Anyone who believes that God doesn't have a sense of humor (and a somewhat sarcastic and ironic one at that) needs only to spend a day or two in my shoes, and I truly believe that their mind will be changed.
Take today for example:
After a long day at work, full of the overlap of the many odds and ends encompassed by my job and the many odds and ends encompassed by my day to day life as one who seeks God and seems to meet him in the strangest of places, I headed out for an appointment for a massage.
Now, my massage therapist also happens to be my mother, and the building in which she has her office also happens to be the house in which I was raised. So, a massage appointment immediately following work encompasses not only a massage, but also dinner with my parents. Conversation with my parents is unpredictable at best, and one never knows when a question out of left field might blindside one, and leave one in predicament as to how to answer without either denying ones's self, or deeply offending one's loving, if not always fully understanding parents. Tonight, the topic of conversation was various American presidents, and was relatively free from the conversational landmines that so often occur.
A relaxing massage followed a stimulating dinner conversation, and I headed for home, in George, who is still being stubborn about starting when I ask him to.
Upon arriving home, I promptly began the process of avoiding that which I knew I needed to do. I am a master of avoidance, and, while lately I have been working at avoiding avoidance, tonight was not a banner night on that front. I settled into bed with a slice of chocolate mousse cake, my favorite cheese from Wisconsin (a gift from my parents after a recent trip to the land from which my mother hails), and a bottle of water. The plan, I told myself, was to watch one episode of a favorite (if somewhat trashy) television show online, before settling in with a book I am reading, and spending some time in prayer, sorting out the overlap from my day.
The reality is that I passed several hours in a sprawled, half-awake state, enriched by chocolate and my favorite cheese, watching several episodes of several favorite (if somewhat trashy) television shows, and ultimately avoiding any time spent either reading one of the two books currently on my plate, or praying and sorting out my day.
Just as I was ready to call it a night, and to fall asleep in a drifting, lazy sort of manner, an email from a certain friend arrived, a response to a piece of writing I'd sent her earlier in the day, which contained several quotations from the book I'd just spent my evening avoiding.
And this is where the fun begins.
She commented that she was "glad I was writing and enjoying the books on prayer" because it would "give us lots to talk about." Because confession is "good for the soul," and because she is the sort of friend who inspires full and complete honesty in me, I immediately confessed that I had actually spent the entire evening avoiding either writing, prayer, or reading about prayer, and that because of this I was in a slightly cranky mood, and was now going to sleep.
We traded several emails in quick succession, the result being that she (as is often the case) managed to tug me into a space that would not allow me to safely attempt sleep (being rather susceptible to nightmares and dreams of various sorts) without first spending some time reading and praying. Groaning, I said goodnight to her, propped myself back up in bed, and reached for the book I'd been avoiding.
I read the first few introductory pages of the chapter and began to laugh. Of course the chapter I'd been avoiding all night would deal with the idea of the seasons and rhythm of the liturgy, and how they relate to life.
I rose, headed for the kitchen to snag some mandarins from the box (the tiny, tentatively eaten bowl of stew from dinner at mom and dad's seemed distant, and the sugar high from the cake had begun to fade, leaving me hungry all over again), and headed back to my bedroom, curling up again with the book, and a pen.
You see, there is irony in it being a chapter about seasons, and particularly in it being a chapter that deals with the idea that darkness and winter and death are as much a part of the journey and rhythm of life as spring and life and light. I confessed a few weeks ago to the same friend with whom I traded emails tonight that this year I am dreading the coming of winter far more deeply and fearfully than usual. The last winter season in my life was unbearably long, immensely painful, and not one I'd care to repeat. Much from that season has seemed to still be outstanding, and unresolved, and as I've faced the inevitable signs of the coming of winter, I've felt my heart shudder within me and wonder if I would be able to survive another season of that nature and length. I've railed against it, and sought to make peace with it, and known that either way, it would appear, and I would once again have to walk through it. I have had conversations with a variety of friends, and prayed that this would be a gentle, mild winter season.
And yet, I found myself reading a chapter that so eloquently and simply spoke of the seasons of the year, and the seasons of the liturgical calendar, and the various ways in which they fit each other. And I chuckle again, in a bemused sort of way, at the God who lets me waste an entire evening avoiding Him, and then, when I am pushed and tugged into his presence by a dear friend, takes the time to make a point that speaks to something I'd struggled with for weeks, not to mention sought to avoid for an entire evening. I find myself grateful for a God who meets me like this, gently, and with laughter, erasing the remaining shame and questions that drove me to avoid Him in the first place. I am grateful for a God who time and time again sends the right message, in the moment I most need to hear it, even when I've worked to close my ears to His voice.
And events of this nature occur over and over again. I will say again what I said in the beginning of this post - if you do not believe that God has a sense of humor - one that is at times quite ironic and sarcastic - you need only to spend a week or so occupying my life, and your mind will be changed.
I leave you with just one of many quotes I marked in the chapter I read tonight:
"If I ask him [a priest friend of the author] to, he will remind me that I will not be left alone forever in the dark, that the circle will come around again, that there will be alleluias again. The truth is always this: If I will pay attention and be faithful, if I will live the seasons as they come, I will see some new thing that will be born, even in me, even if I cannot yet perceive it."
(Robert Benson, "Living Prayer," pg.65-66)
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Prayer From Shane Claiborne
I was at the Sojourners blog today, and came across this prayer.
A Prayer for a New President and a New America, written by Shane Claiborne. It moved me, so I thought I'd share.
A Prayer for a New President and a New America, written by Shane Claiborne. It moved me, so I thought I'd share.
The Core of Life of The Spirit
I am reading a brilliant book at the moment by a man named Robert Benson. The book is titled "Living Prayer" and, as I read a chapter last night, I found myself caught by the deep truths of what he was saying, and the ways in which those truths are speaking to my current experience of life.
He writes about the prayer that seems to universally accompany the Eucharistic service, regardless of denomination or creed, “On the night in which He was handed over to suffering and death, He took the bread and He gave thanks for it and He broke it and gave it,” and suggests that in this prayer is the core of the life of the Spirit – “taken, blessed, broken, shared.” (pg. 39)
He goes on to write:
It is the broken part that I do not care for very much. It is the broken part, however, that makes everything else about the Eucharist worth making over. The lesson is that Jesus of Nazareth – the most chosen and most blessed and most shared one of us all – was the most broken of us all.
The prayer of the Eucharist is the prayer that reminds us that if we are to be the Body of Christ, then we are to suffer the fate of Christ – we are to be broken that we might be shared…
…We too must be taken, blessed, broken, and shared. We must somehow stop offering ourselves in prayer and begin offering ourselves as prayer…
…But it is rare to hear anyone pray to be broken. We pretty much pray to be chosen and blessed and then press right on ahead to the part about being shared; that is where the glory would seem to be, and it is certainly what seems right for us chosen ones…
…I am convinced that there is a connection in there somewhere as to how little, it often seems, we are truly shared. We are not meant to be taken, blessed, and multiplied. We are meant to be taken, blessed, and broken. “It is not the religious act that makes the Christian,” wrote Bonhoeffer in his prison cell, “but participation in the sufferings of God in the secular life.”
It is our brokenness, perhaps even our willingness to be broken, that holds the key to whatever it is we have to share…
…Frederick Buechner once said, “To be a writer, one must be a good steward of their pain.” I think that is true as well for those who would pray. To be such a steward creates the possibility that others might be healed by your witness to such a thing, that others might see the mercies granted to you in your suffering as evidence of the compassion of God for those who are broken. This gift of our brokenness is often the only gift that we can give or receive with any real honesty and with any real hope and with any real power. We do not demonstrate our faith when we live in the light, we show our faith when we live in the dark.
To embrace one’s brokenness, whatever it looks like, whatever has caused it, carries within it the possibility that one might come to embrace one’s healing, and then that one might come to the next step: to embrace another and their brokenness and their possibility for being healed. To avoid one’s brokenness is to turn one’s back on the possibility that the Healer might be at work here, perhaps for you, perhaps for another. It is to turn one’s back on another, one for whom you just might be the Christ, one for whom you might, even if just for a moment, become the Body and Blood… (various pages, chapter 3, Living Prayer)
I don’t know, in fact, I couldn’t even begin to guess at what the purpose of the brokenness that I have experienced this year will be. I do know that Benson’s words resonate deeply within my soul as I think about the year I have experienced, and as I pray for the redeeming hand of God to be present amidst that.
It is the essential pattern of the Eucharist – taken, blessed, broken, and shared – and Benson is right. I don’t think any one of us would has as our first inclination to invite brokenness, but I pray that because of the brokenness I’ve experienced I will be shared, and healing and redemption will come.
He writes about the prayer that seems to universally accompany the Eucharistic service, regardless of denomination or creed, “On the night in which He was handed over to suffering and death, He took the bread and He gave thanks for it and He broke it and gave it,” and suggests that in this prayer is the core of the life of the Spirit – “taken, blessed, broken, shared.” (pg. 39)
He goes on to write:
It is the broken part that I do not care for very much. It is the broken part, however, that makes everything else about the Eucharist worth making over. The lesson is that Jesus of Nazareth – the most chosen and most blessed and most shared one of us all – was the most broken of us all.
The prayer of the Eucharist is the prayer that reminds us that if we are to be the Body of Christ, then we are to suffer the fate of Christ – we are to be broken that we might be shared…
…We too must be taken, blessed, broken, and shared. We must somehow stop offering ourselves in prayer and begin offering ourselves as prayer…
…But it is rare to hear anyone pray to be broken. We pretty much pray to be chosen and blessed and then press right on ahead to the part about being shared; that is where the glory would seem to be, and it is certainly what seems right for us chosen ones…
…I am convinced that there is a connection in there somewhere as to how little, it often seems, we are truly shared. We are not meant to be taken, blessed, and multiplied. We are meant to be taken, blessed, and broken. “It is not the religious act that makes the Christian,” wrote Bonhoeffer in his prison cell, “but participation in the sufferings of God in the secular life.”
It is our brokenness, perhaps even our willingness to be broken, that holds the key to whatever it is we have to share…
…Frederick Buechner once said, “To be a writer, one must be a good steward of their pain.” I think that is true as well for those who would pray. To be such a steward creates the possibility that others might be healed by your witness to such a thing, that others might see the mercies granted to you in your suffering as evidence of the compassion of God for those who are broken. This gift of our brokenness is often the only gift that we can give or receive with any real honesty and with any real hope and with any real power. We do not demonstrate our faith when we live in the light, we show our faith when we live in the dark.
To embrace one’s brokenness, whatever it looks like, whatever has caused it, carries within it the possibility that one might come to embrace one’s healing, and then that one might come to the next step: to embrace another and their brokenness and their possibility for being healed. To avoid one’s brokenness is to turn one’s back on the possibility that the Healer might be at work here, perhaps for you, perhaps for another. It is to turn one’s back on another, one for whom you just might be the Christ, one for whom you might, even if just for a moment, become the Body and Blood… (various pages, chapter 3, Living Prayer)
I don’t know, in fact, I couldn’t even begin to guess at what the purpose of the brokenness that I have experienced this year will be. I do know that Benson’s words resonate deeply within my soul as I think about the year I have experienced, and as I pray for the redeeming hand of God to be present amidst that.
It is the essential pattern of the Eucharist – taken, blessed, broken, and shared – and Benson is right. I don’t think any one of us would has as our first inclination to invite brokenness, but I pray that because of the brokenness I’ve experienced I will be shared, and healing and redemption will come.
Telling the Story of Jesus - Henri Nouwen
Another thought from Henri Nouwen
Telling the Story of Jesus
The Church is called to announce the Good News of Jesus to all people and all nations. Besides the many works of mercy by which the Church must make Jesus' love visible, it must also joyfully announce the great mystery of God's salvation through the life, suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus. The story of Jesus is to be proclaimed and celebrated. Some will hear and rejoice, some will remain indifferent, some will become hostile. The story of Jesus will not always be accepted, but it must be told.
We who know the story and try to live it out, have the joyful task of telling it to others. When our words rise from hearts full of love and gratitude, they will bear fruit, whether we can see this or not.
Telling the Story of Jesus
The Church is called to announce the Good News of Jesus to all people and all nations. Besides the many works of mercy by which the Church must make Jesus' love visible, it must also joyfully announce the great mystery of God's salvation through the life, suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus. The story of Jesus is to be proclaimed and celebrated. Some will hear and rejoice, some will remain indifferent, some will become hostile. The story of Jesus will not always be accepted, but it must be told.
We who know the story and try to live it out, have the joyful task of telling it to others. When our words rise from hearts full of love and gratitude, they will bear fruit, whether we can see this or not.
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