A Day Late - St. Patrick's Day!

I know I'm a day late, but I spent yesterday meditating on and enjoying St. Patrick's "Breastplate" Prayer, in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

You can find the whole prayer here.

I particularly like this bit:

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength,
the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

Several More Thoughts from Henri Nouwen

Here are a few more thoughts from Henri Nouwen to add to the ongoing collection, and to the conversations I've been having with friends.

An Honest Being-With

Being with a friend in great pain is not easy. It makes us uncomfortable. We do not know what to do or what to say, and we worry about how to respond to what we hear. Our temptation is to say things that come more out of our own fear than out of our care for the person in pain. Sometimes we say things like "Well, you're doing a lot better than yesterday," or "You will soon be your old self again," or "I'm sure you will get over this." But often we know that what we're saying is not true, and our friends know it too.

We do not have to play games with each other. We can simply say: "I am your friend, I am happy to be with you." We can say that in words or with touch or with loving silence. Sometimes it is good to say: "You don't have to talk. Just close your eyes. I am here with you, thinking of you, praying for you, loving you."

The Virtue of Flexibility

Trees look strong compared with the wild reeds in the field. But when the storm comes the trees are uprooted, whereas the wild reeds, while moved back and forth by the wind, remain rooted and are standing up again when the storm has calmed down.

Flexibility is a great virtue. When we cling to our own positions and are not willing to let our hearts be moved back and forth a little by the ideas or actions of others, we may easily be broken. Being like wild reeds does not mean being wishy-washy. It means moving a little with the winds of the time while remaining solidly anchored in the ground. A humorless, intense, opinionated rigidity about current issues might cause these issues to break our spirits and make us bitter people. Let's be flexible while being deeply rooted.

Not Breaking the Bruised Reeds

Some of us tend to do away with things that are slightly damaged. Instead of repairing them we say: "Well, I don't have time to fix it, I might as well throw it in the garbage can and buy a new one." Often we also treat people this way. We say: "Well, he has a problem with drinking; well, she is quite depressed; well, they have mismanaged their business...we'd better not take the risk of working with them." When we dismiss people out of hand because of their apparent woundedness, we stunt their lives by ignoring their gifts, which are often buried in their wounds.

We all are bruised reeds, whether our bruises are visible or not. The compassionate life is the life in which we believe that strength is hidden in weakness and that true community is a fellowship of the weak.

Coming Together in Poverty

There are many forms of poverty: economic poverty, physical poverty, emotional poverty, mental poverty, and spiritual poverty. As long as we relate primarily to each other's wealth, health, stability, intelligence, and soul strength, we cannot develop true community. Community is not a talent show in which we dazzle the world with our combined gifts. Community is the place where our poverty is acknowledged and accepted, not as something we have to learn to cope with as best as we can but as a true source of new life.

Living community in whatever form - family, parish, twelve-step program, or intentional community - challenges us to come together at the place of our poverty, believing that there we can reveal our richness.

Surrender (Part 2)

I'd forgotten about these lyrics from Rich Mullins, until the song came up today on a playlist I created to send to a friend for her birthday last month. They fit nicely, I think, with the space I'm occupying, and are rather descriptive of the process of fighting and surrender.

Surrender don't come natural to me
I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want
Than to take what You give that I need
And I've beat my head against so many walls
Now I'm falling down, I'm falling on my knees

So hold me Jesus, 'cause I'm shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won't You be my Prince of Peace

(Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins)

Great Quote

My dad used this quote from N.T. Wright in his sermon this morning, and I liked it so much I thought I'd pass it along to you:

“The whole point of Jesus’ work was to bring heaven to earth and join them together forever, to bring God’s future into the present and make it stick there. But when heaven comes to earth and finds earth unready, when God’s future arrives in the present while people are still asleep, there will be explosions. And there were.” (N.T. Wright, Simply Christian, p.102)

Surrender

I want to share here something I wrote in my journal this morning. I'm sharing it because it's important, but it's hard, too. It's messy. It's painful. It's forcing me into deep and quiet places. If over this next week, I don't have much to say here, this is why.


Surrender: to give oneself up, as into the power of another; submit or yield. (www.dictionary.com)

I’ve spent the last two and a half days rediscovering just exactly how bad I am at surrender. I’ve tried arguing, negotiation, ignoring, baiting, avoiding, and running in the opposite direction. None of them worked.

You see, there are things that Jesus is asking of me right now that I don’t like. Things that scare me – terrify me actually. There is a slow shattering that is occurring that I find frightening and painful. There seems to be the promise of freedom in it, but it has seemed that freedom only comes at a cost so high I’ve not been sure I’m willing to pay it.

I went alone to Palm Sunday Mass last night. Traveled downtown to the cathedral where I attended mass in high school. I picked the cathedral because I knew there would be enough people in attendance that I could slip in and out anonymously. Just me, and time with the Lord, in a corporate setting that would also allow me the freedom of my own thoughts. I went alone, because I somehow knew that I wouldn’t want to talk with anyone once it ended.

So I sat, and stood, and knelt and sang. I accepted the strips of palm leaves that someone handed me. I prayed, and wished “peace be with you” on those around me. And I listened and was caught off guard by what I heard. I wasn’t expecting the Passion to be the topic of discussion. Protestants talk about the triumph on Palm Sunday – the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, with the crowds giving praise. We talk about the triumph and we leave it there. The triumph was hardly mentioned. What caught me deeply off guard was the long, responsorial reading of the gospel passage. Three readers at the front, a narrator, a voice, and Jesus, with occasional parts for the whole congregation to join in. So we read, from the entry into Jerusalem, through the breaking of bread at Passover, through the suffering and arrest in the garden, through the trials and the whipping and the crucifixion. And as I dutifully followed along, I was caught off guard by the part the congregation was asked to read. We played the role of the crowd – the accusers. The ones demanding the release of Barrabas, and shouting “Crucify Him”. And it hit me that I am part of that crowd in a way that it has never hit me before. That I stand there, sinful. That Jesus shed his blood for me. And that I am fighting against the will of the one who was willing to die in my place.

I reflected in my journal last night that for the first time in my life I am dreading the journey through Holy Week. I usually find it enjoyable. Well, enjoyable may be the wrong word to use, but I generally find it to be a week of positive reflection. As I look into this coming week, I see nothing but images of shed blood, of broken bodies, of my own heart finally and completely shattering. And I dread the coming pain.

Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation.

It’s taken me two and a half days of fighting to find a place of surrender. To reach a place of crying out to Jesus that I need Him to once again set me free, and that I’ll go where He asks and do what He requests in order that I may find that freedom. It happened at 8:10 this morning, after a night passed in alternating bouts of arguing and sleep. In dreams and uncertainties, and pain and anger and tears. One line from a David Crowder Band song came through my head, and I cried it out to the Lord, “Deliver me.” I saw an immediate picture, of a strong leather strap wrapped around me snapping, and four things flew into the air and away from me.

I’m still dreading Holy Week. I dread the lecture I’m attending tonight, that I know will draw me deeper into a place of brokenness on behalf of the world. I dread the moments of hunger. I dread all the other moments I know are coming. The body broken and the blood poured out. But in that dread I see beauty forming. I see the hope of resurrection, of new life. I see myself being pulled deeper, and I am thankful.