Truth (Chopping or Pointing)

A few weeks back I quoted Anne Lamott here, saying, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. You can point with it too."

That line has been doing a number of things in my heart these last few weeks.

I find myself thinking about a number of situations that I've been involved in over the last while.

About the moments when it seems that truth has been wielded only as a sword, meant to cut, to "do surgery", to separate flesh and bone. All worthy things in their own right, but only when done rightly, and with permission. I think particularly about the idea of surgery, and realize that a surgeon, no matter how right he is, no matter how much he knows that without surgery the patient will be unwell, cannot operate without the patient's permission. And I think about how I've encountered surgery as a spiritual metaphor, and wonder if perhaps we shouldn't pause as Christians to consider those on whom we're "operating" - to ask their permission before wielding sword or scalpel.

But I've found myself struck, too, by questions of my own.

I have a strong affinity for truth, and for justice. It's a part of who I am. It's something I learned from my dad. It's also something deeply ingrained within my being. And I've been known to speak with something less than caution and gentleness in the pursuit of truth or justice, especially when the place where they are lacking is something I feel deeply - something that creates brokenness, or causes anger to well up within me.

So I find myself asking if there are moments, in the midst of the same situations I was already thinking about, where I too, chopped instead of pointed. While it is never my heart to cause injury, have there been moments when I spoke with something other than a gentle love? Have there been moments, when, intentionally or not, my words caused injury? Were there moments when my words were heard as a striking blow, even if that was not the tone in which they were intended? Have I paused in the words I've spoken, written, emailed, or simply thought, to prayerfully let my words be tempered by grace and gentleness, so that they can point clearly and bring healing, rather than chopping and causing further wounds?

And, even if they were never spoken aloud, how many times has my heart wanted to chop at certain people or situations, certain that if truth could only be understood, all would be restored.

It's the spirit within me that matters, almost as much, if not more than the spirit without.

I tend to be fairly controlled in my speech. It's rare that I become angry enough these days to truly lash out. And yet, maybe it's the spirit in my heart that counts?

"You must have heard that our ancestors were told, 'You must not murder. If you commit murder, you are subject to judgment.' But I say, if you are even angry with someone, you are subject to judgment! If you call someone an idiot, you are in danger of being brought before the court. And if you curse someone , you are in danger of the fires of hell." (Matthew 5:21-22)

Jesus took it that one step further, and made it about my heart. And that's the hard bit.

I came across a lyric from U2's latest single this morning via a link on facebook. And I wanted nothing so badly as to quote a line from the lyrics in a chopping sort of way to someone I know. To throw it at the person in a "why can't you understand this" fashion. "How can you stand next to the truth and not see it?" Bono sings.

And in that moment, as I read those lyrics, and thought about another question I'd been pondering yesterday, another set of someone else's words that I wanted to lob back at them, my heart was drawn back to Lamott's words, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. You can point with it too." And to Jesus' words in the sermon on the mount, which, in other versions suggest that anger or hatred hidden in your heart is equally sinful and damaging to committing murder. And to the words that follow the passage I quoted above, that talk about wherever it is possible being reconciled.

Just now, as I was pondering all of these thoughts, I was reading a different book by Anne Lamott, and was struck by another comment that rather deeply pertains to this pattern of thought. She writes, "I've known for years that resentments don't hurt the person we resent, but that they do hurt and even sometimes kill us. I'd been asking myself, Am I willing to try to give up a bit of this hatred?"

And so, I'm left with this. A confession that my heart is not always gentle, and that sometimes I want truth more than I want to be gentle and loving towards others. A desire for that heart to change. And a wondering how one goes forward when it has become clear that some things cannot be reconciled, but will end, and end painfully.

This one is hitting hard

This thought from Henri Nouwen arrived in my inbox several weeks ago. As I was sorting through the emails from the Henri Nouwen society that I've flagged to share on my blog at some point, this one jumped out at me.

Life has not been easy this last while, and joy has been rather hard to come by.

I flew across the country this last weekend to be with a dear friend who consistently reminds me that "crushed grapes can produce tasty wine." A friend who would offer advice in truth, even when I can't always yet feel the truth of what she says. I needed the challenges she offered, hard as they were at moments to hear.

And I'm grateful for her voice, and others, who remind me of the truths I've struggled to cling to.

Henri writes:

Friends as Reminders of Our Truth

Sometimes our sorrow overwhelms us so much that we no longer can believe in joy. Life just seems a cup filled to the brim with war, violence, rejection, loneliness, and endless disappointments.

At times like this we need our friends to remind us that crushed grapes can produce tasty wine. It might be hard for us to trust that any joy can come from our sorrow, but when we start taking steps in the direction of our friends' advice, even when we ourselves are not yet able to feel the truth of what they say, the joy that seemed to be lost may be found again and our sorrow may become livable.

Reality

I'm still working my way through Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life" and enjoying it. I tend to read Anne Lamott when I need to reconnect with some sort of more earthy reality. When life has become too intangible, and I need to ground myself a little.

And yet, I fell in love with this line from Bird by Bird tonight:

"Reality is unforgivingly complex." (pg. 104)

How very true. A truth that I'm feeling deeply these days.

Non-Avoidance

I've been re-realizing these last few days, just how skilled at avoidance I really am.

Thankfully, in the midst of some of the worst avoidance I've entertained in a long while, a dear friend was with me, and pushing gently, and sometimes a bit less so for me to begin to face and deal with some stuff, and begin to heal again. I'm incredibly thankful for the several late nights she spent talking with me, in the midst of a weekend that I know wasn't easy for her either.

The truth is, I made a series of less than healthy decisions, and, over the weekend, hit a low point that was quite stunning. I haven't been that close to walking away from God, life and relationships since the last few months before my depression was healed, nearly 3 years ago now. And because of the bad choices, I began again to entertain lies in my life, and they grew until they overwhelmed and became my "truth".

It's likely going to take a while to pull out of that and be healthy again.

I've committed to non-avoidance, and am taking a number of steps to ensure that my usual avoidance techniques are not options.

And yet, I realized again tonight, while grocery shopping with my roommates, how easy it is to attempt to satisfy the hungry and aching places in my soul. Things that I would never normally buy - candy, comfort foods and so forth - were stunningly appealing, and I had to conciously remind myself of some of the decisions I've made and guidelines I've put in place for this next while.

I'm good at avoiding, but I'm hoping for better things. I'm longing for healing. Even though I know it means non-avoidance, and even though I know that for a while at least, non-avoidance is likely to be messy, hurtful, and somewhat miserable.

Two phrases stand out from the weekend. One a question posed by Jesus, another a reminder from a scripture my friend sent me. The first "Do you want to be well?" and the second "Today I have given you the choice between life and death..."

I want to be well.

I choose life.

(I think I'm going to have to repeat those things ad infinitum in a quest to begin to live them, but oh, does my heart long for them to be realized within me.)

Regarding truth...

I've been thinking a lot about truth lately. About the cost of speaking it at times. It's seemed to have had a high cost for me lately. I've been considering silence, or dishonesty to limit the costs for a while.

I read this post on Drew's blog this morning, and liked it. I needed the reminder that as a child of God I am called to truth.