross. Second, Moses dropped his arms, letting the waters swirl back together and drown the pursuing Egyptian army. What about Theresienstadt? What about the Antebellum South? Where was the passageway through the Red Sea then? Where were its drowning waters?

Thinking It Through

There are some seas that will not part for us. Moses didn’t get the memo, and there we stand with a sea in front of us and an army behind us. My intent with these reflections is to inspire, strengthen, deepen self-knowledge, encourage self-reflection, but the thing about Lent is that it leads to an impasse. Jesus said, “let this cup pass from me,” and then accepted that it would not. So what do we do when we find ourselves in such situations? The seas do not part; we are overcome by what pursues us. The cup remains in our hand. Does it still make sense to trust in God?
 
I think the point of the Exodus story is not that a passageway is literally created through the sea. It’s a parable intended to teach us that when there is nowhere to go, then (in the words of Delores Williams) God creates “a way out of no way.” It may not be what we expect. It may benefit our children more than you and me. But God will make a way through the impasse. And given some of the evils we’ve seen, isn’t it still better to trust a power so persistent that it will reach through as many generations as it takes to see that justice is done?
 
Was the Third Reich defeated? Is there a state of Israel? Was the South defeated? Does an African American hold the highest office in the land? Are you, am I, a Christian? Would that word even exist if it weren’t for that cup, that impasse, that inescapable cross? Would any of this be without a God who makes a way out of no way? Whatever armies pursue you, whatever impassable sea confronts you, there is a way. And God is still trustworthy.
 
“Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea. The Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided. The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. The Egyptians pursued, and went into the sea after them. . . .Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Stretch out your hand over the sea, so that the water may come back upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots and chariot drivers.’ So Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and at dawn the sea returned to its normal depth . . . . The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained. But the Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left” (Exodus 14:21-29).

Prayer

“Though I go through the valley of shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

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Reflection #18

The winter of 1996-97 brought a record snowfall to the Red River Valley region of northern Minnesota, North Dakota, and southern Manitoba. This valley is actually an ancient lake bed, the former site of a lake that once stretched from northern Minnesota almost to Hudson Bay. As the glaciers melted, the lake slowly drained, leaving behind a vast, flat expanse—land so flat that when the river waters rise, there are no natural barriers to contain them. The water spreads out for miles, and the ancient lake reappears. So with all the snow that winter, residents anticipated trouble long before the spring thaw.

The thaw, when it came, came fast, and the water rose. In April the river crested at 54 feet, inundating the towns of Grand Forks (ND) and East Grand Forks (MN). Submerged underwater, the city was helpless when fires broke out in downtown Grand Forks. Firefighters had to watch in frustration as the center of the city burned. With the combination of snow, flood, and fire, the financial losses were devastating to business and homeowners—and churches, too.

There was a pastor who, with his family, had been forced to evacuate when the water breached the sandbags along the river bank and flooded his home. He returned when the water on the first floor had receded, although the basement—where his office and the family room were located—was still under five feet of water. So he walked down the stairs as far as he could and gazed on his ruined furniture, imagined the sodden condition of his files, thought of his inadequate insurance, and despaired over his losses.

As he stood there, something bobbing in the water caught his eye. A year before he had taught the story of Noah to the children of the church, and as part of their study, they had built an ark out of balsa wood. As he later described it, "In the midst of all that ruin, there was this ark, unscathed, doing what arks are supposed to do. Float." (When the waters receded completely, they found it resting on top of a bookshelf—its own high-ground version of Mt. Ararat.)

He sat down on the soggy step and laughed until he cried. He saw in the ark—that great symbol of survival—God's promise of life. And just like that he felt his faith do what faith is supposed to do—turn his trust to God. In that moment he knew, however difficult things would be in the coming days and weeks, that he and his family would be all right.

Thinking It Through

What are the things that threaten to inundate your life? Are there ancient lake beds in you that re-emerge when waters rise? What images revive your hope? Where and how do you find God in natural, social, and personal disasters?  
 
God prepared Noah for the flood by having him build an ark. Is it possible that God has prepared you for challenges by building something in you that can keep you afloat when fear would otherwise submerge you? The people along the Nile relied on its annual flooding, because the receding waters left nutrients in the soil. When your troubles recede, do you find that God’s presence has strengthened you in unexpected ways?
 
“The flood continued forty days on the earth; and the waters increased, and bore up the ark, and it rose high above the earth. . . . The waters swelled so mightily on the earth that all the high mountains under the whole heaven were covered; the waters swelled above the mountains, covering them fifteen cubits deep. And all flesh died that moved on the earth . . . Only Noah was left, and those that were with him in the ark. . . . But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and all the domestic animals that were with him in the ark. And God made a wind blow over the earth, and the waters subsided; the fountains of the deep and the windows of the heavens were closed, the rain from the heavens was restrained, and the waters gradually receded from the earth. At the end of one hundred fifty days the waters had abated; and . . . the ark came to rest on the mountains of Ararat. The waters continued to abate until . . . in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, the tops of the mountains appeared” (Genesis 7:17-8:5).

Prayer

When I sink into fear or sadness or selfishness, lift me up and fill me with renewed faith, hope, and trust in your abiding presence.

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Reflection #17

The Boundary Waters Canoe Area is a region between Minnesota and Canada so named because although the US/Canadian border cuts right through the region, you cannot drive across the border, in fact, there are no roads at all. There are only lakes and portages to cross and only canoes to carry you. If you look at this region on a map, you find more water than land mass.
 
Here there are few customs agents, no bridges, few checkpoints, certainly no backed-up traffic. There are common routes, of course, through particular chains of lakes, with well-established portages—overland trails between lakes. If you only have a week, this is how far you will get.
 
But there are also less-traveled routes, with barely discernible portages—rough ground to cover while carrying a canoe on your shoulders. If you have a more extended time, you can get into this more remote area—chains of lakes best explored by canoe. In a canoe you sit low enough in the crystal clear water and move at a pace that enables you to see the rocky bottom several feet below. Canoes take you through reed lakes, down waterfalls and rapids, across white-capped waves, past deep-forested shores, under skies so clear that the Milky Way brightens the night.
 
Where are the hardest portages in your life? How deep into your interior do you go and what borders do you find there?

Thinking It Through

What would it be like to explore water imagery in the Bible from the vantage point of a canoe? Close to the surface, and moving slowly enough to see all the way to the bottom?
 
The first thing we see is that the Bible starts with Creation, and Creation starts with water, with a “formless void” and darkness covering “the face of the deep.” This is not creation out of nothing, but creation out of chaos. The spirit of God sweeps over these dark waters and establishes order. God separates light from the darkness, establishes a light to rule the day and light to rule the night. Creation is order out of chaos. Put differently, creation is the transformation of chaos. God provides the pattern, the vision that gives shape to what was without form; meaning where there was none.
 
If this is how God creates, then surely this is how God is creating still. A God who creates order out of chaos is surely one who can confront the chaos of our lives and offer a pattern, a vision for how we can meaningfully transform our lives. Sometimes “the face” of the deep is our face, and “the deep” is the well of grief, loss, anger—the chaos—of our emotion. If God can create a world out of primordial chaos, then God can transform the chaos of our lives into something that, like creation, is declared good.
 
"In the beginning, when God created  the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the waters" (Genesis 1:1).

Prayer

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”

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Reflection #16

Let me start by noting that I have never gone whitewater rafting; I’ve never even rafted on a serious river, like the Colorado. The only rapids I’ve ever shot are in the Apple River in Wisconsin. Comparing the Apple River rapids to the Colorado River rapids is like comparing a hill to a mountain. Nevertheless, I resonated, recently, with the words of a friend when he described our present circumstances as the “permanent whitewater world in which we live.”
 
Yeah, I get that. Sometimes I feel like I shoot through each day clinging to the sides of my raft, whooshing up and down at top speed, crashing into rocks and careening off them, being spun around until I’m dizzy, hoping my gear stays dry and doesn’t bounce right out of the boat. And this: I’m grateful for my life jacket.
 
You probably know the rocks on your daily path, but what about the submerged ones, the ones that take us by surprise? What helps you navigate this kind of whitewater? What is your life jacket? What gives you the confidence that something will hold you up if you are pitched out of the raft?

Thinking It Through

The call to the disciples is different from the call to prophets. The prophets are concerned about their adequacy, but then they go on to speak the word of God. The disciples leave their livelihood immediately. They don’t question their adequacy, but trust the authority they hear in Jesus’ voice. As the gospels unfold, of course, we are shown repeatedly the failings of these disciples. And yet these are the twelve, the ones chosen to continue the message of Jesus after his death. What does their willingness tell us about courage to shoot the rapids, even when it is impossible to “read” the river? What does it mean to follow when we cannot see the path, when we do not know the destination, when we undertake a peregrinatio of the soul? What does it mean that Jesus called—and continues to call—imperfect people like you and me to make this world a place where God’s will is done, as it is in heaven?
 
“As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a new into the sea—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” Immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went from there, he saw two to her brothers, James, son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him” (Matthew 4:18-22).

Prayer

May I navigate each and every day with courage, looking out for those around me, and trusting my imperfect but well-intentioned responses to your perfect love.

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Reflection #15

One of the most haunting sounds from the lakes of northern Minnesota is the cry of the loon. This ancient, yodeling call carries across dark waters on moonlit nights, and the sound is so unearthly that those who hear it often associate it with deep longing. The birds float low in the water, and they are excellent divers. Loons can dive deep—as much as 200 feet—for fish, before surfacing. They can also fly, but because their bodies are heavy, it is difficult for them to take off. They must swim into the wind in order to get enough “lift” in their wings, so for a good runway they need a large or a long narrow lake.
 
I suspect that most of us relate to the cry of the loon because it matches something we feel in ourselves but can’t express as well. It is an inner beauty, a quality of yearning that we know is within us, that we wish others could understand about us, but is just too naked to risk revealing.  
 
I think human beings make the same haunting cry of the loon, but we sing it in the part of our being that we share intimately with God. “You have searched me and known me,” the psalmist writes. “For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb . . . My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth” (Psalm 139:1,13,15). Like loons, we must sometimes dive deep, very deep, to find something to sustain us, and sometimes, in order to take off, we must turn into the wind—even when we would much rather go with the flow, and float on the surface of the water.

Thinking It Through

In biblical stories, prophets arise in response to the distress calls of the people, when the country is faltering. The danger can be from without, in the form of invading armies, or the danger can be from within, in the form of corrupt officials and oppressive economic practices. Prophets are called and basically instructed to take off against the wind of the prevailing culture. The air that lifts their wings is God’s promise: “I will be with you.”
 
It is much easier to go with the flow in a consumer culture and very hard to take a stand for voluntary simplicity against it. What are the distress calls in your life, the warnings being sounded? What is the form of your deepest longing? Can you dive deep into the lake of your heart and find sustenance? What "lifts" you? Where and how do you feel God fulfilling God’s promise to be with you?
 
“Now the word of the Lord came to me saying: ‘Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, and before you were born, I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.’ Then I said, ‘Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.’ But the Lord said to me, ‘Do not say ‘I am only a boy’; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you,’ says the Lord” (Jeremiah 1:4-8).

Prayer

“Search me, God, and know my heart, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

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Reflection #14

It’s not uncommon in call narratives for the person to raise objections, usually expressed in the form of inadequacy. I don’t have access to power, they say, or, I’m not eloquent, I’m not leadership material. But when we look at call narratives more carefully, we see that God often chooses precisely these people: the youngest child (David), a woman (Deborah), a wandering Aramean (Abraham), a scheming liar (Jacob), a coward (Gideon), a simple fisherman (Peter), a teenage girl from a remote country village (Mary).  
 
God doesn’t require us to be rich, smart, beautiful, or powerful. All we need is to be open to the presence of God and the possibilities God offers. If God calls scoundrels and thieves, then why not you and me? The call may be to simplify our lives, to discover within ourselves wellsprings of creativity, kindness, and generosity. Whatever it is, there is another component of call narratives that applies: whatever objections people raise in these stories, God always answers, “I will be with you.”

“I can’t take that risk.” I will be with you. “I need more time.” I will be with you. “How can I make do with less?” I will be with you. “I’d rather stick with the devil I know than the devil I don’t know.” I will be with you. “I’m afraid.” I will be with you. “What if—.” I will be with you. But what if—.” I will be with you.

Thinking It Through

The call narrative of Isaiah begins with a vision of the temple of God. God is seated on a throne, and there are angels all around. Isaiah writes: “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I; send me!” (Isaiah 6:8).

The stories in the Bible have dramatic details that seem to preclude experiences like that happening to us. God speaks to Moses in a burning bush. God stands at the foot of Samuel’s bed and calls to him. Isaiah has a vision of the throne room of God. But the story of Elijah reminds us that God also speaks to us in a “still, small voice.” We don’t need dramatic details to convince us that God is present in every moment, calling us forward into new ways of being in the world. Sometimes music is all we need.

Here am I, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart.

Prayer

Loving God, help me to understand that I need not be perfect to follow you, only willing, and that you will take it from there.

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Reflection #13

Two days ago it was the story of God calling Abram; yesterday it was Moses. Biblical scholars call these stories “call narratives”—stories of an individual being called by God to fulfill some divine aim. Often, like Moses or Jonah, they are reluctant. Other times, as with Abraham (God changed his name from Abram to Abraham) and the disciples who left their nets to follow Jesus, they are willing. But no one foresees the ways God’s call will change their lives. Even Moses. Moses had a heads-up about the goal to free the slaves, but he didn’t see the 40 years in the wilderness coming.

Call narratives fit with the idea of a peregrinatio, a journey without a map, a pilgrimage without a destination. They fit because the urge to set forth is a call heard in the heart—often born of discontent. There’s a quotation from somewhere about God being the one to plant that discontent in us, to shake us out of our complacency with the way things are. These two also fit because both divine call and pilgrimage require trust in the One Who Calls. Where is the restlessness or discontent in your life? Is it possible for us to see in that a divine call to shake ourselves loose from established patterns, set ways, habits of thought?

Thinking It Through

One of the most loved call narratives in the Bible is the calling of Samuel. It starts like this: “Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the Lord under Eli. The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” Eli was old and slept in another room, but Samuel slept in the temple. God calls to Samuel, who immediately answers: “Here I am!” He runs to Eli who dismisses him. “I did not call you, my son.” So Samuel returns to the temple, whereupon the whole sequence is repeated. A third time God calls to Samuel, and a third time he runs to Eli, saying, “Here I am, for you called me.” The story continues:

“Then Eli perceived that the Lord was calling the boy. Therefore Eli said to Samuel, ‘Go, lie down, and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’ So Samuel went and lay down in his place. Now the Lord came and stood there, calling as before, ‘Samuel! Samuel!’ And Samuel said, ‘Speak, for your servant is listening’” (I Samuel 3:1-10, excerpts).

Like Samuel, we live in times when the word of the Lord is rare and visions are not widespread. They are drowned out, covered up, by a culture that urges us incessantly to gratify ourselves, to buy now, to distract ourselves with goods, to consume, consume, consume. But there are increasing signs of discontent with this way of living. There is a hunger for spiritual practices; there are many people trying to live more simply. Is there a divine call in this discontent? Can we answer with the same trust as Samuel?

Prayer

Here I am. Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.

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Reflection #12

There is a ninth-century story of three men from Ireland, in boats without oars, adrift in the sea for seven days. They came ashore in Cornwall and were brought to the court of King Alfred. He asked them where they had come from and where they were going, and they answered: “We stole away because we wanted for the love of God to be on pilgrimage, we cared not where.”

I’m finding myself intrigued by this concept of a peregrinatio, a pilgrimage with no specific goal in mind except for the pilgrimage itself.  A peregrinatio suggests something different from having a dream and striving to reach it. It suggests instead a vague dissatisfaction with where we are, a discontent with what we’re doing. It summons up images of restlessness, a stirring in the heart that calls us to set forth. Of course, a peregrinatio of the past was geographic, and it still can be (think of the Australian “walkabout”), but the intriguing part for me is its dual dimensionality—we take steps with our feet because we have first taken steps in our minds, for as we think and feel, so do we act.

To be adrift is to be open to possibilities, but it requires leaving the security of the shore. Are we restless because we’re stuck in one place, one mindset? How do we need to change our thinking, if we want to change the direction of our lives?  

Thinking It Through

“Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight and see why the bush is not burned up.’ When the Lord saw that he had turned aside, God called out to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am’" (Exodus 3:1-4).
 
The impulse at the heart of a peregrinatio is, in the words of the three Irishmen, “the love of God.” It is that which calls a person forward, away from the familiar, into the unknown. In other words, it begins with a call from God. Yesterday we looked at God’s call to Abram; today we have God’s call to Moses. You’ll note that Moses leads his flock “beyond the wilderness” in order to reach the mountain of God, and then it is something quite ordinary out of which God speaks. I think the vehicle is ordinary, but the message is not, which is why it burns so dramatically. What wilderness must you go through and beyond to reach the mountain of God? How does God speak to you in ordinary events, in everyday encounters? What does it mean to say to God, “Here I am”?

Prayer

Loving God, you call me in my inmost being to a life beyond my imagining. May I be open to the possibilities all around me, both to grow and to serve.

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Reflection #11

“In the early Christian era, many Celtic Christians embarked on a kind of pilgrimage called a peregrinatio. Unlike the pilgrimages to the Hold Land undertaken by Christians in the Middle Ages, a peregrinatio proposes no specific relic to seek, shrine to visit, or icon to venerate. Nothing allows the pilgrim to return home with a sense of ‘I’ve been there and one that.’ Instead, a peregrinatio is a wandering into the unknown, inaugurated by the pilgrim’s inner conviction of fate and fortune. Essentially a peregrinatio represents travel for the sake of Love, initiated and sustained by the love God. It calls the traveler to leave all that is familiar, to let go of security and any goals or desires for life except one: to find the place of one’s own resurrection.
 
“Embarking on a peregrinatio today may not take us to distant lands, but it will take us on a pilgrimage to discover who we are and for what purpose God created us. This transformative journey leads us to our true home in God where we give birth to our authentic self. Like our Celtic Christian ancestors, we are called to journey for the sake of Love, which requires making sacrifices, letting go of what we have worked hard to acquire. On this pilgrimage, we sacrifice such as needs as those for security, control, and approval, replacing them with our love for God.” ~ Karla M. Kincannon (Creativity and Divine Surprise; Nashville: Upper Room Books, 2005).

Thinking It Through

Surely one of the greatest call narratives is the one that practically kicks off the whole Bible, when God calls Abram to leave his country and travel to an unknown land. It is perhaps the prototypical peregrinatio—initiated and sustained by the love of God, calling Abram to let go of the familiar and the secure and to head out for the unknown.
 
“Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’ . . . So Abram went, as the Lord told him” Genesis 12: 1 & 4).
 
The point of a peregrinatio is that you don’t know where you are going, but you are willing embark nevertheless. So the question is less, “where is God calling you to go,” and more, “what are you leaving?” What defines “security” for you, which is to say, what are you holding on to that prevents you from undertaking the journey? What are you reluctant to let go of? The question is less, “what are you looking for,” and more, “what are you open to find?” If we don’t venture into the unknown, we are pretty much trapped in a cycle of repetition. I am reminded of the line (don’t know where it’s from): “If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always gotten.”
 
It is clear that Abram left his homeland (place of security) because he trusted God. Can we find in ourselves a similar trust?

Prayer

Help me find the courage to venture into the unknown, trusting in your presence, your guidance, and your steadfast love.

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Reflection #10

"He has lived in the dessert so long that all of its moods have long since become a part of the daily rhythm of his life. But it is not that fact that is of crucial importance. For many years, it has been his custom to leave a lighted lantern by the roadside at night to cheer the weary traveler. Beside the lantern, there is a note which gives detailed directions as to where his cottage may be found so that if there is distress or need, the stranger may find help. It is a very simple gesture full of beauty and wholeness. To him, it is not important who the stranger may be, it is not important how many people pass in the night and go on their way. The important thing is that the lantern burns every night and every night the note is there, 'just in case.'

"Years ago, walking along a road outside Rangoon, I noted at intervals along the way a roadside stone with a crock of water and, occasionally, some fruit. Water and fruit were put there by Buddhist priests to comfort and bless any passerby--one's spiritual salutation to another. The fact that I was a traveler from another part of the world, speaking a strange language and practicing a different faith, made no difference. What mattered was the fact that I was walking along the road--what my mission was, who I was--all irrelevant.

"In your own way, do you keep a lantern burning by the roadside, with a note saying where you may be found 'just in case'? Do you place a jar of cool water and a bit of fruit under a tree at the road's turning, to help the needy traveler?" ~ Howard Thurman, Mediations of the Heart

Thinking It Through

There are organizations along the US-Mexico border that leave water in the desert for desperate border crossers. Whether they agree or disagree with illegal entry into this country is irrelevant. What they agree on is that no one should die of thirst in the desert. How do we do? Does our compassion transcend our politics? Our beliefs? It seems to me that there are two dimensions to this story. There is the challenge to you and me to keep our lanterns lit, "just in case," for whomever passes by. There is the challenge to believe that the God who inspires people to leave water in the desert, directions for where to find help if there is distress or need, is the same God who leaves a lantern lit for you and me. This is a God who has left us a note, with detailed directions as to how God can be found.

"Your word is lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path" (Psalm 19:105).
 
“What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:4-5).

Prayer

Loving God, let your light so shine in me and through me that I may be a light to others.

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More nature imagery from Howard Thurman (Meditations of the Heart). (#9)

Reflection #9

“In response to a letter of inquiry addressed to a Canadian forester concerning the jack pine which abounds in British Columbia, the following statement was received: ‘Essentially, you are correct when you say that jack pine cones required artificial heat to release the seed from the cone. The cones often remain closed for years, the seeds retaining their viability. In the interior of the province, the cones which have dropped to the ground will open at least partly with the help of the sun’s reflected heat. However, the establishment of the majority of our jack pine stands has undoubtedly been established following forest fires. Seldom do the cones release their seed while on the tree.’

“The seed of the jack pine will not be given up by the cone unless the cone itself is subjected to sustained and concentrated heat. The forest fire sweeps all before it and there remain but the charred reminders of a former growth and a former beauty. It is then in the midst of the ashes that the secret of the cone is exposed. The tender seed finds the stirring of life within itself—and what is deepest in the seed reaches out to what is deepest in life—the result? A tender shoot, gentle roots, until, at last, there stands straight against the sky the majestic glory of the jack pine.
 
“It is not too far afield to suggest that there are things deep within the human spirit that are firmly embedded, dormant, latent, and inactive. These things are always positive, even though they may be destructive rather than creative. But there they remain until our lives are swept by the forest fire: It may be some mindless tragedy, some violent disclosure of human depravity or some moment of agony in which the whole country or nation is involved. The experience releases something that has been locked up within all through the years. If it be something that calls to the deepest things in life, we may, like the jack pine, grow tall and straight against the sky!”

Thinking It Through

In these days of high unemployment, foreclosures, and a struggle each month make ends meet, it is provocative to think that God implanted something in us long ago intended for just such times. Maybe it’s in our genetic code, or our brains, or the mysterious realm of the unconscious. Maybe it’s something that, like a “sleeper agent” in a spy movie, lies dormant until it is awakened by extraordinary need. We find within ourselves a strength we didn’t know we had, a courage to get out of bed and face another day. We find, even when we don’t want to, that we can let go of dreams that have turned to ashes; we can be astonished by new beginnings.
 
An economy of trust tells us that this is so—that God has implanted in us a transformative power that reaches full strength when we need it most. What secret strength lies at the depth of your being, waiting to be called forth? What would it take for you to believe it?
 
“Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your waterfalls; all your waves and your billows have gone over me. By day the Lord commands his steadfast love and at night God’s song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life” (Psalm 42:7-8).

Prayer

You formed me, God, and you know me in my secret heart. Help me to awaken the resilience you planted within me and to trust its life-giving power.

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More from Howard Thurman, this one (#8) from Meditations of the Heart (New York: Harper & Row, 1953). I have changed the language so that it is gender-neutral. And by the way, these emails are now being posted online here: http://www.breaucc.org/lenten-reflections.php.

Reflection #8

“Are you a reservoir or are you a canal or a swamp? The distinction is literal. The function of a canal is to channel water; it is a device y which water may move from one place to another in an orderly and direct manner. It holds water in a temporary sense only; it holds it in transit from one point to another. The function of a reservoir is to contain, to hold water. It is a large receptacle designed for the purpose, whether it is merely an excavation in the earth or some vessel especially designed. It is a place in which water is stored in order that it may be available when needed. In it provisions are made for outflow and inflow.
 
“A swamp differs from either. A swamp has an inlet but no outlet. Water flows into it but there is no provision made for water to flow out. The result? The water rots and many living things die. Often there is a strange and deathlike odor that pervades the atmosphere. The water is alive but apt to be rotten. There is life in a swamp, but it is stale.
 
“The dominant trend of our lives may take on the characteristics of a canal, reservoir or swamp. The important accent is on the dominant trend. There are some lives that seem ever to be channels, canals through which things flow. They are connecting links between other people, movements, purposes. They make the network by which all kinds of communications are possible. . . . What kind of things do you connect?
 
“Or are you a reservoir? Are you a resource which may be drawn upon in times of others’ needs and your own as well? Have you developed a method for keeping your inlet and your outlet in good working order so that the cup which you give is never empty? As a reservoir, you are a trustee of all the gifts God has shared with you. You know they are not your own.
 
“Are you a swamp? Are you always reaching for more and more, hoarding whatever comes your way as your special belongings?. . . A swamp is a place where living things often sicken and die. The water in a swamp has no outlet. Canal, reservoir, or swamp—WHICH?” (pages 86-87).

Thinking It Through

Images of water in the Bible are abundant, from the waters of creation (Genesis 1:1-2) to living water offered to the Samaritan woman (John 4). Amos talks about righteousness as an ever flowing stream (Amos 5:24). But perhaps my favorite is Isaiah 58:11: “The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.”  
 
Where are you parched? What aspect of your spirit needs watering? Can you do that at some point today—stop and water the garden of your spirit? If we pull back from spending as consumers, how do we shift to spending time and resources as seekers of balance and peace? If we shut off one outlet, we must find another, healthier one.

Prayer

“Come, O Fount of every blessing; tune my heart to sing your grace. Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.” Open my inmost being to receive your grace. Flow through me, that I may receive the benefits of your love, and, in turn, be a source of blessing to others.

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Today’s reflection (#7) comes from Howard Thurman’s Deep Is the Hunger: Meditations for Apostles of Sensitiveness (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1951). Thurman (1899-1981) was an American author, philosopher, theologian, and civil rights leader. He was the Dean of Theology at Howard University and   Boston University, and in 1944, he helped found the first racially integrated, multicultural church in the United States. It was his practice to write weekly meditations for Sunday services, many of which were gathered into books, such as this one. ~ Jeanyne

Reflection #7

The need for right desire is ever present. The Apostle Paul assumes right desire when he says, “I want to do what is right, but wrong is all that I can manage.” It is in order, however, to raise the question of right desire because again and again we find ourselves doing precisely only what we desire to do. Sometimes we fail to be better than we are because we do not want to be better than we are.

Have you ever said, “I know I ought to want to do this or that but the truth is, I do not want to do it”? With reference to our attitude toward other people, we say sometimes, “I know I should not feel as I do toward the Germans or the Japanese or the Negroes, but the truth is, I feel that way and I really do not want to feel differently. I know I ought to want to, but I don’t.”

The crux of the problem is not merely that we desire the right and find it difficult to achieve it, but it is also true that, again and again, we do not desire to desire the right. Few questions are more searching than “Do I desire to desire the right? Do I want to do other than I am doing? Do I treat people any better than I really want to treat them?” Utter candor demands that we face questions such as these. If we find the tragedy of our lives to be that we actually do what we want to do, then, at all cost to our pride, our fears, our self-righteousness, we must change our desiring (page 98).

Thinking It Through

It can be startling to read familiar verses in a different translation. Below is the frustrated complaint of Paul that Thurman referenced, and one with which we all too readily identify. But I found the subsequent verses even more evocative, because the new translation opened up the text in a new way. Can it really be as simple as focusing on God rather than obsessing about myself? Simple to say, maybe, but O God, help me to do it!

”What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So I can’t be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it . . . I keep sabotaging my own best interests. . . . I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time.

“Those who trust God’s action in them find that God’s Spirit is in them—living and breathing God! Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life. Focusing on the self is the opposite of focusing on God. Anyone completely absorbed in self ignores God, ends up thinking more about self than God. That person ignores who God is and what God is doing. . . . But if God takes up residence in your life, you can hardly be thinking more of yourself than of God. . . . So don’t you see that we don’t owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There’s nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!” (Selected from Romans 7:15-20; 8:8-14, The Message).

Prayer

Teach me to desire to desire what is right. May I feel your Spirit living in me; may I trust your action in me; may I be at one with your desire for me and for the world.

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Reflection #6

Prod·i·gal (prä-di-gəl); adjective
Etymology: Latin prodigus, from prodigere to drive away, squander
1 : characterized by profuse or wasteful expenditure  
2 : recklessly spendthrift  
~ Merriam Webster Online Dictionary
 
The gospel of Luke contains the story of the prodigal son. In this story, a younger son asks for his inheritance, then goes off and squanders it. He is reduced to such menial employment that finally he comes to his senses and decides he is better off feeding his father’s pigs than the pigs of a stranger. When he returns home, instead of being judged, he is lavishly welcomed by his father. The usual interpretation is that God does not cast us out, but is ever ready to forgive contrite sinners and welcome them back to the fold.
 
Over the years, the word “prodigal” has taken on the sense of “estranged,” but it literally means “one who wastes money.” When we focus on the role of God, we can overlook the kind of behavior that gets the younger son into so much trouble. He’s an “I want it all now” kind of guy. He wants his inheritance now, and he spends all of it now, which leaves him with nothing to fall back on when—as inevitably happens—hard times come.

If we were to tell the story today, our entire society would be the prodigal son. We manufacture so few durable goods that our economy is dependent on consumerism. Even patriotism is defined in terms of spending. Everywhere we turn, we are encouraged to want something now and to buy it now. When a society’s religion is materialism, then, as bizarre as it sounds, frugality and getting by with less become heretical. This kind of society welcomes us when we’re prodigal—spending freely—but turns against us when the money is gone. In the words of the old blues song, “Nobody knows you when you’re down and out." If we put it in terms of our Lenten theme, “An Economy of Trust,” there’s an economy here, but it’s not one we can trust. 

Thinking It Through

Each of us has our own “distant country,” the place of self-gratification where we indulge ourselves. It can be things we want to possess, or feelings that give us a sense of entitlement (“I’m so stressed, I’ve earned that drink!”). What is your “distant country”?  What would it mean to come to your senses and decide to return home? For that matter, what is “home,” and how would it feel to be welcomed there by God?
 
“There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything” (Luke 15:11-16).

Prayer

Loving God, help me to find the balance between enjoyment and excess, between “more” and “enough,” and to make choices that are appropriate to each.

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Reflection #5

Many years ago, I had the pleasure of knowing the concertmaster for the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra. His name was Romuald Tecco, he was born in France, and he came to the U.S. to study at Juilliard. After graduation, he came to the Midwest. This was the 70s, and he was dismayed by the limited selection in local grocery stores. As a Frenchman, he was used to cheeses such as gruyère, St. André, and Roquefort, and in the Twin Cities he could only find “yellow” cheese—cheddar, and Colby. His friends in the orchestra teased him, reminding him that these things were, after all, only the little things in life. “Yes,” he agreed. “But the little things are 90 percent of life.”
 
I tell the story not to promote luxury cheeses, but because there’s a deeper truth embedded in that observation. Our houses, our cars, our vacations cost the most, but they are not “90 percent of life.” If the little things are 90 percent of life, then the little things are where we make 90 percent of our decisions. Buying a car takes a lot of planning and saving, so we devote considerable time to those kinds of purchases. Buying a latte takes no planning and is often bought on impulse. Enough of these impulses, and, like me, you reach the end of the month wondering where all the money went.   
 
The bad news is that these little things add up. The good news is that we have a lot of power over these choices. There’s not much we can do about our mortgages or the rent, but we have the power, daily, to make choices about the little things—what we will buy, how we will respond to another person’s need, whether we will aim our lives at material or spiritual enrichment.
 
In his book, Enough, Adam Hamilton writes that the first step in getting a handle on our money and possessions is a transformation of our hearts: “We need a changed heart, which results in changed desires, and changed sense of our life purpose. . . . As we allow Christ to work in us . . . we begin to sense a higher calling—a calling to simplicity and faithfulness and generosity. We begin to look at ways we can make a difference with our time and talents and resources.”
 
He continues: “A key part of experiencing financial and spiritual freedom is found in simplicity and in exercising restraint. I am not suggesting we should never buy anything for ourselves. I am not suggesting we should not buy a new car or go on a vacation or buy new clothes or something else we might want. I am suggesting that, with the help of God, we aim to simplify our lives and silence the voices constantly telling us we need more.”
Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity, by Adam Hamilton (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2009).

“Most of the critical things in life, which become the starting points of human destiny, are little things.” ~ R. Smith

Thinking It Through

What are the little things in your life? What choices can you make about them? What would you cultivate, and what would you let go?
 
“I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need: I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:11b-14).

Prayer

Loving God, teach me to see you in the little things, so that I may be more fully open to your presence and your guidance when big challenges overtake me. Keep me alert to all the small ways that I can make a difference in the lives of others, today and every day.

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Reflection #4

What does it mean to have “enough”?
 
There is a motif that runs throughout the Bible that speaks a surprisingly contemporary word to modern-day consumers, and it is this: even when it’s yours, don’t take it all. Leave some for others, for the alien, the orphan, the widow. Those words are Bible-Speak for those less fortunate, for the marginalized, for those who have fallen through society’s protective net.
 
There’s another word that goes with this: harvest. In Bible-Speak, to harvest means to gather up and to leave some behind—again, for the widow and the orphan.   
 
In today’s context, the widow and orphan are the unemployed, the uninsured, the immigrants, the homeless. Moving to a larger context, the widow and orphan are those nations and peoples left out of the global economy. Moving to a larger context still, the widow and orphan are the countless species only one step ahead of extinction. Moving to a still larger context, the widow and the orphan can be seen as this planet, a sick and polluted orb amidst stars, planets, and whole solar systems.
 
No matter what the context, the principle is the same. Hold back. Even if it’s yours, and you’ve earned it, don’t take it all. Leave some for others.
 
This motif fits well with another idea, something that Jay McDaniel calls creative frugality. Creative frugality is a spiritual practice—a way to live—that includes the wise use of resources, an end to wastefulness. It suggests a simpler, less complicated life.
 
And because creative frugality avoids the pursuit of unnecessary goods, it generally includes the idea of prudent use of time, as well as prudent use of money. A practice of creative frugality leads to a slower, more laid-back pace than the hectic pace of consumerism. It is more conducive to relaxation and enjoyment, so not surprisingly it leads to an improved sense of peace and well-being.
 
Creative frugality doesn’t despise worldly goods; in fact it includes a healthy respect for them. Healthy respect includes genuine appreciation, the urge to make use of rather than discard. It’s not at all stingy. In fact, people who consume in creatively frugal ways are often more generous than people absorbed in conspicuous consumption.  
 
What does it mean to have “enough”?

Thinking It Through

Few of us live on farms, but we know what it means to work hard for something, to nurture it for a long time before it comes to any fruition, to count on some effort or project of ours being a success. Given all that we put in, aren’t we entitled to reap all the reward? Or does entitlement thinking get us into trouble? Are we really 100 percent responsible for what we accomplish? What happens when we shift our expectations from “all” to “enough”?
 
“When you reap your harvest in our field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings” (Deuteronomy 24:19).

Prayer

Loving God, teach me respect for all the hopes and dreams that have preceded mine,
and for the seeds of goodness you have planted in my life and the lives of those all around me.
As I have gleaned wisdom and strength from the work of others,
May the world receive from me the surplus of my labor, which I freely offer to your service.

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Reflection #3

February 21 is the first Sunday in Lent, and the lectionary is the story of Jesus in the wilderness, being tempted by the devil.

Think of the "devil" as a metaphor, or verbal shorthand for all that entices us to make poor choices, then consider this: the devil tempts Jesus with material wealth and power, if only Jesus will turn away from God. If Jesus was tempted that way, we should expect that we, too, will be tempted to turn away from God. We can expect the “devil” to tempt us with material comforts, to confuse us so we can’t tell the difference between wants and needs, to help us rationalize our spending of time, money, and energy on things that bring no real value to ourselves or the world.
 
In this next paragraph, Adam Hamilton addresses financial debt, but the idea of debt—getting in over our heads—has broader interpretations, too.
 
"Here's what the devil knows: If he can get you into debt, he can make you a slave. If he can convince you to spend all you have, you'll never offer your tithes to God, never help the poor as you could have, and never use what you do have to accomplish God's purposes. If he can tempt you to become a slave [to your poor choices], you will not know simplicity, generosity, or joy. Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity, by Adam Hamilton (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2009).

Thinking It Through

Reflect on the following passage: “In their eagerness to be rich, some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains" (I Timothy 6:10b).
 
Are your choices guided by any attitudes or habits that “pierce” you with “many pains”? What would it take to change them? The verse suggests that if wandering away from faith causes pain, then turning to God can help us fight our demons. Timothy extols the “rich simplicity of being yourself before God” (1 Timothy 6:6). Can that be a place to start?

Prayer

Loving God, tempt me with opportunities for compassion,
entice me with occasions that call for generosity,
and guide me to choices that express the best that is within me,
Not just for the sake of my soul,
but for the sake of this careworn, beleaguered, yet still beautiful world.

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Reflection #2

How good it is to center down!
To sit quietly and see one's self pass by!

The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic;
Our spirits resound with clashings, with noisy silences,
While something deep within hungers and thirsts for the still moment and the resting lull.

With full intensity we seek, ere the quiet passes,
a fresh sense of order in our living;
A direction, a strong pure purpose that will structure our confusion and bring meaning in our chaos.

We look at ourselves in this waiting moment - the kinds of people we are.  The questions persist: what are we doing with our lives? -
What are the motives that order our day?
What is the end in our doings?
Where are we trying to go?
Where do we put the emphasis and where are our values focused?
For what end do we make sacrifices? 
Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life?
What do I hate most in life and to what am I true?

Over and over the questions beat in the waiting moment.

As we listen, floating up through all the jangling echoes of our turbulence, there is a sound of another kind – A deeper note which only the stillness of the heart makes clear.

It moves directly to the core of our being.
Our questions are answered,
Our spirits refreshed,
and we move back into the traffic of our daily round
With the peace of the Eternal in our step.

How good it is to center down!

 ~From Meditations of the Heart, by Howard Thurman

Thinking It Through

What does it really mean to “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10)? We are taught to cultivate this awareness in church, or watching a sunset. Can we learn to cultivate it in traffic? In the checkout line? What kind of stillness is this? The cessation of motion, or something we carry within us even when hurtling down the freeway?

Prayer

"God, help me to be grateful for what I have,
to remember that I don't need most of what I want,
and that joy is found in simplicity and generosity."

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Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Reflection #1

We live in a world of noise and distraction—coming from TVs, from traffic, from phones, from constant and competing demands on our time and attention. And then into this world of noise and distraction comes Lent—a quiet time for reflection and self-examination. Lent gives us social permission to slow down; it’s an invitation to think seriously about how we fill our days and what we take into our being.
 
This meaning has been lost in the popular notion of giving things up for Lent—sacrificing some pleasure or material enjoyment, as if that puts us in solidarity with Jesus. But in our emphasis on giving things up, we lose sight of the opposite—which is what we take in, what we strengthen in ourselves, what we affirm.

Our church's theme for the season of Lent is "An Economy of Trust." Typically, we understand "economy" to refer to the material production, distribution and consumption of resources, but the season of Lent invites a different kind of reflection--a reflection on our spiritual resources, as manifested in our bodies, minds, and spirits. What is the "state of the union" of these aspects of our being? 

How do we spend our time? How do we use our resources? Do we put our trust in money, success, material goods? Or do we put our trust in God? What kind of security do we really need? Securities in a bank or security in God? As individuals and as citizens of the Earth, how do we learn to say, "enough"?

Thinking It Through

"There is a balance between making the acquisition of money and possessions your focus and not doing enough to provide for yourself. Read Proverbs 30:8a-9 (below). How well do you maintain this balance? What might help you to stay in balance?" Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity, by Adam Hamilton (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2009).

"Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that I need, or I shall be full, and deny you, and say 'Who is the Lord?' or I shall be poor, and steal, and profane the name of my God" (NRSV).
"Give me enough food to live on, neither too much nor too little. If I'm full, I might get independent, saying, 'God? Who needs him?' If I'm poor, I might steal and dishonor the name of my God" (The Message).

Prayer

"God, help me to be grateful for what I have,
to remember that I don't need most of what I want,
and that joy is found in simplicity and generosity."
Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity, by Adam Hamilton (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2009).

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