Sweet blessing

I need all the prayer I can get these days.  Every one of them lifts me out of the dark places.  Every whisper to God inches me closer.  In church today I was on the list of those who are going to be confirmed.  Our names were read aloud and I felt my heart leap when mine was called.  This is the same parish that prays daily for Mali, Syria and Afganistan and other places of war.  I am a country at war, too.  There are skirmishes in my heart every day.  Some days Holiness and Light break through.  Sometimes the darkness wins.  God is always at work, though.  On the light days he breathes joy into my heart and lifts me with Grace and speaks softly in my ear.  From the darkness I cast a line towards him, hoping to catch on so I can pull towards him.  And when, in my weakness, I cannot pull anymore, he reels the line for me, with forgiveness and love.

I need prayer these days.  

Lord have mercy,

Christ have mercy,

Lord have mercy.

Crash

I actually can't tell if I am tired or depressed or just wanting to be alone to recharge with Christ.  I don't want to see anyone.  I don't want to do anything but stay in my room and read.  I am having to drag myself to work and even to drumming class lately... and tonight seems the worst yet.  I don't want to talk on the phone or read my email. None of it.

Just lie in my bed with the covers up to my chin and rest.

Rest.

Nguyen and I got married in the Unitarian Church.  Although we had words of scripture read, we did not have a Christian wedding.

So, in preparation for my confirmation this month, we are going to have our wedding blessed by the Church. Which meant that we needed to get the details of Nguyen's baptism.  (Mine was easy:  Grace Church, Providence, Pentecost, 2006.)

Imagine, then, that we had to reconnect with a church in a small town in the mountains of Vietnam.  And imagine our surprise and delight that in that beautiful cathedral, the evidence of my husband's baptism still exists, 50 years and one war later.  His parents, along with their Christian names, his God parents, the name of the priest... .it is all there.

And although to some people this all might seem like an unnecessary layer of bureaucracy, to me it has been a sweet and wonderful adventure.  A way to connect to my husband's past.  His roots.  And a way to get his family involved, too, as they were instrumental in making this all happen.

To me, having the words 'Father, Son and Holy Spirit' added to our wedding after nearly 25 years is a joy and a blessing.  And I think it means we get a second honeymoon, right?

Tarot readers and fortune tellers cannot save you

So said Pope Francis at a recent morning mass.

(See the story here.)

Having been a tarot reader prior to becoming a Christian, I concur 100%.

It's not that I didn't want to help people.  My goal was always to point to the divine in their lives and give my clients insight into their complicated situations.   

But even so, I was often taken aback by how much power the clients gave the reader.  "Should I leave my husband?" "Should I have an affair with the man in my office?"  "Should I take this job or fly to Reno or put my kids in private school or begin a liquid weight loss diet?"

No matter how much I tried, it seemed that most of my clients wanted someone, anyone, to tell them how to live their lives.

I remember that for a short time after becoming a Christian, I continued my practice of reading cards for clients.  My heart was in the right place, I thought.  I always sought God in the readings.  I thought I was helping.  But then, little by little, my heart changed.  I began to see that people were treating me as a kind of idol.  The reality was that it wasn't MY intention that was the problem.  It was that I was leading people astray, despite my best intentions.  

So I quit.  I quit my tarot reading job.  Quit reading for friends.  Ultimately I stopped  reading for myself, even.  The scriptures are more than sufficient if I want to try and understand God's will for me.  Pray is sufficient.  I don't need a deck of cards to offer guidance any more.  

Tarot readers cannot save you.  Only through faith in Christ Jesus can you find true life.

conversion of heart

It is an ongoing process that started from my youngest years.  Long before I accepted Jesus into my life, I was seeking to know and love God.  I yearned for him.  And while it is true that I wandered down many paths, the one true path was there all along.

It has been nearly 10 years since my conversion.  I was baptized on September 10, 2003.  Since then I have been on the most amazing ride of my life.   My story with Jesus has been a love story, whispered in the darkness of an empty church, or sung in the beauty of the brilliant sun.  It is a story that has unfolded on bended knees with a broken and contrite heart and in a voice rising up in praise, prayer and thanks.

Always, always, I seek you, O God.  Always I look for you in every situation, in every ruin, every glorious day, every conflict, every sweet kiss.  You are there.

And you have been calling me, yet again.  As you once called me to yourself, then called me from the church of my youth, so again you are calling.  Calling me to the ancient church that you gave to us.  Calling me to yet one more conversion of heart.  And as the day of my confirmation approaches, I am filled with unutterable joy.  My soul leaps like a hart.  I am at once calm and beside myself with excitement.  I will take you, body and blood, into myself and nothing will ever be the same again.

Betrayal

We all have a bit of Judas in us, don't we? My heart is breaking today.  Jesus, with a kiss your friend led you to your death.  But even as it appeared that evil and darkness had triumphed, god had something beautiful and amazing going on.  Lord, get me through the next few days. Let me be have faith in the empty tomb.

I am going to miss it...

I have been going to church nearly every day lately.  But now there won't be another service until 7pm on Thursday.

I am counting the hours.

sweet confession

I confess to you and your tenderness holds me.  You draw me close.  Your heart seeps into mine, turning the coldness and dark into warm light.

Jesus.  How sweetly you call.  How gentle is your spirit.  Even now, in the midst of this week of betrayal and pain, suffering and fear, you are gentle, oh lover of souls.  Oh, love.  You are sweet.  You reconcile us to yourself and ever hold open your arms.

Forgive me.

I love you.

Palms

I am going to bring a little palm cross to work.  The cross was made by one of the many favorite teens from Grace Church with a palm from our Palm Sunday service.  I will put it up discretely so the clients who come into the center won't be confronted with it... but I am planning to put it where I can see it.

I love Palm Sunday.  I love all of Holy Week, actually.  The entire journey from Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a borrowed colt to Easter Sunday, complete with fancy dresses and decorated hats.  What goes on between those two moments is grueling, gripping, painful and incredible.  It is a week of coming face to face with sin.  It is a week when I have to acknowledge that I am one of those who waves palms joyfully one minute and then cries ''Crucify Him" to Pilate in the next.  Because it IS our sin that nails him to the cross.

I know that some of my evangelical friends are uncomfortable with the intensity around Holy Week.  Is it idolatry to put palms on your wall?  Is it really necessary to relive every moment of the crucifixion every year, sitting in a somber and quiet church reflecting on the 7 last things Christ said from the cross for 3 solid hours?  Or creeping towards a wooden crucifix and kissing the feet of him who is represented there?

For me, there is no controversy or conflict.  These rituals came from a church that did not yet have ready access to scripture for the masses.  These rituals were a way for everyday folks to physically, mentally and spiritually engage with the story long before Gutenberg invented his press.  And even now, for someone with no less than 6 copies of scripture in 4 translations, the physical act of standing and waving palms, or of kissing the feet of a crucifix gives the story an immediacy that just reading could not.  Those wooden feet are not HIS.  But these lips are mine....  And we are whole beings.  The physical is part of our faith.

So, the cross is going up.  The rest of the palms will be tucked somewhere in my home, to dry and wilt until I bring them to church to be burned for next year's Ash Wednesday service.  And I will pray that Christ will use this Holy Week to draw me closer to him.  And to glorify himself in the process.

Psalm 51:3

Hatin'

I am facebook friends with a kid my son's age.  Quite a bit of what he posts is hate-filled rhetoric against the church.

And I have to wonder, where does a kid learn to hate like that?  It makes me sad to think that his parents are encouraging that kind of prejudice.  It makes me sadder still to think that this boy is going to attempt to go through life with nothing but anger towards God.

I had a snarky attitude towards Christians growing up.  I spent years hating.  And suffering.

I pray for this kid.  I pray that his hatred doesn't win.

Surrender

I told my priest today that I felt like I have done a crappy job of Lent this year.  I just don't feel like I have paid enough attention to it.  Haven't felt penitential enough.  Have started the headlong slide into Holy Week altogether too fast.

He gently suggested that as Lent is a time of transformation, perhaps it has been powerfully effective, whether I feel like I am doing it right or not.  

My work is transforming.  We had a fire just before Ash Wednesday and have been spending our collective Lent trying to emerge from the ashes, reinventing our ministry and ourselves in the process.  It has been both joyful and brutal.  We, all of us, are the walking wounded.  But still maintain a sense of optimism and hope.  We see God at work and are so very grateful.  We are lifted by prayer and offers of help.  But we are exhausted, too.  Starting over is exhausting.

At the same time, I have been undergoing a major spiritual shift.  Something changed during my retreat last fall.  I have been attending church several times a week, reading scripture daily, thirsting for Jesus in a new way.  My heart is filled with peace and joy.  An indescribable delight.

And God has been giving me signs and wonders. He has given me companions on the path.  He has sweetly led the way and I have willingly followed.

But tonight, I am tired.  So very very tired.

drawing closer

Jesus, you are inviting me ever closer.  You are whispering in my ear.  Leaning in close.  Your sacred heart is  on fire for me... and mine is for you.

I trust you.  I believe you.  I am following.  Lead on....

Fear not

Much shifting is taking place for me, lately.  I have been on a spiritual roller coaster ride since my retreat in November.  But God has been giving me many graces and consolations, including a thirst for the scriptures that has been a great blessing.  He is speaking to me through his word, through liturgy, through sacraments and in meditation.

I have been going to church several times a week.  It has been a respite in the midst of everything.  On days that I don't go, I feel like something is missing.  Blessed are you, sweet King.  I am so grateful for all that is unfolding, even when I am afraid or sad.  You whisper to me

"trust me."

"don't be afraid."

"trust me."

And I think I do, deep down inside.  I think I do.

God is Love in the New York Times

My husband and I have an ongoing conversation about the New York Times.  I contend that it is editorially anti-religious.  He regularly shares opinion pieces that contradict that claim. (I respond that the odd opinion piece doesn't change the fact that the editors, on the whole, are anti-religious.  But that isn't really the point of this post...)

So it was this morning.  Nguyen showed me two opinion pieces that any Christian would appreciate.  The first was a guest piece in Maureen Dowd's column.  She invited a priest friend to write about the nature of suffering and death and God's role in it.  It is a beautiful column.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/26/opinion/dowd-why-god.html?smid=pl-share

The second ran in the paper on Christmas Eve about a physics teacher who takes one class period per year to discuss some of the bigger issues of life that the study of physics doesn't address.  What is the meaning of all of this?  Why are we here?  His answer is humble.  It is about love.  To illustrate his point, he shares with his class about his disabled son and his son's ability to communicate love regardless of his inability to speak.  

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/12/24/laws-of-physics-cant-trump-the-bonds-of-love/?smid=pl-share

So what do these two love-filled columns have in common?  

The vitriol and anger with which they were received by the readers of the Times.  


This comment is from the essay about God's role in suffering:

I guess you haven't noticed, there is no god.
Believing in one is no different from believing in Santa, or the tooth fairy.
They are psychological construction of the mind, to bring comfort in distress, nothing more than that and nothing less.

About the physics teacher, T of London wrote:

This is religious indoctrination in disguise. Love is a physical phenomenon, a direct result of evolution and not some magical force of the universe. The universe doesn’t care about us, and our emotions are all tools evolved to enhance our probability of survival. A shame that a physics teacher doesn’t understand what he teaches and chooses to bring into the classroom a dose of good old, irrational, misguided and factually wrong sermoning.

Apparently we are no longer even allowed to discuss emotions, never mind faith.  Love is now the enemy. Love must be reduced to a chemical reaction and nothing more... and if you believe there is even a tiny bit of mystery to it, you have gone off into the realm of dangerous mythology.  

For all you garden variety atheists and agnostics who still believe in the power of man's goodness, beware.  Pretty soon you, too, will be villified in the public square for believing in something as irrational as kindness or love.

The snarky sarcasm that runs through the responses to both columns might be enough to scare anyone from writing about love or faith in the Times.  I hope and pray that will not be the case.  It takes courage to speak about faith, these days.  And I pray that the haters will not be so loud that they silence those who speak love.

Advent vs. Christmas smackdown

Ok, the truth is I have never been that good at Christmas.  And when I say Christmas, I really mean the XmasHolidayBlueLightSpecialSuperDiscountEverythingONSALENOW cavalcade that is Christmas in America.  Even before becoming a Christian, the Christmas season was, for me, a challenge to my wait til the  last minute then rush around like a maniac vibe.

But since becoming a Jesus Freak, Christmas has been way MORE of a challenge.  I mean, here we are in Advent, a season of penitence, self reflection, meditation, and yes, I will say it, darkness.  For those of us in the liturgical tradition, it isn't even proper to sing a Christmas carol until Christmas Eve.  This is a time for preparing, not in the 'gotta get a tree and decorate it' sense, but in the far more spiritual sense.  If Jesus came back TODAY, am I ready? The gospel readings have all been about being ready, spiritually, to meet our maker.  These are strident John the Baptist readings.  Get it together, people.  Don't stand around waiting until it is too late.  NOW is the time to repent and change your ways.  John pulled no punches, then or now.

For me, this year has been a delicious Advent.  I have spent time in deep reflection.  I have been grappling and letting go.  Jesus has been calling to me.  Unlike his cousin John, his is not a strident voice, but a gentle one.  He isn't demanding anything, but inviting me, ever so quietly, to trust him.  Trust him.  Which is, perhaps, the hardest thing any Christian can do.

I have been reading scripture.  Like a thirst that only the word of God can quench.  Every day I wake up and  sit at my dining room table and start my day in the word.  And it is delicious.

And I have been going to church.  Lots of church.  Weekdays and Saturdays and Sunday.  Quiet, rhythmic, freezing cold, or bright and vibrant and filled with beautiful music.  Sitting and letting the presence of Our Lord wash over me.  

And I have been reading Teresa of Avila and a book about the Exercises of St. Ignatius and the Desert Fathers and St. Ignatius of Antioch and a whole bunch of other really amazing Christians. (The letters of Ignatius of Antioch were written while he was being taken to Rome to die in the Colosseum.  Which makes me cry to think of it.)

And meditating on The Virgin.  

And none of this helps me to prepare for the Big Day, which for us stretches from church on Christmas Eve until the last moment of collapse from exhaustion on Christmas night.  

Because maybe the Big Day is actually already starting to happen in my heart.  

Blessed Advent.  You win.

Time is running out!

Every day in my email inbox I receive frantic emails from retailers trying to get me off my Advent duff and start shopping in earnest.  Last Chance!  Don't miss out!  Time is running out!!!!!

But this year, Advent is another time in another country.  My heart and head are about love.  About preparing myself and my family for the celebration of Christmas and, indeed, the second coming.  Our house is yet bare.  We haven't bought a tree... and maybe won't until Christmas Eve.  We are embracing the beauty and slightly bittersweet sense of anticipation.

I love the Gospel readings that go with this time of year.  Tomorrow we learn of John, the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.

I am crying out to you, Lord.  I lift my voice with countless others and cry to you, Come, Emmanuel, Come.

For in a strange way, time really IS running out.  We must always be prepared for Him.

Hurry, slow, go, stop, go

Shifting taking place, and as things get clear, my normal response is to plow ahead, headlong.  But these things take time, don't they?  Like a marriage, there is a long engagement time.  Partly that is for planning for the wedding.  But partly it is to get used to the new reality that once those vows are spoken, you are transformed.  You are different.  You will never be single again.

So it seems to be with all spiritual landmarks.

Advent

This is such a Holy and mysterious time in the church year.   The gospel reading today was apocalyptic.   Christ says that people will literally die of fright when the end is near.

This morning happened to be the day for healing prayer at Grace Church.  Every month, on the first Sunday, our little team of prayer warriors head over to the Messiah chapel with our anointing oil and pray for folks who come after they have taken communion.  Most months we get one or two folks.  Some months we haven't had any.  Today, we had a line.  So much fear, sadness, despair, pain.  It was unusual to have so many in need of prayer.  I wonder if the beginning of Advent has brought things to the surface.  I know it has for me.  I have found myself very close to God lately.  Which by definition is a very vulnerable place indeed.

Standing on the banks

When I first became a Christian, I remember the point when I was about to take communion in the Anglo-Catholic church for the first time.  There was a sense that I was standing on the banks of a river and to dip my toe in was to enter the stream of the church, which was at once history and present for thousands of years.  I could see my friends Peter and the apostles.  I could see the dusty, cold, wet monasteries, the huge cathedrals and the tiny home churches.  Candles and incense and the voices of the faithful singing to God, HOLY HOLY HOLY.  Perhaps I could even see the liturgy happening in Heaven at that very moment, beautiful and terrifying and full of LOVE as it is described in the scriptures, with the angels and saints falling down before his throne.  I remember knowing that once I dipped my toe into the stream, there was no turning back.  I would, forever more, be a tiny part of a magnificent stream of Christendom, which has existed for centuries, forever, and right this very moment.

And so, I stand on the banks, having dipped my toes for years.  Wondering if it is time to dive in head first.