There is a profound difference between being watched and being seen.
One sets you apart as an object to be observed, perhaps even judged.
The other celebrates you as you are, inviting true relationship,
So, please stop watching me.
Instead, let us really see one another.
If we do that, love will follow.
[photo by wplynn per cc 2.0]
What if, perhaps,
My arms, today,
Were meant to bring
God’s dear embrace
What if my smile
Was meant to show you
Just how much
Has blessed my own?
What if our lives
Could quietly reflect
God’s very being,
In this moment,
In this place?
[photo by Archigeek per cc 2.0]
Every true friendship
Holds the whisper of divinity.
What some see in the sunrise,
I glimpse within your smile.
The hug you bring in greeting
Is always a double embrace.
These truths hold my heart
And feed my life.
[photo by Corey Balazowich per cc 2.0]
There is an image,
An exchange I witnessed,
That has been percolating
In my memory for years.
You’ve probably seen it, too:
A young mother
With her infant bouncing on her lap.
They are enthralled with one another.
What flows between them,
Almost visible as their eyes connect,
Palpable in the air between them,
Is the exchange of life-giving love.
The infant is held by something
So much stronger than her hands.
The mother is upheld
With something just as strong.
Their gifts to one another
Are so tangible
Yet each is filled,
Full of a love that will not be contained.
A rush of life between them.
This is love incarnate.
Love enfleshed; love fulfilled.
This is how life is passed on.
Birth is just the beginning.
Perhaps this shows me why
The Christ came to us.
To look us in the eye
And give us life.
God breathed upon the clay.
Christ looked on us with love.
The Spirit, now within us,
Empowers life’s eternal flow.
It is like breath:
Receiving in; giving out.
Each delightful exchange
Brings life anew.
[image cropped from photo by Robert Moores per cc 2.0]
If I am honest with myself
My faith is pretty messy.
On grateful mornings my heart sings.
I am wrapped in the peaceful veil of sunrise and birdsong.
I know – I seem so sure – that I am a small part
Of an immense and holy whole.
But other mornings I crawl out of a dull and achy hole.
I look around and wonder how love could be the source
Of such a mess as this.
My eyes seem tuned to all that’s undeniably wrong.
Is it the tilt of my heart that determines what I see?
And what tilts my heart?
Is faith a decision?
And, if so, what does it stand upon?
This postmodern mind of mine
Knows that knowing is slippery.
All, all seems built upon the sand.
I need a rock to keep me from collapse.
Yet, even rocks are made of whirling atoms,
With vast emptiness between each particle.
The solid – not so solid: I am not held up by ‘stuff.’
Instead, I am held by the very force of the relationships between each and all.
Right now, that is a much of a rock as I can find.
I clamber up – and am amazed that it holds me.
It holds me … and isn’t that what relationship most desires?
To be cherished, but not crushed. It is a delicate balance.
[image by SJKen per cc 2.0]
The whole of our love for each other is lumpy
Because love is specific
And because we are all lumpy.
It is easy to say you love the whole world.
It is harder to love an individual.
Sometimes their warts get in the way.
Sometimes yours are the problem.
We all hold within us insight and befuddlement.
We hold the whole mix of emotions
We are both right and wrong
Good and bad.
When we love those whose
Confusions align with our own
Is that love or simple resonance?
Perhaps it is love with training wheels.
Mature love can be bigger,
It begins to mimic the love of God,
Who sends rain on the just and the unjust.
Let us all raise our faces to that rain
And drink in the moisture
That lets us truly flourish.
We’ve had enough of dry times.
Let it rain.
[photo by Becka Spence per cc 2.0]
They say that the word for ‘sin’ can be translated as ‘missing the mark.’
But what do you call it when you make a direct hit – on the wrong mark?
What do you call it when you strive for ‘rightness,’ rather than relationship?
What happens when I delude myself into thinking that the way to God,
Is right living, right acting, right believing?
Somehow I miss the insight that the road to rightness takes me far away
From the God who is right here, aching to embrace me, just as I am.
The bullseye of my faith is not doctrinal correctness, but love.
Or, perhaps, it is not a bullseye at all, but a sacred center.
What if I’m not supposed to strike it from afar,
But to lean back into its enfolding?
What if I have been taking aim with a bow made for strict accuracy,
With straight arrows of good intent,
When archery, itself, is not what I am here to learn?
What if I’ve not so much been missing the mark, as missing the point?
[photo by Emily Moe per cc 2.0]