Tag Archives: quandary

the Afterlings

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gremlinToday is too big and I am too little. I said ‘yes’ too many times, and now I’m saying ‘Oh no!’

The Afterlings – the menacing creatures that wear guilt and stress like fancy clothes and prance around my present tasks – those gremlins undermine my every effort and then fall to the floor in gales of cynical laughter.

I hate their presence and I despise myself for their creation. They circle me, taunting, laughing, threatening doom. Then they gleefully poke each other and egg each other on. I cover my head with my arms and cower in my corner, deep within my pit of desperation.

Suddenly their yammering is hushed. They look up to see the approach of a misty form, clothed in light. The earth vibrates with its coming. They scatter, racing with each other to fight their way into the deepest corners, pulling their comrades out of their way, stomping on each other in their stampede for the darkness. They retreat into the hidden edges of this pit, with only their eyes catching a reflection of the light and revealing their presence under the rocks and within the crevices of the walls.

light-comesThe misty form has approached us on the ground above, scattering rays of brightness and droplets of reflected sunlight into this hole. A misty hand reaches down and scoops me up out of the hole and places me beside the well of joy.

The whole congregation of angels who come to the well in worship each day, the whole group is covered with this shimmering mist and they begin to chant, slowly, steadily, with words that tingle with the energy that lies within them, impatient for release. “He comes, he comes,” they chant. “He comes.”

I am more than a little scared by their chanting, by the power that pulses in its cadence. Before long, the whole meadow is filled with a blinding, brilliant light. I cannot even close my eyes to mask the brilliance, for it shines as brightly within my eyelids as it does within the meadow. It permeates every living form, every leaf and blade. We are all filled, filled with light.

Though I can see nothing, I can hear. The crowd is singing an ecstatic chorus, almost beyond words themselves. The well has overflowed its brim and is sending a torrent of water out at my feet, tumbling over them, almost massaging them with its power. I reach and touch the water and then touch my eyes. The water strengthens my eyes so that I can see within the brilliance.

I see the whole congregation on its feet, full of awe, hands up lifted, seeking to bring light into themselves. Indeed, the light is everywhere. There is an overwhelming oneness in the congregation, in the meadow. All are light together, although, with my strengthened eyes, I can also see each separate form and hear each separate voice of praise.

All the screeching noises of my Afterlings have been hushed by the magnificence and power of this scene.   But, quietly, in the still-dark chambers of my heart I can still see them – the Afterlings – as they scuttle and vie for the opportunity to mock me again.

Why do I let the Afterlings cross the realm of meditation into my daily heart, the heart that faces the drudgery of my day?   (See? I use an Afterling term for my duties. Yet, the angels of light do not disdain the simple tasks that I have let the Afterlings claim as drudgery.)

What a battle rages in the crevices of my being! The light and the dark are at war. The power of the light stands against the overriding fear and mockery of the dark. Indeed, it is fear that rivets my attention on the dark – fear that my failures will sneak up behind me and devour my soul.

I fear that I have no power that is it’s equal. It taunts me with that message every moment. But it is not my own power that I must seek. Instead, I must learn to see the light. I must refocus my gaze from the Afterlings to the angels. Each proclaim a potential truth. I must choose which will be true in me.

“I choose light.” At first it is a whisper, but in hearing my own words I am strengthened and I say it louder. “I choose light.” It rises in my throat and becomes a shout. “I choose light!” The congregation is again on its feet. The Afterlings scatter and run. “I choose light.” It is a plea and a promise, made with my own lips. “I choose light.”

“And I choose you, too.” The light answers. The voice is deep, and full and resonating with love and power. “I choose you.”

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[first image filtered from photo by dun_deagh per cc 2.0; second is a photo by Fabio Rava per cc 2.0; third is a photo by Martin LaBar per cc 2.0]

tangle of anger

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GRRRR!GRRR! I am so angry at myself, at the system, at the continuing unfairness of work to reward, at my own inability to control my emotions about this. I need a gift of grace. ‘Seek first the kingdom,’ you say. I must not have been seeking the kingdom very well, because “all these things” seem to be going to someone else.

I know, I have no room to gripe.  I know I have been deeply blessed. What right do I have to be mad? Still, I must admit that I am mad. I have poured myself out on an altar whose god does not care.

The greater irony – that false god did not make me do it. Once I gave him the minimum, he stopped even looking. So, the waste I have made of myself is all my fault. Now, I can’t seem to gather myself back together enough to find what matters.

This world’s prince doesn’t care about fair. In fact, unfair suits his purposes much better. Fairness will never be achieved through his means. And from God, the true God, I do not want fairness. I want mercy. I want grace.

So, why can’t I shake loose from this burden of anger? I reach inside myself an try to pull it from my heart, but it is wrapped too tightly. I fear I will pull my heart out, as well, if I tug hard enough to dislodge it.

It is not just clinging to me, it is consuming me; feeding on my heart, crowding out all else from my mind and my spirit. It is a cancer which must be removed, even at the cost of my heart. So, I do pull it out, and, along with it, the unconsumed fragments of my heart, bleeding in its claws. I throw it from me as far as I can manage and then I slump to the ground in a heap. I am hollow inside. All my energy, all my effort drains out onto the ground in a puddle of red.

Then, the Holy One is beside me. She gathers me up in her arms, wraps me in a cloth and carries me to the well. She washes me, wraps me again in a clean towel and sets me on the ground before her.

“This is not a battle lost, she says. This is a fruitless battle ended.”

“Listen to my voice. I have a better struggle for you to enter in. Not a battle, but a dedication of effort to something better than the tasks that others have selected for you.  Do not despair the efforts you have made, but do not trust them for the building of your life. Your life lies not in them, it lies in who I have called you to be.”

“And do not look for confirmation in comparison with others. Their path is different from your own. When you measure yourself, your success, by other’s standards, you are not measuring yourself at all. Such measures will never satisfy.”

With this, from another small towel, she unwraps a new heart. It is not like my old heart. Instead, it is a piece of her own heart that she gives to me.

“Listen. I have placed myself within you. Listen. You will begin to hear, to know, and then to follow.”

She turns to go. Then, almost as an afterthought she says, “Don’t worry about letting go of your anger. Let go, instead of your misguided heart. The anger clings so tightly to that, that when you remove it, the anger will be removed as well.” She smiles. “Listen for my heartbeat, deep within.” Then she is gone.

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[image cropped from photo by Shawn per cc 2.0]

squirrel

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squirrel in a cage
The best moments any of us have as human beings are those moments when for a little while it is possible to escape the squirrel cage of being me into the landscape of being us. – Frederick Buechner

 

I try for a moment every morning
To pry my attention away from the urgent
And focus on the eternal.

It is not easy.

Sometimes my distractions are discomfort:
A headache or a cold.
Sometimes it is the email, screaming in my inbox.

Or that damn list.

Sometimes it is just guilt:
The friend I should have called,
The closet where I’ve hidden what I should have cleaned.

They are all squirrels.

So, I try one or more of the methods I’ve been given –
I focus on my breath or close my eyes and smile
Or practice grateful reflection.

Each of those can help.

But what really makes the difference
Is when you sneak up beside me
And remind me

You are here.

That is when my soul can finally release its grasp upon the urgent
And fall into your sweet embrace.
That is the moment

I find myself, again.

[image filtered from photo by Chance Fry per cc 2.0]

I’m the exception

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one time too manyJust when I think I can’t forgive that @#%&! one more time,
Just when I think that seven times seventy is way too generous,
Just when I wonder how to continue to forgive in the context of consistent offense,
I remember how I treat myself.

I passed the seven times seventy mark with myself eons ago.
Yet, I still give myself the benefit of the doubt.
I still look with grace upon my own actions, finding excuses for my misbehavior.
That must be what he meant when he said, ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’

Well, phoey.

Just when I think it can’t be done, I remember that I’ve already done it for myself.
I’m the exception to my own rule
And the proof that one more moment of grace is not too many,
It is the only way to keep moving forward.

[photo by madstreetz per cc 2.0]

 

amphibious soul

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a startling frog

We are, by nature, amphibious souls. Our spirits journey on a path that is somehow parallel and somehow separate from the journey of our days.

So, how do we move forward in both? When I work at my desk, where is my spirit? When I quiet my soul sufficiently to hear the whisper of God, what happens to my work?

Is it love that drives the act of mercy, or the act of mercy that evokes my love? My tendency is to think that it is the spirit that moves the hand. But what happens when my spirit is recalcitrant? Is it possible for my hand to move my spirit?

I try this little experiment: I close my eyes and smile. When I do this with intention, I can feel my spirit expand and my soul lift in joy. The smile has evoked my joy.

So, if I am truly amphibious, there are two ways in: the way of action and the way of contemplation. Actually, I think James says this: faith and works are inextricably linked.

So, which comes first? The frog or the egg; the tadpole or the hopper? Maybe it doesn’t matter where I start – I can get there, just the same.

I close my eyes and smile. I cherish the second path, grateful for a way around my heart, when it is feeling churlish.

[photo by John Clare per cc 2.0]

a Narnia encounter (2)

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peaceful giant[a continued meditation … part 1 is here.]

Suddenly I wake. I have dropped off to sleep beside the giant. He is breathing softly, at least softly for him. I find that in my sleep I have moved toward him, edging toward the warmth of his bulk, though I am a bit fearful that he might roll over on me.

I look toward his face and see that he is awake. Lying on his side, with his head propped up on one hand, he waits for me to open my eyes. He sees me look at him and smiles. “So you wake up, do you? You are ready to start our day?”

I smile back and scramble to my feet. I walk over and stoke the fire, still burning, quietly, slowly. Just barely more than glowing coals, the tiniest of flames dance in the inner chambers of the fire formed in the spaces between the logs. With very little work the fire is strong and warm. I pull up a waiting log for a seat and warm my hands and stretch the soreness out of my body. Some logs were added since last night. I wonder about that briefly, but the giant’s movements catch my attention.

The giant reaches toward the oilskin bag in which he carries his provisions. He pulls a piece of manna from the bag. It is wrapped in a cloth, which he unfolds onto a stone beside him. He breaks a corner from his large loaf and hands it to me. This act, this simple gift, seems very like communion. He shares with me this gift. We break bread, together.

He has a water-skin, too. But he is not sure just how to give me something to drink. I have no cup and this water-skin is far too big for me to lift. Finally, I cup my hands and he pours some water into them. I drink and then rinse my hands with what remains.

“Shall we go?” I ask the giant.

“Go? Why go? We are here, we are.” he replies. “Where do you want to go?”

“Yesterday you said something about taking me to a meeting….” I begin.

“That’s right, a meeting. That meeting is here. Here is where we hold the meeting.”

“Oh.” I’m really a little disappointed that we won’t be moving on. I am filled with a dancing energy from the bread and water, from the fading memory of the night’s adventure. (Was that a dream or was it real?) I pace around the clearing. I reach into my pocket and touch my lighter. “What is this meeting? Who will be coming?”

“I don’t know,” the giant replies. “They sent me to get you and bring you here. They said there was to be a meeting. They sent many to look for you, but I found you, I did, and I brought you here.”

“Who are they?” I ask. “Who sent you for me?”

“The voices on the wind,” he says.

I stop, struck cold. The voices on the wind? I rode in the pocket of this giant far from where I was, because he heard voices on the wind? I’m not so sure about this. But then I remember Aslan. He was here last night, wasn’t he? Sometimes it seems like morning makes things less clear.

I turn to the giant. “How often have you heard these voices?”

“Two times before I have heard them, I have. This time makes three.” He holds up three fingers and seems to be quite proud of himself.

“And who is coming to the meeting?” I ask.

“They didn’t say,” he shrugs his shoulders, “They just said to find you and bring you here.”

I’m a little frustrated by his satisfaction with these incomplete answers. “When is the meeting to begin?”

“Tonight I think…. or tomorrow. They will know when to begin.” He looks at me, curious that I should be so insistent on all these details.

“So what do we do till then?” I ask. I can tell my voice has a bit of an edge.

“We wait.”

We have reached an impasse. The only one who can give me any hints about this meeting is quite content to let it happen on its own. He rises and strides off toward the stream to wash his hands.

I am left to wait, questions unanswered, trying to hold my impatience at bay. I don’t much like waiting. But sometimes that is what is required: to wait.

The difference between me and the giant, here, is that the giant seems, somehow, to trust the unfolding of experience. It’s not so much that he trusts the plan. Indeed, he seems unaware of any plan – or even of any need for one. Instead, he trusts … what? The voices? Perhaps it is that he trusts the one who calls.

I manage a wry smile. Can I trust a call, rather than a plan? I think I’ll plan to do just that …

[this soul story continues, here]

[image cropped and adjusted from photo by Ron Frazier per cc 2.0]

After vacation

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backpackI’m trying to get my head to reactivate after vacation.
Nice that it turned off …
Now … how to turn it on?

That’s always the fear –
That if I put something down,
I’ll lose the capacity to pick it up –
Or I’ll lose it altogether.

Yet, like a backpack,
You can’t carry it forever.
Sometimes you gotta stop for a while.
Sometimes you need a rest.

And when the rest is over
You must pick it up again.
It’s the hardest part of the journey.
Always a bit awkward.

So, Holy One …
Are you there?
Where am I?
Touch my soul awake.

At last, I find your smile.
Like a Cheshire cat, I see that first.
Hovering in my imagination.
Eliciting my smile in return.

I lean my heart back into your presence
And find the echo of peace
That waits there for me
Hovering at the edge of possibility.

And, at last,
Sinking back into your yes
I find myself, again.
Thank you.

[photo by Ville Koivisto per cc 2.0]

The high cost of othering

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anguishI am at a loss for words.
And angry with myself for my own complicity.
For letting myself believe that I am somehow at a distance –
An innocent observer, sadly shaking my head.

Yet, I am also at a loss for action.
What can I do in the face of such anger and hate?
How can I respond without bringing the presumptions of my privilege
Thinking somehow I am a ‘fixer’ and ‘they’ need ‘fixing.’

Where is the opening for your grace
In this moment, and in me?
Let this common gash upon our souls
Create an opening for love.

Teach us another way.
Bind us in our common grief
Wake us to a common hope.
Help us find our way to resurrection.

And help me to recognize the steps I might take
Along that way.

[photo by debaird™ per cc 2.0]

You there?

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facing an uncertain futureGod?
Are you there?
Are you worried?
Why don’t you just fix it all?
And can you fix me while you are at it?

 
God?
If I give you just a moment –
Can you give me one day’s wisdom?
Can I give you – can I give your world –
One day’s kindness?

Perhaps that is a start.
A tangible way to love God by loving my neighbor.
I might even be able to love my neighbor
Just about as much as I love myself today.
That skeptical much, that begrudging much, that hopeful much.

One day’s kindness,
One day’s suspension of angry judgment.
One day’s pause to be actually grateful
For breath, for friends, for family, for hope
For the life you have given me.

One day’s kindness to myself
As the starting place
The opening place
To nurture kindness that can extend outward
From a center strong enough to hold hope.

From a center where your love for me
Gives room
Takes root
Empowers kindness
Allows change to flower.

Yes?

God?

(Yes.)

[photo by Rob Baird per cc 2.0]

Striving to be non-mean

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anger's angst

One of my distinctions in religion is not liberal and conservative, but mean and non-mean. – Martin Marty

When someone is mean to you, it is way too easy to get locked into their mode of exchange – trading barb for barb. This is a particularly potent temptation in politics and religion, where the stakes seem so high. We shout at each other from different islands, each sure of our own stand and disparaging of the other.

George Lakoff and Mark Johnson tell us that we are stuck in this frame, in part, because of the metaphors we use. We think of an argument as a form of war – where we parry and thrust and go in for the kill. Even the title to this post is just a shade away from ‘strife.’ In war, it is win or lose, and the cost of losing is your life – or at least your way of life. Lakoff and Johnson wonder what it might be like if, instead, we thought of argument as form of dance.

And Julia Cameron suggests that anger is a signal that someone has crossed your boundaries. It provides a map to our psychological ‘safe space’ and tells us when its threatened. When someone makes us angry, they have crossed a line. When we see someone who is angry – they have revealed a bit of the map of their lives.

I wonder, with Martin Marty, what it might be like if we could approach our disagreements as a opportunity to deepen understanding. What if we treated our arguments as research – an adventure into the unknown?

What if we could learn to be non-mean in the face of disagreement? What if we could learn to dance? We seem so far from that today. Could you possibly start the music for me and show me a few steps?

[photo by Jake Miller per cc 2.0]