The Exodus - Part II

And while He was praying, the appearance of His face became different, and His clothing became white and gleaming. And behold, two men were talking with Him; and they were Moses and Elijah, who, appearing in glory, were speaking of His exodus which He was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

I wrote recently about my vision of the Exodus on a retreat this April.  The next morning, Sunday the 24th, the vision continued. This time I saw the hands of God with His fingers in the dirt.  He seemed to be working on something impossibly small, and He began speaking to me like a teacher.

"Amy, Israel could not respond to my glory.  My fire terrified them and they would not look Me in the face, so they never learned my emotions, they never felt My love.  Instead they made idols which would not burn, gods they could touch. But still my heart longed for Israel. I still yearned for a bride.  And so I did another magic trick – one which confounded the heavens.

I hid My glory in the dirt. My Son became very, very small. He took on a face so men could look at Me and learn My heart, learn My emotions, learn My ways.

How could one man accomplish an Exodus?  In Egypt, a million people beheld my glory at one time.  This time my Son called each person by name – each man, woman, child."

And then Jesus began speaking to me.

"I was the Passover Lamb.  And I descended into hell.  And I opened a path from death into life. None can shut it until My return, and whoever will may come. The Father and I are one.

I have a glorious Bride from every tribe and nation and tongue and none can deny her because I have parted the  expanse between heaven and earth.

When I rose from the dead, I was full of joy because I walked in both my natures – in glory and in humanity. I ascended to the Father and received the glory which was mine.  But I am  a man like you, and when you see me in glory you will be like Me for you will see Me as I am.

After the Resurrection, I breathed on you, I touched you, I ate with you so you would know that I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

Grief and Intimacy - Part III

Thomas and I enjoy teaching together as we did in Wittenberg.  Blogging together is another matter.  I tend to speak much as I write.  Thomas speaks from notes and slides which don't read easily.  But his part of this teaching is by far the most practical, so I have made an effort to adapt them below.

My sense is that we in the Western Church – certainly in America – have lost the ability to grieve. This may be another consequence of separating ourselves from our Jewish roots. Our approach to pain is not grief. Instead, I think it can be summarized with two words:

Clinical – we diagnose and cut out the source of the pain, or prescribe drugs to mask the fact that the pain is there.

Cynical – we decide to become accustomed to the pain, so much so that we inflict it on others, and ridicule anyone who expresses hope of healing

In scripture, we do not see God responding to the pain of His heart, in either of these manners. He does not simply cut out the source of the pain and discard it. He never is described as masking or dulling His own pain. But God also never accepts the pain as normal.

Instead, God grieves

Jesus grieved in the gospels.  Here are seven principles for grieving taken from the gospels.

1) Refuse All Comfort Except God’s

Entering into grieving opens you up for God’s comfort.

The Discipline of Lament
From Reconciling All Things by Katongole & Rice

The voice from Ramah refuses to be consoled.
These are profound words in a world full of easy
ways of consoling ourselves. Rachel’s cry refuses
to spiritualize, explain away, ignore or deny the
depth and truth of suffering in the world. She
rejects soothing words and “can’t we all just get
along” sentiments. Her refusal takes seriously the
rupture and wounds of the world as well as the
deep cost of seeking healing … Rachel allows the
truth to shake her to the very core.

Matt. 5:4
Blessed are those who mourn, because they
will be given comfort.  

2) Express Your Frustration with the Power-less Church

Matthew 17:14-17
When Jesus and his disciples came down
from the mountain, they met a crowd of
people, and a man came and fell on his
knees before Jesus and said, “Lord, have
mercy on my son .He has seizures and experiences
tremendous suffering. He often falls into the
fire or into the water. I brought him to your
disciples, but they could not heal him.”

Jesus said, “You unbelieving and perverse
generation of Israel, how long will I put up
with you? Bring your son to me.”

3) Change Your Location to Draw Near to Pain

John 11:17, 33-35
When Jesus arrived at the town of Bethany, on
the Mount of Olives, Lazarus had been in the
tomb for four days ... When Jesus saw Mary and
the Jews crying, he was deeply moved in his spirit
and greatly troubled.
Jesus said to the Jews, “Where did you put
Lazarus’ body?” They said, “Lord, come. We will come. We will show you."
Jesus wept.

Jesus first drew near to grieving people, then drew near to the dead man’s tomb.

4) Imagine What Is Lost

Imagine what God intended, then meditate on what has been lost, what is currently being lost, and what will be lost because of human choices.

Luke 19:41-46
The days will come upon you when your enemies
(the Romans) will build a great battle bank against
you and surround you on every side.
They will destroy Jerusalem, down to the ground,
with you and your children within its walls.
They will not leave one stone upon another,
because you did not recognize the time of your
God’s coming to you (this prophecy came true
when the Romans attacked and destroyed
Jerusalem and the Temple in AD 70).”

5) Fast from Food

Mark 2:19-20
Jesus said to them, “The guests of the bridegroom
do not fast when he is with them. But the time
will come when the bridegroom will leave them,
and then they will begin to fast.”

Appropriate fasting can unlock grief in our hearts, because it removes one way that we comfort ourselves so that we don’t have to grieve.

6) Weep

John 16:20-22
I tell you the truth: You will cry and mourn when I
leave, but this world will rejoice. You will mourn,
but your sorrow will become joy. A woman giving birth has great pain at the time
she is giving birth, but after she gives birth she
forgets her pain because of her great joy in her
new baby.In the same way, your hearts will be filled with
sadness when I leave, but when I return your
hearts will be filled with joy, and no one will be
able to take this joy away from you.

7) Seek Companionship … & also Solitude

Mark 14:33-35
Jesus took Peter, James, and John along with him,
and he became deeply grieved and troubled.
Jesus said to them, “My soul is overcome with
sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch.” 
Going a little farther away, he fell to the ground and prayed
that if possible he might not experience this time
of great suffering.

Jesus takes all  of his disciples to  the garden. He takes his most trusted friends further, and tells them of his condition. Then goes by himself, asking them to stay and pray.

We Westerners may need permission to enter into some of these seven activities. Jesus is giving us this permission. One reason we have abandoned the practice of grieving, is that there can also be inappropriate grieving. Jesus was aware of this Himself. He removed  noise-makers from Jairus' house.

But we have lost something precious and essential when we turn away from the response of grieving, out of fear of grieving inappropriately. Jesus actually seems more concerned about inappropriate non-grieving, than inappropriate grieving.

Luke 7:31-35
Jesus said, “To what do I compare this
generation of Israel? What are they like?
They are like children sitting in the public
market and calling out to each other,
‘We played the flute for you, but you did not
dance; we sang a song of the dead for you,
but you did not mourn.’"

So, there is an appropriate time for lamenting and for weeping. But as Jesus makes clear, there is also an appropriate time for rejoicing and dancing. In fact, grieving opens our heart to joy. Without deep repentance and grief, we cannot fully enter into the joy of Christ. In our work in Wittenberg, we have a particular focus on grief over the sins of the Church which have brought division, pain and dishonor to the name of Jesus.

Paul writes, "Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads
to salvation and leaves no regret, but
worldly sorrow brings death. "2 Corinthians 7:10

I will end with a reflection on this passage written by a friend, Rabbi Jonathan Kaplan.

This experience of grief and comfort is not, for
Paul, an unnatural state … Rather, these
experiences of suffering and grief are essential
facets of reconciliation and paradigms.
Paul sees the Corinthians’ participation in this
cycle of suffering and comfort as identification
with “the sufferings of Messiah” and the
“abundant … consolation” made available through
the Messiah (2 Cor 1:5). The death and
resurrection of Jesus not only answer the grief
Paul and the Corinthians face but also enable Paul
to embrace this pain (and invite the Corinthians to
join him) in the texture of salvation that moves
from death to life.
For Paul, comfort comes as God’s work to assuage
this pain and grief. Comfort is part of the process
of reconciliation and salvation leading to the
renewed participation of the Corinthians in the
common work of Paul and the communities he
founded.

Grief and Intimacy - Part II

"It was a night of watching by the Lord, to bring them out of the land of Egypt; so this same night is a night of watching kept to the Lord by all the people of Israel throughout their generations." Ex. 12:42

Toward the end of April I went on a quiet, unstructured retreat with a dear friend of mine.  I had never spent much time at the beach before.  Thomas and I have always considered ourselves mountain folk.  But it was surely the Lord who led me to the coast that weekend.  He had something specific on His heart.

Shortly after midnight on Saturday, April 23, I woke up. “Come out on the porch,” I felt the Lord whisper.

I went outside and saw a near full moon reflected on the waves of the ocean and on the wet sand of the beach.  It was beautiful and I was mesmerized. The midnight blue of the waves graced with white ribbons of moonlight took me back to a vision of colors I had experienced earlier. I had seen this same dark blue dancing with flashes of white light, and I knew it was an image of the God who made the galaxies spin – the Creator God–  the God of magic!  And then I heard Him whisper, “For my beloved, I part the sea.”

As I stood watching the light play on the waves, my internal vision was taken back to Egypt.  I saw the terrifying pillar of fire – orange, yellow, red flames – and God was in those flames. His glance threw the Egyptian army into confusion, but His eyes burned over Israel with a jealous love. 

The flames lit up the night sky. Orange light reflected on the waves.  The moon was full, and it also played on the ocean as the winds began to blow.  Black sky, fire, moon, wind and waves, walls of water, light reflected a million ways! And the tension. Two peoples facing off, God in visible glory standing between them. 

Over a million people were gathered for the spectacle.  All night long they sat in vigil, both Egyptians and Israelites.  Who could have slept?  It was the most glorious sight the world had ever seen –  the most glorious sight it has ever seen to this  very day. 

It was magic show to win the heart of a bride!  The Israelites were decked out in gold jewelry and purple linen.  God plundered the Egyptians, because this was their wedding night and He wanted His bride dressed in glory.

I watched the beauty, the majesty of that vision for some time before returning to bed.

Around 3:30 am I felt the Holy Spirit wake me again and draw me into the living room. My friend was sitting there.  The Lord has waken her as well. We sat together for awhile, and then I told her I had seen the Exodus.

"Sister," I said. "God loved Israel like a bride and she broke His heart." And then I wept hard.  I wept for the heartbreak of God, the heartbreak of a rejected lover.  The magic did not win Israel’s heart and she went after other gods.

I was up most of the night -  talking with my friend, just sitting with her in the presence of God, waiting. Finally I went back to bed at 5:00 am, though I knew it would be a short sleep at best.  The Father asked me to walk with Him on the beach at sunrise.

At 6:00 am the sky was already a gorgeous deep pink.  I walked out to the surf and watched the sky as I made my way along the beach, picking up shells.  The sky brightened, moving through shades of pink, peach, orange and yellow.  All light seemed more alive, more beautiful than ever.

When the sun rose hot pink I stood still and let the light wash over my face.  A man passed and then turned back and spoke to me.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“The most beautiful day of the year,” he answered.

And then it hit me.  I knew what day it was, though I had not realized or thought about it before. It was the Passover! I had kept a vigil with the Father on the night of the Passover, then walked with Him on the beach at the first light of dawn, like the Israelites passed through the sea at daybreak.

When I returned to the beach house, I ran inside to read the story of the Exodus, to see if it really happened the way I saw it in the night.  Scripture read exactly as I saw the vision.  The winds blew all night.  The light flashed all night.  And the Lord called Israel to walk through the sea at the first watch of the morning.

What a precious night of grief.  What a glorious hope! To feel the love, the pain, the vulnerability of the God of Israel.  And still, He will have His bride!

He has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. Ps 19:5

Grief and Intimacy - Part I

It has been a long time since I posted anything.  Much of my attention this spring was focused on the Wittenberg gathering.  We are back from Germany and I hope to write more about the meeting soon.  Until then I will do something unprecedented on this blog - I will post the teaching Thomas and I gave in three parts.

Part I

Sisters and brothers, I will tell you a mystery.  The God who created the Universe, the Holy and Righteous One, the Eternal One who dwells in inaccessible light – this God is a Lover with strong emotions.  He lives in an eternal, joyful communion of love – Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  And the love of this Holy Trinity is creative, expansive - burning both to give and receive more love.   So God created men.  He formed us in His image – with emotions, intellect, and will. He kindled our life with His own breath. And He did this because He longs to share our love, as a Bridegroom longs for a Bride.

This mystery is too deep to fathom. It feels daring, even dangerous to believe. Yet I know this love is the deepest desire of my own heart.  I know there is nothing short of this union with God which will ever satisfy. And more objectively, I  must believe it to be true because scripture is full of this theme of a longing Lover.

Moses tell us - It was not because you were more in number than any other people that the Lord set his love on you and chose you, for you were the fewest of all peoples, but it is because the Lord loves you and is keeping the oath that he swore to your fathers, that the Lord has brought you out with a mighty hand and redeemed you from the house of slavery. (Deut. 7:7)

Isaiah writes – For your Maker is your husband,
    the Lord of hosts is his name;
and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer,
    the God of the whole earth he is called. (Is. 54:5)

John the Apostle says…For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son…

John the Baptist tells his disciples-  He who has the bride is the bridegroom; but the friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly because of the bridegroom’s voice. (John 3:29)

And Jesus Himself says -  Father, I desire that they also, whom You have given Me, be with Me where I am, that they may see My glory. (John 17:24)

Now here is another mystery.  Love makes one vulnerable.  Love makes even the Father of all vulnerable to rejection, to misunderstanding, to pain. Israel’s idolatry hurt the Father's heart.  God grieved over Israel. Over and over again, the Old Testament prophets lament Israel as a harlot who has abandoned the Husband who loves her.  And over and over again, through the prophets, God expresses his grief over Israel.

How the faithful city has become a harlot,
She who was full of justice!
Righteousness once lodged in her,
But now murderers. (Is. 1:21)

Can a virgin forget her ornaments,
    or a bride her attire?
Yet my people have forgotten me
    days without number. (Jer. 2:32)

I remember the devotion of your youth,
    your love as a bride,
how you followed me in the wilderness,
    in a land not sown.
Israel was holy to the Lord,…. “What wrong did your fathers find in me
    that they went far from me,
and went after worthlessness, and became worthless? (Jer. 2:2,3,5)

These are painful words - the words of a God whose love has made Him vulnerable. 

Certainly God understands our weakness. He knew from the beginning what His love would cost Him.  Behold the Lamb of God, slain from the foundation of the world!   For the joy set before Jesus endured the cross. But in order to enter into full intimacy with God, we must understand His emotions.  We must grieve when He grieves and rejoices when He rejoices.  This is the glorious intimacy into which we are invited – the intimacy of friendship.

Imagine the relationship between a husband and a wife.  What if the wife is unfaithful? If the husband still loves her, as God still loves us, then he will take her back.  But how must she respond if she loves her husband and wants to repair the marriage?  Should she not feel grieved over her sin?  If she is not grieved, how can the two be lovers again?  How can they share their hearts, if the wife refuses to feel the husband’s pain?

Sorrow for our sins is the first step to repentance and repentance is the first step toward reconciliation. Our sorrow moves God’s heart.  He is full of mercy, longing to show us grace. But we cannot experience grace and mercy if we are not grieved over our sin.

Repentance is the key to finding intimacy with God.  And if we have sinned against our brothers, repentance is necessary to restore intimacy with them.  Repentance is more than grief, of course. It is a change of action, of mind and heart.  True repentance is a gift of grace - a gift of divine intervention. But sorrow is a catalyst to pray for that grace, and a motivator to keep our feet from straying again. Godly sorrow also opens the heart of the one who is offended, allowing them to forgive and experience grace.

But what if the source of grief is not a personal matter?  What if we are not the ones directly responsible for the sin which grieves God’s heart? In these Wittenberg gatherings we spend a lot of time looking at the sins of the Church, at the tragedies of our shared history.  While we all have said, done, and thought things which contribute to division among the people of God, none of us is personally responsible for the major divisions, schisms and hostility we have inherited. So why do we spend so much time in these meetings looking backwards?

The answer is that we are part of a bigger story. And if we love God, we must care about His story, about His pain, about His hopes and desires.  That is how we enter into the intimacy He so desires– to share His emotions.

Through Jesus the Church has been called into the bridal relationship which God wanted from the beginning.  The Church is born out of the love story which began with God and Israel.  It has been grafted in. And if you look at Christian history, you see that followers of Jesus have also been unfaithful to God – through greed, through immorality, through oppression of their neighbors, through disbelief and hatred, through division. That sin continues to play out between brothers, to resurface in our story, until it is acknowledged and grieved.

If we want deep intimacy with God, and this intimacy with the Trinity is our only hope for unity among ourselves, then we need to learn to move with God’s emotions.  We need to look at history the way He looks at history.  We become friends of God when we grieve with Him over the things which grieve His heart and rejoice over the things which make Him rejoice.  And when we enjoy this unity with God, we are in the position Jesus prays for in John 17, to love one another the way the Father loves the Son.

This is how unity among the brothers will be achieved – not by our own striving. Unity happens when we are swept up into the heart of God, when we experience His love in its fullness – the love which makes us vulnerable, the love which sometimes brings us to grief.

David's Dying Words

During Lent, in the virtual company of some friends, I read through the history books of the Old Testament.  It was an enlightening experience on many counts.  I had not read the Bible straight through like that since I was a teenager, and I was surprised to discover how much time and age, walking with the Lord for a few decades can change one's perspective.  I hope to write more about that in future posts.  This evening I will simply record the prayer which has been on my heart in recent weeks.

In reading 2 Samuel I discovered a psalm of David which is not included in the Book of Psalms.  

Now these are the last words of David.

David the son of Jesse declares,
The man who was raised on high declares,
The anointed of the God of Jacob,
And the sweet psalmist of Israel,
“The Spirit of the Lord spoke by me,
And His word was on my tongue.
“The God of Israel said,
The Rock of Israel spoke to me,
‘He who rules over men righteously,
Who rules in the fear of God,
Is as the light of the morning when the sun rises,
A morning without clouds,
When the tender grass springs out of the earth,
Through sunshine after rain.’
“Truly is not my house so with God?
For He has made an everlasting covenant with me,
Ordered in all things, and secured;
For all my salvation and all my desire,
Will He not indeed make it grow?
“But the worthless, every one of them will be thrust away like thorns,
Because they cannot be taken in hand;
But the man who touches them
Must be armed with iron and the shaft of a spear,
And they will be completely burned with fire in their place.” (2 Samuel 23)

Though I am no king, I also have an everlasting covenant with the Almighty God. My place in God's heart has been secured through Christ. My salvation and all that I desire will grow, as long as I can "be taken in hand."  This is my prayer - that I will be a daughter who can be taken in hand. I want to be quick to repent, pliable and teachable, with ears open to the Holy Spirit.  

Lord, may I never grow thorny to Your touch!

Rome

It has been a long time since I  posted anything on this blog which is a sign of activity rather than idleness.  But too much activity leaves little time for reflection, or prayer.  That is a problem which the Lord has recently brought forward.  Today it is rainy outside, and the internet is down.  The house is relatively quiet and it seems like a good time to write.

I have been neglectful in writing about Rome, remiss in a debt I owe many friends who prayed, brought meals, helped the children or gave toward the Wittenberg gatherings.  I have found it difficult to speak about the gathering last October because in those meetings I experienced a quality of life in the Body of Christ which was new to me.  I have nothing to compare it to, few words to describe it.  I am even hesitant to share photos because some of our pictures portray a time and space which feels too holy to objectify.   Though the analogy is overblown, it seems a bit like trying to describe the Transfiguration, or the walk to Emmaus.  And as I say that I smile, thinking of the stark economy of the scripture writers.  Really, what could they say?

 I will take my cue from the gospel writers and try a simply narrative approach.

We met in Rome to lament the inability of the Catholic hierarchy to bring effective reform to the Western Church.  The state of the papacy in the 1517 was deplorable on many levels, and the corruption spread outside of Rome to the many bishoprics which were bought and sold for political reasons.

But of course, corruption is never the whole story.  There have always been men and women of goodwill, friends of God faithful to the end. The Catholic Church has always held treasures of grace and truth, even when those gifts have were dragged through the mud of abuse and distortion.  And of course, the same is true in Protestant and Orthodox traditions.

This tension of sorrow and repentance, along with hope and beauty propelled the whole meeting.  Everyone found reason to repent – for the sin of our fathers which opened doors of division and war, for misunderstanding or misjudging others, for failing to honor our fathers and mothers, for failing to honor Jesus, the King of the Jews.  I wept in St. Peter’s cathedral for the gold bought with indulgences – the pride of men exalted above the good news to the poor.  And my Protestant brothers wept with me, understanding that this fault exists in their traditions as well, though masked in different cultural norms. 

But there was also a different kind of weeping in our meetings – one that sprang from beauty and hope too deep for words. On the Sunday of our meeting, we visited the catacombs.  Sundays are always difficult in ecumenical meetings because of the problem of communion. Do Catholics and Protestants hold difference services with different communion tables? Does one group find itself excluded?   Both options are painful.  As a movement, we are committed to living under authority, so bending the rules is not a possiblity.   In this case, the pastors among us led us back to the foundations of our faith –  our baptism, the hope of the resurrection, our common confession of faith, and the call to serve one another.

When we emerged from the graves of our fathers and mothers in the faith – both martyrs and common citizens- we gathered in a chapel above ground.  We worshiped in song. We renewed our baptismal promises.  One of our Lutheran pastors, Henning, sprinkled us with holy water and then returned to the altar where our Catholic brother, Bishop Franziskus sprinkled him.  And then eight of the pastors among us – Catholic, Lutheran, Anglican and Pentecostal – paired up and washed our feet.  I cannot describe the beauty of that place in time and space.  Most of these pastors were over 70 years old.  Kneeling was a true sacrifice for them, and yet none of us would have denied them that sacrifice out of a false sense of humility. It was a sacred act of love for Jesus which inflamed a strong and sincere love for one another.

Many of us were in tears, but my friend Jill was completely undone.  She could not speak for a long while. I doubt she will ever be able to speak of that service without tears.  When she was finally able to compose herself for a few moment,  she could only say something along the lines of  “that was the most solid  experience of beauty I have ever had.”

I find myself praying with Paul in a new substance of hope, “Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen.”

Our Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;        
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:       
           Praise him.
(Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Pied Beauty")

I have always had a weakness for spots, and soft fur, for animals of all kinds.  I remember walking down a country road one day as a young mother.  I was serving at a youth retreat, taking a few moments for myself.  I was lost in thought, as I often am,  aware only of the road in front of my feet.  Suddenly, a large horse came up right beside  me and whinnied softly in my ear. It startled me, delighted me! And I realized all at once how lonely I would feel if humans were the only inhabitants of this planet. Thanks be to God for Brother Horse and Sister Bird!

When we bought this land in Elgin we had a small dog named Greg. A Catholic dog, in fact,  who had many adventures with Japanese soldiers, Roman gladiators, angels and demons - but that is another story. In real life Greg was a self-assured, dashing 9 pound rat terrier-chihuaua mix.  He was a pint-sized pied beauty and we loved him.  But we didn't know if he was suited to country life.  We had heard rumors of coyotes and birds of prey that could carry off dogs his size.  And, moreover, we were now caretakers of a retreat house.  As much we as we loved Greg, we realized that he was a high energy, yappy dog - not always conducive to quiet contemplation.

Thankfully, my sister and her husband adored Greg. She volunteered, most enthusiastically, to take Greg out to Marfa while we got settled here.  Greg quickly bonded and settled in to life out West.  He was having new adventures in the desert, and he was well loved. When we mentioned the possibility of bringing him back, Adam cried, and we knew Greg was now his dog.

But we were feeling the loneliness that an animal fills. I wanted a hiking and gardening companion.  Peggy wanted  a furry friend  to pet while watching late night movies.  John was needing a new hero for his literary adventures.  And a large piece of land just cries out for a happy canine patrol.

Our first attempt at a new dog was rather heart-breaking.  We found a beautiful terrier at the Bastrop animal shelter who looked just like Greg, only two sizes bigger.  Joy seemed  shy and quiet, gentle - the kind of dog a retreat center needed.  But we were naive, ignorant.  We mistook her quietness for peace, when really it was terror.  When we first took her outside on a leash, she bolted - pulling the leash right out of our stunned son's hand.  We chased.  We called.  Our neighbors joined in the hunt.  Friends stayed until it was too dark to see. But Joy would let no one near.

We spotted Joy several times in the next few days.  And though we felt terrible about losing her, and we worried about her well-being, it gave me some pleasure to see her running free with her tail up - so unlike the cowering dog at the pound.  She at least had an outlet for her fear.  She could run, and she did.

I think that sometimes, when we are too afraid to be touched, God also lets us run.  Run off our energy, our fear, until we are exhausted.  Until we can no longer resist  the love which heals.  "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem... How I often  would have gathered your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wing, but you were not willing."

Joy would not be caught.  We still set out food for her and keep our eye out.  We would love for her to allow us close.  But she does not trust humans.

Murphy is an entirely different animal.  He was a well-loved companion dog for 6 years before he came to us.  His owner moved to Elgin recently, and a dog at her new place was threatening Murphy.

Murphy won my heart when he came to visit.  He wagged his tail, rolled over, sat and smiled winsomely.  But I knew he was the dog for us when my mother came to meet him, moving carefully behind her walker.  He rose to greet her and walked ever so slowly around her, gently sticking out his nose for petting.  I could tell he was a true gentleman!  A perfect retreat house dog.  Even the grumpy cat likes him!

Murphy is a joy to this house. And he is gorgeous.  Praise be to God who "fathers forth beauty!"

Preschool Theology

I find young children to be excellent theologians. They ask honest questions. They are humble, and quite comfortable with what Piaget calls "magical thinking"  which may well be our native predisposition to mysticism.  Recently Clara has been exploring the doctrine of the Trinity, and that has led to some fascinating and humorous conversations.

While tucking her in bed recently, Clara told me that she was afraid to go to sleep.

"Don't be afraid," I told her. "Jesus is always with you."
To which she queried, "Did Jesus have a Jesus?"
Mom: "No. But Jesus had God the Father."
Clara:"I thought Jesus was God."
Mom: "Jesus is God but there are three persons in one God, like a family."
Clara:"Does God the Father have a God the Father?"
Mom: "No, God the Father has no father.  He created everything. But God the Father has Jesus and the Holy Spirit."
Clara: "Will God the Father die?"
Mom : "No."
Clara: "But Jesus died."
Mom: "Yes, but Jesus was a man and God.  And Jesus didn't stay dead."
Clara: "Does God the Father like what Jesus does?"
Mom: "Yes. He loves everything that Jesus does."
Clara: "Does God the Father like what we do?"
Mom: "It depends.  God loves it when we do good things, and He is sad when we do bad things."
Clara: "What if Jesus does bad things."
Mom: "He won't."
And with that I was happy to turn the conversation back to her dolly dresses because we were now swimming in deep waters.

 I am  always delighted when children ask such questions and accept my answers so readily.  I wonder  when Clara will realize that she has plumbed the depths of my understanding of the Trinity, that we are really both young children looking into the same mystery, with all the same questions.

Lack of theological sophistication is no impediment to faith, especially when simplicity is the result of youth rather than laziness or disinterest. I remember the sincerity of my very early prayers, and I feel certain they must have been as pleasing to God as any I have offered since, if not more so.

Today is the feast of St. Agnes, said to have been martyred in Rome at the age of twelve.  Sadly, Agnes is not the only child martyr in the annals of Christian history.  In 1887 there were several young  Christian boys burned alive in Uganda when they refused to renounce their faith.  And there are many others. I would not doubt that some have joined their ranks in the past year, given Christian/Muslim strife in Africa and the Middle East.

This passage commemorating St. Agnes' feast day was written by St. Ambrose.  It moves me, challenges me and spurs me to prayer for my little theologian.

Today is the birthday of a virgin; let us imitate her purity. It is the birthday of a martyr; let us offer ourselves in sacrifice. It is the birthday of Saint Agnes, who is said to have suffered martyrdom at the age of twelve. The cruelty that did not spare her youth shows all the more clearly the power of faith in finding one so young to bear it witness....All are amazed that one not yet of legal age can give her testimony to God. So she succeeds in convincing others of her testimony about God, though her testimony in human affairs could not yet be accepted. What is beyond the power of nature, they argue, must come from its creator.

Fields of Diamonds

After 47 years on this earth, I find that nature still has plenty of surprises up her sleeve.  One need not even travel far.  The trip from Austin to Elgin was enough to offer a feast of beauty I had never witnessed.

This fall we had several heavy dews.  Dews which left big drops of water on the  fields of hay. Some of these heavy dews coincided with bright blue skies and full sun.  If you looked away from the sun, you saw green, wet grass.  But if you looked into the sun, the light exploded through millions of prisms, much larger than ice crystals, blinding you with brilliant white light.  It was one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever seen, all in my front yard. The picture above does not come close to doing it justice because light is living and active, and at such an intensity, even painful to behold.

These dazzling dews fell the week of the terrorist attack in Ankara.  And the week of the massacre in Paris.

How is it, I wonder, that God continues to bless the world with such beauty while it is so heavy laden with pain and guilt?

Of course, the dew does not fall everywhere.  Sometimes the ground is too hard, or the eye too weary to be comforted.

How does one store up beauty, or treasure hope, for those too grieved to receive it?  Can we make deposits of joy in our children sufficient to sustain their hope when sorrow strikes, for it will surely stalk them all the days of their lives.

The Holy Spirit still hovers over the waters, the chaos, of this planet.  If it were not so, all would be lost.  Creation still nurtures, comforts, surprises us with beauty and joy.  And yet,  new as I am to this marvel, I cannot help but feel the world is old and weary.  I want to see it as it was in the beginning - or better yet, the way it will be.

 I find myself remembering C.S. Lewis' Great Divorce, believing that such a great cosmic split of good and evil, heaven and hell, is what I long for - knowing at the same time, that such a divorce would be more painful than I imagine.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come!

Blind Like Your Servant

I believe I have my verse for Advent.  It came as something of a surprise - a gift and a challenge dropped into my inner ear during mass last week.  "Who is blind like my servant? Or so deaf as my messenger?" Isaiah 42:19.

That is odd, I thought.  A Lenten scripture for Advent.  But perhaps not so strange since Advent, like Lent, is a season of preparation - a good time for examination. In this case, it seems, I was being examined.  Uncomfortable, but helpful. Introspection is only as good as one's self-knowledge, and many times the sickness in our souls lies smack in the middle of a blind spot. 

So what is the Holy Spirit teaching me through this verse?  I suspect I will be discovering that for a long while.  But here is one challenge I understood immediately - I still judge by what I see with my eyes, and I am swayed by what I hear. 

That is only human, I am tempted to say.  In fact, I often speak about the blessing of our earthly senses as God-designed instruments of exploration and knowledge. I still believe this is true. Glorious music, holy  art, heady incense, the touch of water on our skin, or oil on our heads, or a hand laid in blessing on the head - all of these stimuli can lead us into the presence of God.

And just as easily, the senses can lead us back out again. 
The fault lies not in the body, but in the soul.

I wish it were not the case that I make assumptions about people based on the way they look. But I do.

I wish that presentation could never confuse my sense of truth. But it does.

For a moment last week, I pondered doing something crazy like the Old Testament prophets.  What would I learn, I wondered, if I were to walk around blindfolded for an entire year?  What if I could not even see myself? Part of my heart leapt at the thought, though I knew this was not the solution God had in mind.

Jesus was not literally blind or deaf. He did not despise the flesh He willingly took on.  But He had internal eyes which always beheld the Father and spiritual ears tuned into the Father's voice. Jesus interpreted what he beheld with his eyes and ears through the grid of his spiritual senses.  Unfortunately, my spiritual senses are not so well developed as my physical ones.

Training these spiritual senses are part of my work this Advent. And I have some little signs of encouragement. I "heard" my Father speak the verse from Isaiah 42 at mass on Saturday evening.  Then,  less than a day later, I heard this familiar Advent passage read at Hope Chapel.

There shall come forth a Rod from the stem of Jesse,
And a Branch shall grow out of his roots....
 His delight is in the fear of the Lord,
And He shall not judge by the sight of His eyes,
Nor decide by the hearing of His ears;
But with righteousness He shall judge the poor (Isaiah 11:1,3)

That is the kind of blindness I am after!

Conversation at 2:00 am

Thomas and I are on our fifth child.  She is three years old and not a great sleeper. Thankfully, I am seasoned enough to know that someday her middle of the night visits will stop, and once I catch up on my sleep, I will miss them. So in the vein of recording memories, here is a conversation which took place at 2:00 am Tuesday morning, Nov. 24.

Clara wakes up itching from multiple mosquito bites.  I try to soothe her back to sleep, but soon realize both of us will be awake until she gets some relief.  I head to the bathroom  for the Benadryl.

"Mama, what makes the light come on?" Clara asks.
"Electricity," I respond groggily.
"What makes electricity work?" she asks.  Normally, the science teacher in me would leap at such a question.  But Clara is only three and it is the middle of the night.
"It's hard to explain," I say.

Seeing this conversation is going nowhere, Clara changes course.
"Mama," she asks brightly, "Do squirrels like surprises?"
 

Charlotte to New York to Rome

As I feared, this blog has replaced my old handwritten journals. I simply don't have time for both.  In many ways I prefer the blog because it forces me to bring some order to the thoughts rolling around my head.  That is good.  But sometimes I need a place to record memories - the raw material for future contemplation.  Unprocessed, stream of consciousness journaling does not  make good reading, but it is good for the writer - a way of "treasuring things in one's heart."

I have many memories from my trip to Rome which need remembering. Since I don't have an active journal,  I will record them here on the blog in a rather raw form, expecting that the Spirit will help me understand these gifts in deeper, fuller ways in days yet to come.

I began my journey to Rome with a bit of repentance.  Before I left, I wrote that I did not like flying which was true enough.  But as the time of the trip drew near, I was increasingly aware of the richness of this gift - being in Rome for a week of prayer with dear brothers and sisters!   I determined to be grateful for every part of the journey, even the travel. And I must say, it was by far the most enjoyable series of flights I have ever had.

Charlotte
The first leg of the trip took me from Austin to Charlotte, which was the most Christian feeling city I have ever visited. In Charlotte I overheard several phone conversations which referenced God, Jesus, or "Kingdom work."  Store clerks wished customers a blessed day.  But what really got to me was the bathroom attendant.  Her mere presence surprised me, and her joyful service  touched me in an unexpected way. "Welcome to Charlotte, beautiful ladies!  You are welcome here.  Do you need a towel? a mint?  Have a wonderful, blessed day."  My kids would have laughed to see the tears welling in my eyes.

New York
On my flight to New York I overheard an elderly woman giving some fellow passengers tips about the layout of JFK - where to eat, what trains to take, etc.  One of the passengers asked her, "How do you know JFK so well?"
"My husband and I were married there forty years ago," she replied.
"Why there?" the man asked.
"Because it was the only chapel we could afford," she laughed.

That story evoked a bittersweet smile from me  - happy that she spoke with fondness of a wedding and marriage forty years old. Happy that any place can become a holy place.  Sad that lack of money could keep anyone out of a proper church.

Rome
The flight to Rome was undersold, granting us passengers a little leg room.  The plane was old, and the entertainment system failed, which gave us another unexpected gift.  There was nothing to do except to talk.

"What takes you to Rome?" asked a lady across the aisle from me.
"I am going to a conference of Protestant and Catholic Christians to pray for unity in the church and repent for  sins which have led to our division." (I am not usually this forthright, but a commitment to engage my fellow travelers in any desired conversation was part of my repentance.)
"Really?" she asked. "You must be Protestant, right?"
"No, I am Catholic, " I responded. At that, her brother began to cheer.  He was sitting behind me, eavesdropping. So I quickly added, "But I used to be Protestant, and I love both churches. I believe the division between Christians grieves God's heart."
This woman in her late fifties looked at me, as guileless as any child, and asked "How do you know what God feels?"

An excellent question, and a humbling one.  How indeed can any human know the mind of God?

I had to think.  I explained what I understood from scripture.  I told her about my personal experience of God - the witness of the Holy Spirit in one's heart, dreams which I felt came from God, the testimony of other followers of Christ.

Her question reminded me of the danger of presumption, of assuming that one knows the full counsels of God.  And yet, if God is entirely unknowable, what hope do we have? 

Death

I have been thinking about death lately.  I suppose it began with our visit to the catacombs.  All the graves are empty now. The bones have been moved to prevent looters from stealing them as they sometimes did while helping themselves to marble and other artifacts. Once the catacombs held row upon row, passage after passage of bodies lying silent like seeds in the ground or cocoons in metamorphosis.  Now the tombs are empty slots carved into rock  - a foretaste of the Resurrection.

In death, children seem no different from adults.  Their slots are smaller, but they are buried like the rest.  Small seeds will sprout as surely as larger ones. I imagine Clara lying in one of those little tombs, and surprisingly, I am comforted.

Though the great majority of Christians buried in the catacombs died of natural causes, there were many martyrs among their ranks.  Being in Rome, I found the humility of their sacrifice all the more moving.  The signs and symbols of imperial Rome are still in evidence. Pagan statues line walks and adorn public building -  young bodies, eternally strong and beautiful, sensual and powerful. The wisdom of God in forbidding graven images becomes more apparent to me.  Art expresses the heart, and the Roman heart lusted for immortality.

Who were these fathers and mothers so willing to give up their lives?  And did they know that their silent witness would win the day?  

I think of death for other reasons. My parents are aging. Even friends begin to pass. I love life, but it is hard and full of sorrow.  These words of St. Ambrose resonate with my own musings.

Death was not part of nature; it became part of nature. God did not decree death from the beginning; he prescribed it as a remedy. Human life was condemned because of sin to unremitting labour and unbearable sorrow and so began to experience the burden of wretchedness. There had to be a limit to its evils; death had to restore what life had forfeited. Without the assistance of grace, immortality is more of a burden than a blessing.

 The martyrs knew this, and they were full of hope. For now at least, their hope strengthens me. I found a prayer on this trip which I have been praying for myself, for my parents, for those who come to heart. I imagine the thoughts of our fathers and mothers in the catacombs moved along similar paths, forming their prayers in Latin, Greek, Aramaic.

When the signs of age begin to mark my body
(and still more when they touch my mind)
when the ill that is to diminish me or carry me off
strikes from without or is born within me;
when the painful moment comes
in which I suddenly awaken
to the fact that I am growing old
and above all at that last moment
when I feel I am losing hold of myself
and am absolutely passive within the hands
of the great unknown forces which formed me;
in all those dark moments, O God,
grant that I may understand that it is You
(provided only that my faith is strong enough)
who are painfully parting the fibres of my being
in order to penetrate to the very marrow
of my substance and bear me away within Yourself.
- Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ

Thinking of Rome ....

Today's reading from my morning prayer seems timely.  It is an excerpt from a letter by  Ignatius of Antioch to the Church in Rome.  At the time of its writing, he was a prisoner on his way to Rome to be executed.  He was an old man, a bishop.  Ignatius converted to Christianity early in his life and became a disciple of the Apostle John.  Like Paul, he wrote several pastoral letters during his imprisonment which helped form the faith of the early Church.

I must confess that Ignatius' courage in this letter seems unrelatably super-human to me.  I get queasy thinking about death and pain.  But when I read this letter, I am reminded of a more recent saint, Casper ten Boom, who in the days before WWII explained to his daughter Corrie that God was a wise  Father who never burdened His children with too much responsibility.  He told Corrie that faith was like the train ticket he gave to her just before they boarded.  He held it until she needed it so she would not lose it.

Back in July Thomas and I visited Sr. Guadalupe in San Antonio.  She was on her way to Rome at the time, a city familiar to her.  We asked what we should see while we were there.  Her answer - the Coliseum.  At the time, I thought that was a funny choice.  Today I see it is not.  I will go to the Coliseum and remember that it is a holy place. 

A letter to the Romans by St Ignatius of Antioch

I am writing to all the churches to let it be known that I will gladly die for God if only you do not stand in my way. I plead with you: show me no untimely kindness. Let me be food for the wild beasts, for they are my way to God. I am God’s wheat and shall be ground by their teeth so that I may become Christ’s pure bread. Pray to Christ for me that the animals will be the means of making me a sacrificial victim for God.

  No earthly pleasures, no kingdoms of this world can benefit me in any way. I prefer death in Christ Jesus to power over the farthest limits of the earth. He who died in place of us is the one object of my quest. He who rose for our sakes is my one desire.

  The time for my birth is close at hand. Forgive me, my brothers. Do not stand in the way of my birth to real life; do not wish me stillborn. My desire is to belong to God. Do not, then, hand me back to the world. Do not try to tempt me with material things. Let me attain pure light. Only on my arrival there can I be fully a human being. Give me the privilege of imitating the passion of my God. If you have him in your heart, you will understand what I wish. You will sympathise with me because you will know what urges me on.

  The prince of this world is determined to lay hold of me and to undermine my will which is intent on God. Let none of you here help him; instead show yourselves on my side, which is also God’s side. Do not talk about Jesus Christ as long as you love this world. Do not harbour envious thoughts. And supposing I should see you, if then I should beg you to intervene on my behalf, do not believe what I say. Believe instead what I am now writing to you. For though I am alive as I write to you, still my real desire is to die. My love of this life has been crucified, and there is no yearning in me for any earthly thing. Rather within me is the living water which says deep inside me: “Come to the Father.” I no longer take pleasure in perishable food or in the delights of this world. I want only God’s bread, which is the flesh of Jesus Christ, formed of the seed of David, and for drink I crave his blood, which is love that cannot perish.

  I am no longer willing to live a merely human life, and you can bring about my wish if you will. Please, then, do me this favour, so that you in turn may meet with equal kindness. Put briefly, this is my request: believe what I am saying to you. Jesus Christ himself will make it clear to you that I am saying the truth. Only truth can come from that mouth by which the Father has truly spoken. Pray for me that I may obtain my desire. I have not written to you as a mere man would, but as one who knows the mind of God. If I am condemned to suffer, I will take it that you wish me well. If my case is postponed, I can only think that you wish me harm.

The Wolf

I love the tenth chapter of John.  It is Jesus' description of Himself as the Good Shepherd.  When I was 13 years old, the Lord animated this passage for me in a way that I will never forget - a vision which shook me to the core.  Even now, whenever I hear the words, "I am the Good Shepherd," my mind tends to gravitate back to that experience.   That is what happened at mass early this summer when I recognized the opening words of the gospel reading. But as soon as I started to "check out" and get lost in my own thoughts, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, "Why don't you listen this time?  You might learn something new." And so I did.

This is what I heard.  "He who is a hired hand, and not a shepherd, who is not the owner of the sheep, sees the wolf coming, and leaves the sheep and flees, and the wolf snatches them and scatters them."  The wolf scatters the sheep.  That was a new revelation to me.  I knew that the wolf would devour sheep. But on this particular Sunday morning I realized that our enemy is after something more than filling his belly.  He is out to scatter the flock because his real enemy is the Shepherd.  The wolf hates the Good Shepherd more than he hates the sheep, and scattering the flock is a blow to the Shepherd.

Scattering is also a tragedy for the sheep, of course.  The photo above is a vivid reminder that sheep don't fare well in a panic.  Division is deadly.

Sitting in mass that Sunday morning, I felt God was giving me the message I would share in Rome -namely, that division is the enemy's strategy. It has ever been so. The serpent deceived Eve and Adam, and the immediate consequence was division.  Man hid from God. Woman and man accused one another, losing the intimate partnership they were created for.  In the very next generation, "sin crouched" at the door of Cain's heart, and brother murdered brother.  The enemy found a crack, and the flock was scattered.

In John 10 Jesus tells us that hired hands flee from the wolf and allow it to scatter the flock.  Much of the work we will do in Rome involves lamenting the hired hands who opened the door to the wolf -  bad bishops and popes who cared more for status and security than for the Good Shepherd or the flock. These hired hands of Christian history are like the faithless kings and prophets of Israel.  Of them Ezekiel writes, " Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel. Prophesy and say to those shepherds, thus says the Lord God, Woe, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding themselves! Should not the shepherds feed the flock? ...(The sheep) were scattered for lack of a shepherd, and they became food for every beast of the field and were scattered. My flock wandered through all the mountains and on every high hill; My flock was scattered over all the surface of the earth, and there was no one to search or seek for them." 

Meditating on these verses I have begun to see the work of reconciliation in a different light. Reconciliation is a form of spiritual warfare - a counter-attack to the enemy's plan, a search for fellow sheep. I have begun to see that there is more at play in our divisions than simple doctrinal disagreement or personality conflict.  There is a wolf crouching at the door, eager to scatter the flock.  As a flock we are safer when we recognize the wolf.  Safest when we keep our eyes on the Good Shepherd.

The Love of the Trinity - Our Hope for Unity

Sometimes I don't get Jesus.  I am sure I am not alone.  I trust Jesus, I trust the scriptures,  but despite four decades of instruction, some of His words leave me scratching my head.  Here is one well known example: A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another.

Wasn’t this commandment already part of the law? Jesus Himself quoted the Torah, You shall love your neighbor as yourself,  calling this the second of the two great commands.  So why does Jesus tell the disciples that He is giving them a new command?

I wondered about that for years before stumbling upon the obvious. Many Christians through the ages have expounded upon these words, and if I had read more widely I might have uncovered the answer.  Jesus goes beyond Mosaic law by adding this qualifier: even as I have loved you, you also love one another.  In the law of Moses, self-love is the standard.  Loving our neighbors as ourselves is a lofty intention which would surely change the world.  But  it is not so high as the standard Jesus sets. We are to love our brothers as Jesus loves us. 

Now I see why I failed to recognize the difference between the commands for so long.  I simply feared that what Jesus was asking was impossible, a bar too high.  To my shame, I have  trouble loving my favorite people as I love myself.  And even self-love is often insufficient in motivating me to do the what is  best for my body, mind and soul. I think I would despair if I did not believe that God loves me more than I love myself. 

Yet I do not believe that Jesus commands us to do the impossible.  Rather,  it seems to me that Jesus is calling us mortals into a mystery greater than most of us dare to imagine - into the very love which animates the Trinity.  This whole  last supper discourse in John is filled with quotes like these:
In that day you will know that I am in that Father and you in Me and I in you. (Jn 14:20)
I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, that He may be with you forever; that is the Spirit of truth whom the world cannot receive, because it does not see Him or know Him, but you know Him because He abides with you. (Jn 14:16-17)
Just as the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you; abide in My love." (Jn 15:9)

This is Trinitarian language and it makes my head spin.  Three separate identities eternally present in one another - one in being, unique in personality. I have always believed in the Trinity, knowing that we mortals would never be able to adequately grasp  the nature of One completely transcending our experience.  The more we try to explain the mystery, the more foolish we sound, and the greater risk we run of fighting childish battles over lines in the sand.  For this reason, mistakenly, I have been slow to contemplate this mystery of Trinitarian love, even slower to recognize its immediate ramifications. Yet during His last hours on earth, Jesus felt an urgent need to emphasize His oneness with the Father, and His oneness with us, and our security in the Father, Son and Spirit.  

Preparing for our Wittenberg gathering in Trento last year, I began to see how vital this love of the Trinity is for Christian unity. Abiding in the mystery of Oneness with Christ in the Father through the Holy Spirit is our foundation and our hope.  Jesus never prays that his disciples will agree on doctrine.  He never spells out how the Church is to be structured. He does not give any lessons in conflict resolution.  Rather he prays this, "I do not ask on behalf of these (disciples) alone, but for those also who believe in Me through their word; that they may all be one, even as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be in Us so that the world may believe that You sent Me."

 It is possible that we Christians could work out our differences and still fall short of the unity Jesus intends.  Doctrinal discussion is important, certainly.  But in order for it to bear fruit, it must flow from transformed hearts and minds. Jesus is not calling us to present a united front; He is praying that we may be one even as the Father and the Son are one.  He is praying for us to be drawn up into the eternal, self-giving, joyous love of the Trinity.  It is a hope deeper, more wonderful and mystical than I  imagined when I first felt called to prayer for Christian unity. But it is the only kind of unity which will  bring glory to our Triune God.

.  

The Road to Rome

When I began this blog sixteen months ago, our family was on its way to Trent.  I wrote some of my first posts from the road as we visited friends, took in some sightseeing and prepared for a Wittenberg 2017 gathering. The theme I had in mind for this blog was one of pilgrimage - a broad theme indeed as our entire Christian life is a a journey. But now that our next trip to Europe  approaches, my thoughts return to the nature of pilgrimage.

How is pilgrimage different from vacation or adventure, sightseeing or a move? Each of these experiences involves a change in location, and because we are spiritual beings, any journey may leave its mark on our soul. Yet we have different words because we travel for many reasons.  Vacations celebrate abundance or work completed.  Sightseeing springs from human curiosity; adventure relieves our boredom or need for achievement.  In contrast, pilgrimage is an expression of spiritual poverty.  It requires both sacrifice and hope.

This trip to Rome feels sacrificial in a way I have never experienced.  Of course, all our trips to Europe have been costly - but also lots of fun. We've enjoyed  sightseeing, time with friends and some delicious pastries on our Wittenberg journeys.  This year is different.  Frankly, the excitement of travel has worn off.  I don't like airplanes.  I suffer from motion sickness.  I don't want to leave my children for two weeks - my youngest is already begging me to stay home.  But above all these small sacrifices looms the fact that I don't want to go to Rome.

Rome scares me in a way that is hard to articulate, in a way that is perhaps unbecoming to a good Catholic. In the past when  people asked me if I had ever visited the Vatican,  I responded jokingly that I feared Rome would be bad for my Catholicism.  There is more truth to that joke than I care to admit.  

Do not misunderstand. I love the treasures of the Catholic Church - its writings, art, and history. I am grateful for the role Rome has played in preserving the unity of Catholic doctrine and discipline.  I am rather in awe of the popes we have been blessed with in the past century, especially since Vatican II. They have been holy men with far-reaching influence.  But I know that has not always been the case.

What has been the case, for better and for worse, is that Rome is a seat of power. I am uncomfortable in the presence of power, pomp and ceremony. Chalk it up to my blue collar, small town, low church upbringing. Though I have been a Catholic for fifteen years now, I still feel mildly panicky at the thought of kissing anyone's ring, or even speaking to a bishop in his mitre. I retain many strong evangelical sensibilities, some of which I suspect are good, and others mere cultural bias.  In any case,  I hate ostentation, and I suspect that is hard to avoid in Rome.

But there is a deeper reason I fear Rome.  Our purpose in going there is to lament the dark periods of the papacy - the shepherds who did not tend the flock carefully, thus opening the doors for division.  The unwillingness of power to reform, to renounce its love of money and monument, had tragic consequences.  It pains me to look unflinchingly at the failures of my church, the Catholic church which I love so deeply.  And it pains me to consider the separation of my other church, the evangelicals who first taught me to love Jesus.  I feel like the child of two divorced parents, and like any child, I love them both.  I know that when I see Rome, I will love her more.  And I may feel angry.  I will certainly be grieved in a way I cannot ignore.

This is the sacrifice.  So what is the hope?

The hope is that Jesus loves my two churches, and the other Christian traditions, far more than I.  My hope is that prayer, fasting, humble and contrite hearts move heaven and earth.  My hope is that the Holy Spirit seems to be moving many hearts in these days to pray and work for unity.  And so I go to Rome, in my poverty.

In the next few weeks I hope to write some of what I will share in Rome, along with some text and stories that have shaped this particular journey.

Buckets of Water

Today marks the 49th consecutive day without rain in Elgin, TX, and that is a problem for the 120 pine saplings we planted in January.  Some have died from the heat and drought; others are struggling.  Most remain green and supple, but they need a little help, and it is not coming from the sky. So for the past two weeks, my boys and I have been filling gallon buckets from our hose and lugging them across the pasture to our trees.  It is hot work and time consuming, bringing life to those trees. 

The labor reminds me of a lesson in prayer which I read roughly two decades ago.  The teaching itself, from the writing of Teresa of Avila, is more than four centuries old.  Teresa likens the soul to a garden which God plants and then beckons us to tend.  Sometimes rain falls from heaven, a gift of consolation directly from God.  However, God also sends dry spells which require some sweat and ingenuity on our part.  Irrigation channels can be built to transport water.  But when irrigation proves impossible, we must dip our buckets into the well and carry the water.  It can be hard work tending the gardens of our souls, and we may become discouraged. When I am tempted to sloth, I remember my dead trees.

Martha

For all the Marthas that I know

Today is the feast day of St. Martha, a woman I love. Most people remember her as Mary's harried, jealous sister, but that is not the Martha I imagine.  When Lazarus dies and Jesus comes late to Bethany, Martha is the first person he encounters.  She engages him in one of the most complex theological dialogues recorded in scripture. She was a smart woman, and a true friend of our Savior.

 I will go out on a limb here and guess that housework was not Martha's first love. I say that because it is not my first love either.  Being a housewife for 25 years, I have learned to wield a knife and a broom with some skill.  I enjoy serving guests at my table, and having a tidy room where they can stay. But in truth, I would rather be in the prayer room, or reading a book, or talking with a friend than mopping or cooking.  Often I indulge these more ethereal desires even when there are dirty dishes in the sink.

And so I  have a funny response when I read the story of Mary and Martha waiting on the Lord. I feel a little guilty.  I apologize to Martha for leaving her in the kitchen.  But maybe that shows that I am more like Martha than I realize. If Martha's first love were truly housework, then she would have been a happy clam.  But judging from her conversation with Jesus at Lazarus' death, I believe she was really a theologian, a contemplative who just didn't  believe such pursuits were allowed to women.

From a sermon by Saint Augustine

 Martha and Mary were sisters, related not only by blood but also by religious aspirations. They stayed close to our Lord and both served him harmoniously when he was among them. Martha welcomed him as travellers are welcomed. But in her case, the maidservant received her Lord, the invalid her Saviour, the creature her Creator, to serve him bodily food while she was to be fed by the Spirit. For the Lord willed to put on the form of a slave, and under this form to be fed by his own servants, out of condescension and not out of need. For this was indeed condescension, to present himself to be fed; since he was in the flesh he would indeed be hungry and thirsty.

  Thus was the Lord received as a guest who came unto his own and his own received him not; but as many as received him, he gave them the power to become sons of God,adopting those who were servants and making them his brothers, ransoming the captives and making them his co-heirs. No one of you should say: “Blessed are they who have deserved to receive Christ into their homes!” Do not grieve or complain that you were born in a time when you can no longer see God in the flesh. He did not in fact take this privilege from you. As he says: Whatever you have done to the least of my brothers, you did to me.

  But you, Martha, if I may say so, are blessed for your good service, and for your labours you seek the reward of peace. Now you are much occupied in nourishing the body, admittedly a holy one. But when you come to the heavenly homeland will you find a traveller to welcome, someone hungry to feed, or thirsty to whom you may give drink, someone ill whom you could visit, or quarrelling whom you could reconcile, or dead whom you could bury?

  No, there will be none of these tasks there. What you will find there is what Mary chose. There we shall not feed others, we ourselves shall be fed. Thus what Mary chose in this life will be realised there in all its fullness; she was gathering fragments from that rich banquet, the Word of God. Do you wish to know what we will have there? The Lord himself tells us when he says of his servants, Amen, I say to you, he will make them recline and passing he will serve them.

Re: 25 Years

This is Thomas hacking your blog, Amy.  I pushed the like button lots of times in response to your amazingly lovely and sweet "25 Years" entry ... but it only gave me 1 Like.  I will not be constrained by technology!  I want you to know how much I like it, so here's some "rapid fire liking" ...

Happy Anniversary!  And here's to 50 more :-)