A Sense of Place

In June, I moved from middle Georgia to western North Carolina. I went from living in a loft apartment in downtown to living in a cabin with trees around me. I was excited to put out feeders for birds, because I expected to get more variety than I did in downtown Macon. There, I had English sparrows, house finches, and doves. The hummingbird feeder seldom had much activity but still I reveled in the occasional hummingbird visitor.

One of the first things I did when I got settled into this new place was put up bird feeders. The hummingbirds came almost instantly to the feeder I hung for them. The seed feeder languished for about two months before being visited. I thought chickadees would be the first to find it, because they seem so fearless and curious. However, goldfinches actually began using the feeder a good month before I finally saw a titmouse on it. Shortly after the titmice, I had chickadees and nuthatches. From a lifetime of feeding birds, I know those three types of birds often hang together.

Now that I have four kinds of birds using the seed feeder, I sense my presence is accepted on this little hill I share with them. I am well aware that I’m the intruder, that elements of the more-than-human world were displaced for the cabin I inhabit to be built, and even long before construction began here, Cherokee peoples were displaced by my ancestors, so I sense a strong obligation to tend and honor this little piece of land, for the sake of others who were here long before I showed up.

I don’t feel comfortable saying I own this land or this cabin. At best, I’m a temporary steward of a place that God created and others have lived in. My desire is to be a good neighbor to the trees and other plants, to the birds and other creatures, as well as a good neighbor to the people that live around me.

I have delighted in learning about the native plants and the animals that depend on them. I want to only add plants that belong here, because I am learning that the web of living things depends on so many beautiful and intricate interdependencies to survive and thrive. As much as possible, I want to support and strengthen the interdependencies, not disrupt them. To have a sense of place, the ability to love and connect with the world, and to be a good steward of all creation (including each other) matters. These are small acts done with great love and they can change the world.

At Home

Jesus answered, “Whoever loves me will keep my word. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.” John 14:23

I look around my home, how it reflects me,

the books, the artwork, the colors, the plants,

the open windows that let me see out and invite light inside,

the memories and people represented in items displayed,

the love that fills this space and fills me too.

It is good to be home, to let myself be expressed here.

I wonder what God thinks as God looks around within me?

I hope that what God sees stirs such fondness as I feel,

looking around my home.

Since God created me, I believe God does look with fondness

at God’s home within me.

Santa Monica Sunday Afternoon

Breeze, shade, sand, sun.

You are here in gull’s cries,

palm trees, undulating ocean,

blue cloudless sky.

But just as much present

in the scraps of music, 

sounds of conversation, people

moving in every direction.

I am here,

taking it all in, no agenda

but presence, which is prayer, is it not?

A slice of time on Santa Monica beach,

an act of worship because you are here.

Overflowing Joy

At that very moment, Jesus overflowed with joy from the Holy Spirit and said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because You’ve hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and shown them to babies. Indeed, Father, this brings you happiness.”

                                                                                                    Luke 10:21

I would have loved to see Jesus overflow with joy. I don’t recall having read such a description of Jesus elsewhere, but I can imagine it. Can you? 

This verse is part of the story of the seventy-two who have been sent out and have now returned to share their experiences. Imagine the excitement they brought, and Jesus, in the thick of their excitement, exclaiming with joy to God! It is a glimpse, surely, of what heaven must be, and the overflowing joy that is part and parcel of eternal life. 

I’ve had those moments of overflowing joy, and I’m sure you’ve had them too. Last weekend, I was in the North Georgia mountains, and one morning, as I sat outside in the crisp, cool air, I saw the sun strike the mountain in front of me. It brought tears to my eyes, a moment of overflowing joy. We experience such moments, and most of them take place in events of everyday life. Something clicks, and we are present in a way that is hard to describe. If we do try to describe it, we cannot adequately convey why it is such a moment for us.

Maybe such moments are when we actually experience the world with childlike wonder. Jesus speaks of things being hidden from the wise and intelligent and shown instead to babies. To overflow with joy requires that we lay aside being “reasonable” and embrace imaginative delight, that we receive God’s kingdom, which is everywhere, all around us, as a child.

Are you open to experiencing overflowing joy? Are you willing to let go of stiff, stuffy adulting to see the ordinary as extraordinary, with the eyes of a child?

Talk

Some people talk so brilliantly

That we get small and vanish.

                             From Thoughts, Robert Bly

 

Invisible whenever guests came,

longing to engage in conversation but overpowered.

Did my presence even matter to you?

Damn you, let me speak! Turn the spotlight

off yourself. Words that fell on deaf ears

because I was small in your eyes.

Now you don’t see me at all. I’m gone,

done with invisibility, smallness.

Go ahead, fill the house with your brilliance,

your many words. Talk your fool head off.

I am where my presence matters,

shining like the sun.

Blackbirds

 

Settled, at least for now, in the act of feeding, 

birds blanket the ground, their chirps and cackles 

drench the morning air with sound. 

I could not count them if I tried, the volume 

and their movement muddle any hope of totalling. And why 

would I want to count? Better to stand in awe, 

witness to abundance, communion, energy of life. 

Enjoy the gift, marvel at the scene, for it is fleeting. 

A sound, movement, something I don’t sense, disturbs, 

in a flurry of sound, a thousand wings lift the mass 

into the sky. I stand, agape, in the silence they leave behind, 

 recognizing the place I stand as holy ground, 

 receiving their mantle and their lesson. 

Sing, eat, share life with friends, live in this moment, 

turn aside, be awed.

Living With Intention

I have a magnet on my refrigerator with several statements that challenge me. I bought it at a time in my life when I was emotionally fragile. It encouraged me, and, a number of years later, continues to motivate me to take risks and grow.

 The very first statement on it is “Live with intention.” I’ve been thinking about that frequently, especially as life shifts yet again with the pandemic. Last year, when everything shut down, I committed to use the time as “Covid Retreat,” reflecting on what matters in my life, and what I really didn’t miss. Now, as more and more activities come back on line, the challenge for me is to be intentional about what I add back.

 I’m not alone in this. Just this week I had a parking lot conversation with a friend who was telling me all the meetings she had already attended this week (it was Tuesday) and the reason I was seeing her then was she was heading to another meeting. Yet she also talked about how much she and her husband had enjoyed last spring’s shutdown, where she could have unscheduled time guilt-free.

 Why do we have to feel guilty about having unscheduled time? I struggle with this too. And it’s why I’m particularly focused on that statement “Live with intention.” I don’t want to simply jump back into the fray of busyness because I can. Like falling in a rushing river, once I allow myself to get caught up in the flow of busyness, it’s hard to extract myself.

 To live with intention says to me that I need to be conscious about what I am doing and why I am doing it. I’m reading a book right now entitled, The Joy of Missing Out: Finding Balance in a Wired World. Though its focus is about our reliance (or maybe better said, our overreliance) on smartphones and the internet, it is causing me to think about overall balance in my life.

 At the end of the day, (in the literal sense) I want to be able to look back at how I spent my day and know what I did and why I did it. This is living with intention.

 How are you handling the increasing availability of pre-pandemic activities? Are you being intentional about what you resume? Maybe it’s a good time to consider what are the activities that truly matter to you and what is simply filler—not necessarily bad, but also not purposeful for your life and health.

 Thoreau said, “Wealth is the ability to fully experience life.” Choosing to live with intention then, makes us truly rich.

A Reflection on Hope for Maundy Thursday

Joy as Resistance

This past Sunday as I lit the pink candle on my Advent wreath, it sputtered and sparked as if it were fighting itself to remain lit. The pink candle represents joy. The third Sunday of Advent is known as Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete means Rejoice in Latin. 

My candle’s fight to burn was a reminder to me that sometimes we fight joy. We don’t fight happiness (though some folks seem to have the disposition of Eeyore, always looking for the downside of every event or opportunity). Many of us spend our lives pursuing happiness, but often, that very pursuit keeps us from joy. In fact, the ways we pursue happiness may be seen as a fight against joy because it keeps us always on the surface, rooted shallow. It’s kind of like trying to satisfy hunger with junk food. It may work temporarily, but the deep need for food remains unmet. 

Joy is not dependent on our happiness. The seed of joy often finds its most hospitable soil for germination in suffering and struggle. When we have found ourselves in deep darkness, when we have fallen into the abyss of despair and still found God’s presence there, we know what joy is. Joy is the sense of rootedness in the heart of Christ that allows us to endure even in the midst of great difficulty. 

If there ever was a year we need joy, it is this one. From the pandemic to racial strife to a divisive election season, there have been many reasons to despair. So many people around the world have died or continue to struggle because of Covid-19. Here in the United States we realized afresh that we have not made as much progress toward liberty and justice for all as we might like to think we have. And we also realized that despite being the United States of America, we are not as united as our name would suggest. 

We live in a time where the fires of fear and hate are being stoked daily, and yet, we have lit a candle that says “Rejoice.” Joy is not denial of our circumstances, but the awareness that in the very muck and mire and ugliness that competes for our attention, a shoot will grow up from the stump of Jesse (Isaiah 11:1). God is not absent when the darkness is its darkest. A single pink candle keeps the darkness at bay. It is a testament of resistance. 

My prayer for you is that in a moment of stillness and quiet, you sense the joy of God’s ever-abiding presence. May you feel yourself rooted and grounded in the strong love of God, and celebrate, with wonder, that God was hopeful enough about humanity to enter the world as one of us.

Unencumbered

The traffic light was red for a long time and the day was breezy, so I was able to watch the plastic bag tumble for a long distance down the side of the road. Aside from my irritation that yet another plastic bag was littering the environment, I found it remarkable that it traveled so far and so easily, not becoming snagged by anything along the way.

It became an object lesson for me, reminding me of a quote I’d shared with a yoga class last week: Those who are possessed by nothing possess everything. That bag had nothing holding it back. It was lightweight and unencumbered. It went where the wind blew it.

A famous quote by Hildegard of Bingen came to my mind: I am a feather on the breath of God. The freedom to go wherever God blows you may seem exhilarating to some and terrifying to others, or maybe both at the same time! Living an unencumbered life is something our materialistic society can hardly imagine. We are easily snagged by the values of the culture that advocate for ownership of as much as possible. We take away our own freedom to be a feather on the breath of God (a lovelier image than a tumbling plastic bag!).

Already my email inbox is filling up with holiday sale notices. The temptation to add more possessions to what I already have is heightened at this time of year. I need to remember that more stuff does not bring peace and joy. In fact, the less I am encumbered by possessions, the more freedom I have. Less stuff to take care of means more time to spend with people I love, more time to be outside in nature, more time to offer myself in service to God, more time to practice Sabbath rest.

Living a more unencumbered life requires intention and vigilance. Yet the freedom and joy of less is the reward for that discipline. To be fully available for God is the life we are all called to live. May we desire to be freed for joyful obedience, a feather on the breath of God.

Spiritual Consumerism

Someone recently contacted me looking for a place to go on a spiritual retreat. They had a checklist for what they wanted a place to have, and as I put down the phone from talking with them, I felt as though I was helping them shop for a car or stove.  “I want it to have this feature; I don’t want that feature. . .” I hear similar lists of wants/don’t wants as people discuss worship. I wonder if we are often blind to the ways we attempt to dictate the time, place and method of encountering God.

Ironically, I’ve been listening to a series of conferences of John of the Cross, the Spanish mystic who gave us the concept of the dark night of the soul. John speaks of the dark night of the senses, which is when you no longer have a sensed presence of God. Many of us have experienced some sort of assurance of God’s presence through our senses—we see or hear or feel something that affirms God for us.

Without a felt sense of God’s presence, especially after have had such experiences, one may wonder if God’s presence has withdrawn from them. Unfortunately, much of our contemporary Christian spirituality is dependent on felt experience. So when you no longer receive a felt experience, you may change your spiritual practices to attempt to reclaim the “rush” you are missing.

The experience of what some mystics call “spiritual aridity” may leave us casting about for something new to recreate the buzz we are missing. But when our interest in spiritual matters is precipitated by felt experience, then our focus is not on God, but on ourselves. Spiritual experience can feed the ego, and ego is exactly what blocks our view of God.

There is no formulaic way to an encounter with God. Growth in our faith happens as we are content to know God present with us without the felt experience of God. Our faith grows not as we receive affirmation through a felt spiritual experience but through keeping faith even in the darkness, when we have no option than to simply trust that God is present with us.

Touching His Wound

“Put your hand into my side. No more disbelief. Believe!”

                                                                John 20:27

Let me draw my life from your life,

as I feel the beating of your heart

under my trembling fingers.

So close to you, your breath on my skin.

You, source of my life.

You, source of my love.

Let me draw my life from your life.

Let me never doubt your presence in me,

your love for me,

your Spirit’s power moving me.

I put my hand under your heart.

I put my whole trust, my whole life, in you.

What Easter Means to Me . . . Now

I awoke on Sunday filled with excitement. Easter had arrived! It was time to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection and the startling truth that love overcomes all, and I do mean all.

It’s not a story new to me, or to others. So why the excitement? What makes Easter different for me now?

This is my favorite icon. It is known as the Harrowing of Hades and depicts Jesus standing on the gates of hell. He’s pulling Adam and Eve out of their tombs.

This icon reminds me of something many churches have edited out of the Apostles’ Creed: Jesus descended into hell.

Several years ago, my life broke apart. I had become aware of cracks, but then one day came, and everything was suddenly very different. Only a couple of days later, I was at a conference and one of the speakers, Elaine Heath, talked about this icon and what it represents—that Jesus goes into hell and pulls us out of it. She said that this is the good news many need to hear because many are living in hell. Jesus comes into our worst circumstances and does not let go of us.

For me, this was news I needed to hear. It took some time for me to get completely out of the hell in which I found myself, but never did I feel abandoned there. Through the darkest days I knew the grasp of Jesus’ hand in mine. Though I walked through wilderness, experienced betrayal, false accusation and the pain of desertion by people I loved dearly, I knew Christ’s presence with me.

Over time I was pulled out of death and decay into new life. I experienced Easter. It has changed what Easter means to me. Before my own resurrection, Easter was a promise of something to come at the end of earthly life. But now I know it is more than that, not because someone told me but because I have lived it.

No matter what anyone tells you, no matter the shame and guilt others may try to shovel onto you as dirt is shoveled over a casket, you are not abandoned by Jesus. The one who knew betrayal and false accusation is the one who has gone into hell—for you. He holds your hand as he stands on the gates of hell and he will not let go. Easter is the proof that Christ’s love overcomes all.

Some Thoughts About Yoga as Spiritual Practice

Only in the context of grace can we face our sin; only in the place of healing do we dare to show our wounds; only with a single-minded attention to Christ can we give up our clinging fears and face our true nature.  –Henri Nouwen

Nouwen is speaking of the importance of solitude, but I also believe these words have applicability to the practice of yoga if one is approaching yoga as more than simply a way to exercise. I encourage students to come to yoga with openness, because the physical practice is only a part of the overall aim and philosophy of yoga.

The physical practice of yoga becomes a spiritual practice when we are able to extend grace to ourselves. We learn our limitations and do not view these as deficiencies. We accept and honor our capability, yet always seek to do the best we can do. When we can accept and honor our own capacity, it then becomes possible to accept and honor the capacity of others.

Our ability to accept our wounds makes the physical practice of yoga an exercise in spiritual growth. We may have injuries or conditions or aches and pains that bring us to yoga in the hope of finding relief. It requires vulnerability to accept and work with the wounds we have, be they physical or emotional. As we learn to love our bodies and what they are capable of doing, we find healing of attitudes that may be more limiting than the wounds themselves. Our culture does not encourage vulnerability, so the ability to hold our woundedness lovingly grows us spiritually.

Finally, there are poses in yoga that challenge us, that invite us to move past fear of failure, that coax us to try, in a safe space, something we may not have thought we could do. For me, that was a significant aspect of spiritual growth. Yoga helped me to be strong in the face of fear, to “breathe through the pose,” and come out on the other side more confident than before. In yoga, I discovered strength within me that I wasn’t aware I possessed. I know where that strength came from, so yoga has helped me to tune in more fully to the presence of God’s spirit in me.

Vacant

“When an unclean spirit leaves a person, it wanders through dry places looking for a place to rest. But it doesn’t find any. Then it says, ‘I’ll go back to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the place vacant, cleaned up, and decorated. Then it goes and brings with it seven other spirits more evil than itself. They go in and make their home there. That person is worse off at the end than at the beginning.  

–Matthew 12:43-45

Let my heart not be found vacant, Lord,

well-adorned yet empty. Let my heart be

filled with warmth, love and your presence,

that I may walk in your way,

that I may radiate your love to others.

Fill me full of yourself, O God.

Leave no cell void of you

that I may dissolve into you

fully,

completely,

wholly.

Amen.

Birthday Reflections

I celebrated my birthday this week and I certainly know I have much to celebrate. I am living in a place of fullness, joy and peace that I could have never imagined for myself. Some people use the expression “living the dream” sarcastically, but I use it with sincerity. Friends of mine have heard me say that truly, I am living my dream. I am grateful for the way my life has unfolded to bring me to this place of deep gladness.

Frederick Buechner says this: The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet. When I first heard this quote, I was in a season of discernment about what I sensed as a call for my life. Following that call took me from what felt comfortable and predictable and set me on a journey that defied any effort at making a five year plan. Even if I had made such a plan, the events that unfolded along the way were ones I could have never predicted.

Fullness of life doesn’t mean rainbows and unicorns. I went through the hardest season of my life thus far in the years between following this call and now. In fact, there were days dark enough and circumstances unsettling enough that I questioned my worth and my call. But God’s love was manifested to me in the love, companionship and encouragement of friends. I likewise realized that the consistent practice of centering prayer and lectio divina had led to a sense of God’s presence that sustained me. I was grateful that I never felt abandoned by God, even when I questioned everything else about my life.

As I reflect on life at the conclusion of another trip around the sun, I can’t think of anything I’d wish for if I had birthday candles to blow out. I am grateful for each moment. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for the communities to which I belong. And yes, I am grateful, supremely grateful, for the season of struggle, the pain and the people whose words and actions hurt me. Without them, I would not be where I am today. I would not have learned and lived the truth of death and resurrection in such a palpable way.

So I celebrate that I have been born and that I have been reborn. Life is good. Thanks be to God!

Present in the Transitions

When Jesus heard about John, he withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. When the crowds learned this, they followed him on foot from the cities.

                                                                                --Matthew 14:13

Jesus needed some alone time after learning of the execution of his cousin John. The only time he could claim was the time on the boat. As soon as he landed, he was once again surrounded by crowds.

I imagine Jesus found the time on the boat soothing to his grieving soul, enabling him to then be fully present with the crowds who were waiting for him when he came ashore. It is a reminder to me to not fail to be fully present in the transitions of life.

Our achievement/accomplishment oriented culture places greater emphasis on the destination than the process required to get there. We are constantly looking ahead to the next thing, but when we do this, we miss the gifts of being on the way.

Recently I observed a Luna moth on a UPS drop box as I was walking on a downtown sidewalk from my apartment to my car. Had I been lost in thought about my to-do list, I might have missed a moment of beauty. And this morning as I parked my car in a large parking lot to go to an appointment, I heard a hawk. I stopped, looking in the sky to see if I could see it. I found it perched in a pine tree that is growing at the edge of the lot. It was a gift to appreciate as I moved toward my destination.

It takes intentionality to be as present climbing the stairs, walking across a parking lot, riding an elevator or standing in line as we are when we first put our bare feet in the sand on a long awaited beach trip, or are eating lunch with a friend we haven’t seen in a while, or celebrating a milestone moment of life.

Seeking God’s presence in the moments between moments, in the spaces between thoughts, or in the transitions between events enriches all of life and disposes us to see God in ways we could miss if we are only focused on accomplishments or destinations. Much of Jesus’ ministry happened when he was on the way. I pray we can appreciate the “on the way” moments as much as the moments of arrival or accomplishment.

Union

Today I was a bird, singing the song

   Creator gave me to sing.

I was a tree, bearing fruit nourished

   by roots deep in God’s soil.

I was a brook, babbling and sparkling

   in the sun, making its way

   naturally, beautifully.

Today I caught fire. I was all flame,

   fully alive in the flow of grace.

One hundred percent who I was created

   to be,

      like bird, brook and tree.

Today I knew union, not in ecstasy,

   but in living completely surrendered,

   bursting with the gifts of my true self

   the way a fully ripe grape bursts between the teeth.

Attentiveness to the Transitions

When Jesus heard about John he withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. When the crowds learned this, they followed him on foot from the cities.   –Matthew 14:13

After hearing of the death of John the Baptist, Jesus needs some time to himself. However, the only time he gets is the time on the boat. Alone on the water, I imagine him feeling the rocking motion and hearing the waves lapping against the hull. Other than this, things are still, quiet, calm. I can imagine the time on the water soothes his pain.

I’ve read this verse many times but never before have I thought about Jesus’ time on the water. That was merely a transition from point A to point B in my mind. However, a group from my church recently returned from a pilgrimage to Israel. I asked two different men at two different events last week to describe their most memorable moment of the time away. Both of them described being on a boat in the Sea of Galilee in silence for about ten minutes—no boat engine, no conversation. Just silence.

Their descriptions of this experience caused me to pay attention to this verse that details Jesus’ movement by boat. Having heard my friends describe their experience, my own imagination went with Jesus into the boat, and I shared the experience with him. It reminds me that being present is not only about arriving at a destination, but also about being present in the transitions of life, mundane as they often are. For Jesus had only the boat time to renew himself, only that time alone on the water to attend to his grief.

The transitions in my day and yours are many and we often miss the gifts they offer us. Climbing the stairs, driving the car, standing in line, walking across a parking lot—all these are times we can choose to be present and attentive or we can merely be focused on getting to the next thing.

Years ago, I was looking out my office window into the parking lot. A bush was alive with cedar waxwings, devouring the berries. I was mesmerized as I watched them. A coworker pulled his car into the parking space near the bush, got out of the car and walked into the building. He never saw the birds right there in front of him. That happened thirty-plus years ago and I still remember it.

So today, I want to pay attention to the transitions, to the moments between moments, the pauses between words, the spaces between thoughts or breaths. Those are opportunities to be aware of the Spirit’s presence.

Instructions I Need to Remember

Close the door. What’s gone is gone.

Hold the memory, but do not live it.

Love the now, live the now.

See what and who surrounds you and

breathe them fully into your heart.

This moment, this day, the present presence—

embrace it completely. It is the gift.

Let go what is no more. Don’t drag

regret’s anchor or carry future’s

worry stones.

Sink deep roots into eternal now.

Love what you are given,

love what you love without shame.

Sing this moment’s symphony. Let

every note enliven every heartbeat

so that your whole life becomes song,

an eternal, everliving, everlasting

Jubilate Deo.