As a follow-up on my post earlier, this headline caught my attention:
Oldest Hebrew Script is Found
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Ancient City Found
This article fascinated me:
Find of Ancient City Could Alter Notions of Biblical David
Find of Ancient City Could Alter Notions of Biblical David
Speaking Silently
I’m sitting here at my desk, eating a mandarin orange, and staring at a blinking cursor, trying to find words for you. Words to share the thoughts and prayers shaping my heart this week. Words to share the deep concerns, and those things that are making me come alive with anticipation.
For someone who has shaped a life around a love of words, they’ve been hard to form lately. Hard to shape and manipulate and cause to reflect the meanings of my heart. As the places and spaces I’m occupying grow increasingly deeper, more and more I find myself unable to use the language and conventions of grammar that I’ve always known to describe these things. And I find myself wondering if perhaps a whole new language, a whole new set of words and thoughts and conventions will be formed, to again give voice to my heart.
And so, I sit here, at my desk, eating a mandarin orange.
Or I sit in my candlelit bedroom, the smell of incense or rose oil drifting through the air, and I nibble on chocolate.
Or I finger the tiny crucifix from the rosary I bought at the Vatican. Or let my fingers caress the face of Jesus – one of many charms filled with the saints, on a bracelet that is a much cherished gift from a much cherished friend.
And I find my fingers reaching for the tiny silver medallion that hangs on a delicate chain around my neck most days. The medallion with the face of St. Claire of Assisi on it. My fingers reach for it and my thoughts are drawn back to a moment of dreaming. To oil and tears mingled as the sign of the cross was traced upon my cheeks, and followed by a long and loving embrace.
It would seem, these days, that my hands, my clothing, my jewelry, my choices of food, the items on my shelves and counters and walls, and the scents I use to fill the air around me do much of my speaking. They give voice to the things that remain, for now, too deep for words. And I am seeking to rest in that. To let them speak of the peace and joy and hope I’m finding. To let them declare to the world that I am falling in love with a God who hung bleeding and broken before the world. And a God who lives and speaks and breathes life. I let these things declare that I am being wooed, that vows have been made. I let them declare a struggle to trust, and a commitment to push through. And I pray that they will speak loudly when I cannot form words, but that, one day, the words will again begin to form on my tongue and pour out of my fingertips – not in a stumbling, clumsy, child-like way, but in a deep and flowing and eloquent way that speaks of the awe I feel at being swept into this journey that encompasses thousands of years, millions of people, and ultimately brings life, hope, joy, peace and redemption.
For someone who has shaped a life around a love of words, they’ve been hard to form lately. Hard to shape and manipulate and cause to reflect the meanings of my heart. As the places and spaces I’m occupying grow increasingly deeper, more and more I find myself unable to use the language and conventions of grammar that I’ve always known to describe these things. And I find myself wondering if perhaps a whole new language, a whole new set of words and thoughts and conventions will be formed, to again give voice to my heart.
And so, I sit here, at my desk, eating a mandarin orange.
Or I sit in my candlelit bedroom, the smell of incense or rose oil drifting through the air, and I nibble on chocolate.
Or I finger the tiny crucifix from the rosary I bought at the Vatican. Or let my fingers caress the face of Jesus – one of many charms filled with the saints, on a bracelet that is a much cherished gift from a much cherished friend.
And I find my fingers reaching for the tiny silver medallion that hangs on a delicate chain around my neck most days. The medallion with the face of St. Claire of Assisi on it. My fingers reach for it and my thoughts are drawn back to a moment of dreaming. To oil and tears mingled as the sign of the cross was traced upon my cheeks, and followed by a long and loving embrace.
It would seem, these days, that my hands, my clothing, my jewelry, my choices of food, the items on my shelves and counters and walls, and the scents I use to fill the air around me do much of my speaking. They give voice to the things that remain, for now, too deep for words. And I am seeking to rest in that. To let them speak of the peace and joy and hope I’m finding. To let them declare to the world that I am falling in love with a God who hung bleeding and broken before the world. And a God who lives and speaks and breathes life. I let these things declare that I am being wooed, that vows have been made. I let them declare a struggle to trust, and a commitment to push through. And I pray that they will speak loudly when I cannot form words, but that, one day, the words will again begin to form on my tongue and pour out of my fingertips – not in a stumbling, clumsy, child-like way, but in a deep and flowing and eloquent way that speaks of the awe I feel at being swept into this journey that encompasses thousands of years, millions of people, and ultimately brings life, hope, joy, peace and redemption.
I'm Thinking About...
I’m thinking about an upcoming anniversary. Saturday marks three years since the day my depression was healed. Three years since God stepped into my life in a crazy way, and brought hope where there’d been only despair. I’m still working on plans to celebrate, but I know there will be a Mexican dinner with my roommates (a joint celebration of my anniversary and one of their birthday’s) and an evening of watching Anne of Green Gables.
I’m thinking about plans to pray tonight with my roommates. To pray over each other and our house. About how I’ve needed us to do this together, but haven’t known how to broach the subject, and how it’s come together naturally, after a week in which we have each individually experienced disturbing nightmares.
I’m thinking about hamburger chop suey – which is the only dish (other than hamburgers) I can think of that contains ground beef that I actually enjoy. I think years of eating A LOT of ground beef as a child (it was affordable when we couldn’t afford much) created a strong aversion to it.
I’m thinking about how delighted I am that I’ve scheduled a phone conversation with my best friend, currently working on the other side of the world in a hospital in Pakistan, for Sunday morning.
I’m thinking about my desperate need to shorten a pair of pants I bought a few months ago, so that I have at least two pairs of pants that are suitable for work.
I’m thinking about how nice it is to be loved.
I’m thinking about how healing the hugs of a child are.
I’m thinking about a little boy who struggles a bit with language fingering a medallion on a bracelet I wear – a picture of Jesus – and telling me “This God. This God. I know Him.”
I’m thinking about another friend, much older, who held that same bracelet in his hands the other night, looking at it as I told him the story of my little friend’s confidence in knowing God, and commenting that he liked the bracelet, that it “felt good” in his hand. That there was a sort of strength to it.
I’m thinking about pearls. About a string of them that were a gift from a friend, and about a pearl ring sitting in a box in my dresser drawer, that perhaps needs to be unearthed and worn a little more often. About the caution I was given when I purchased that ring – that pearls were beautiful, but notoriously soft and delicate, easily shattered and broken, thus making them somewhat more valueable. And about some lines from the Anne of Green Gables books years ago. Anne commenting on the fact that she’d been criticized for wearing a tiny circlet of pearls as her engagement/wedding band because pearls represented tears, and essentially saying that it was the many tears it had taken to come to this place of commitment that made the commitment, and thus the symbolism of the circlet of pearls far more dear to her than any diamond.
I’m thinking about plans to pray tonight with my roommates. To pray over each other and our house. About how I’ve needed us to do this together, but haven’t known how to broach the subject, and how it’s come together naturally, after a week in which we have each individually experienced disturbing nightmares.
I’m thinking about hamburger chop suey – which is the only dish (other than hamburgers) I can think of that contains ground beef that I actually enjoy. I think years of eating A LOT of ground beef as a child (it was affordable when we couldn’t afford much) created a strong aversion to it.
I’m thinking about how delighted I am that I’ve scheduled a phone conversation with my best friend, currently working on the other side of the world in a hospital in Pakistan, for Sunday morning.
I’m thinking about my desperate need to shorten a pair of pants I bought a few months ago, so that I have at least two pairs of pants that are suitable for work.
I’m thinking about how nice it is to be loved.
I’m thinking about how healing the hugs of a child are.
I’m thinking about a little boy who struggles a bit with language fingering a medallion on a bracelet I wear – a picture of Jesus – and telling me “This God. This God. I know Him.”
I’m thinking about another friend, much older, who held that same bracelet in his hands the other night, looking at it as I told him the story of my little friend’s confidence in knowing God, and commenting that he liked the bracelet, that it “felt good” in his hand. That there was a sort of strength to it.
I’m thinking about pearls. About a string of them that were a gift from a friend, and about a pearl ring sitting in a box in my dresser drawer, that perhaps needs to be unearthed and worn a little more often. About the caution I was given when I purchased that ring – that pearls were beautiful, but notoriously soft and delicate, easily shattered and broken, thus making them somewhat more valueable. And about some lines from the Anne of Green Gables books years ago. Anne commenting on the fact that she’d been criticized for wearing a tiny circlet of pearls as her engagement/wedding band because pearls represented tears, and essentially saying that it was the many tears it had taken to come to this place of commitment that made the commitment, and thus the symbolism of the circlet of pearls far more dear to her than any diamond.
Church - Again...
A few more thoughts on church from Henri Nouwen.
One Body with Many Parts
The Church is one body. Paul writes, "We were baptised into one body in a single Spirit" (1 Corinthians 12:13). But this one body has many parts. As Paul says, "If they were all the same part, how could it be a body? As it is, the parts are many but the body is one" (1 Corinthians 12:19). Not everyone can be everything. Often we expect one member of the body to fulfill a task that belongs to others. But the hand cannot be asked to see nor the eye to hear.
Together we are Christ's body, each of us with a part to play in the whole (see 1 Corinthians 12:27). Let's be grateful for our limited but real part in the body.
The Weakest in the Center
The most honored parts of the body are not the head or the hands, which lead and control. The most important parts are the least presentable parts. That's the mystery of the Church. As a people called out of oppression to freedom, we must recognize that it is the weakest among us - the elderly, the small children, the handicapped, the mentally ill, the hungry and sick - who form the real center. Paul says, "It is the parts of the body which we consider least dignified, that we surround with the greatest dignity" (1 Corinthians 12:23).
The Church as the people of God can truly embody of the living Christ among us only when the poor remain its most treasured part. Care for the poor, therefore, is much more than Christian charity. It is the essence of being the body of Christ.
One Body with Many Parts
The Church is one body. Paul writes, "We were baptised into one body in a single Spirit" (1 Corinthians 12:13). But this one body has many parts. As Paul says, "If they were all the same part, how could it be a body? As it is, the parts are many but the body is one" (1 Corinthians 12:19). Not everyone can be everything. Often we expect one member of the body to fulfill a task that belongs to others. But the hand cannot be asked to see nor the eye to hear.
Together we are Christ's body, each of us with a part to play in the whole (see 1 Corinthians 12:27). Let's be grateful for our limited but real part in the body.
The Weakest in the Center
The most honored parts of the body are not the head or the hands, which lead and control. The most important parts are the least presentable parts. That's the mystery of the Church. As a people called out of oppression to freedom, we must recognize that it is the weakest among us - the elderly, the small children, the handicapped, the mentally ill, the hungry and sick - who form the real center. Paul says, "It is the parts of the body which we consider least dignified, that we surround with the greatest dignity" (1 Corinthians 12:23).
The Church as the people of God can truly embody of the living Christ among us only when the poor remain its most treasured part. Care for the poor, therefore, is much more than Christian charity. It is the essence of being the body of Christ.
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