Eyes To See

To be a Christian is to see Christ in everyone and everything.

Richard Rohr 

Leaving the conference where for three days we considered what it really means to be God’s people in the world, and to live out our faith in real and meaningful ways, one of my commitments is to practice seeing Jesus everywhere. To see in all I encounter the image of the One I claim to follow.

Easier said than done, which is why it is a practice. 

Walking back to pick up our bags from the AirBnB with this commitment fresh on my mind, walking directly toward us was my first opportunity to practice. A man that I might typically describe as “sketchy” stepped in our path. Instantly I was on high alert, adrenaline shooting through my veins, and I was ready to bolt. He appeared to be in his late twenties, scruffy beard, clothes that hadn’t seen a washing machine in some time, toting a backpack, and my immediate impression was that he was a sophisticated pan-handler, or worse. My practice of avoiding such folks is obviously well-honed, and the possibility that he might reflect the image of the Carpenter who lived about 2000 years ago didn’t even cross my fearful, judgmental mind.

And then Jesus showed up.  

Out of the mouth of the man blocking our path, the man I typically see as “the other”, the one from whom I would normally avert my eyes, came these words...I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation folks, but I need to tell you all to have a blessed day. 

With a warm smile and a nod, he continued on his way. 

I’m not saying that we should abandon our common sense and pay attention to our surroundings.  

I’m not saying we shouldn’t take protective action should we need it. 

I guess what I’m saying is that maybe we need new glasses with which to see the image of the Holy everywhere we look.

At least I know I do.

Mission Accomplished

Everywhere I look people are going through hard things, and I am as well. These experiences are part of what it means to be human, and choosing to go through them rather than trying to go around them is how we find our way back home to ourselves. To our true self.

In the midst of a conversation the other day about such things, I suddenly recalled a scene from the movie Apollo 13. An explosion mid-flight had damaged the spacecraft which changed the mission from landing on the moon, to finding a way to bring astronauts Jim Lovell, Fred Haise, and Jack Swigert back home.

The heat shield on the Command Module had been damaged in the explosion, and it was not known whether it would be able to withstand the intense heat of reentry. There was no other way home but to ride it out, trusting that the heat shield would hold.

It did, and on April 17, 1970, at 1:07:41PM, the Command Module splashed into the Pacific Ocean, and they were home.

Mission accomplished.

It occurs to me that whenever we are engaged in the dangerous adventure of finding our way back home to ourselves, we too have to trust that there is a heat shield surrounding us. That we are protected by a love that wants us to be whole. A love that wants nothing in the world more than to bring us back home.

Mission accomplished.

https://airandspace.si.edu/collection-objects/command-module-apollo-13

The Dark Night

“The first fingers of light appear on the horizon, and ever so deftly and gradually, they pull the mantle of darkness away from the world.”

John O’Donohue - Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

There are times when life so overwhelms us with grief, pain, fear, and loss that we don’t think we will survive. Some do not, and there is no room for judgement or criticism, only mercy and compassion. I have not inhabited their hearts, only my own, and the only reference I have is my own experience of being plunged into darkness, not knowing when even the faintest glimmer of light will appear.

In those dark nights, we are alone with our own hearts. No matter how much love and support we have surrounding us, no one can make our way for us as we wait for the light to appear. Others may walk with us, but they cannot walk for us. Others may help us bear our burden, but ultimately it is ours to carry. But the treasures of our darkness belong to us. Whatever we discover in the blackness of our night has the capacity to transform us in ways only possible when we have found our way to the dawn of our new day.

In the darkness, while we find ourselves alone, we would do well to remember that we bring with us all of our hard earned resources. Any strength, wisdom, faith, grace, and love that we have accumulated thus far will be our faithful companions, and will sustain us through the night. In her book, Learning To Walk in the Dark, Barbara Brown Taylor says, “…I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really on one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.”

I’ve often wondered if the power that brought the world into being knew that we would need to find hope for a return of the light on a daily basis. That there is a deeper meaning behind the daily cloaking of the world in darkness, so that once again, we can be reminded of the illuminating light that is sure to follow.

Light For Dark Times

Years ago my dear friend Kristine and I were to lead a weekend retreat in the wine country of Northern California. The event fell through at the last minute, but the retreat we’d planned is still in my files. Today I pulled it up and revisited the message we had hoped to give all those years ago.

The words below, from Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, were ones we were going to read aloud on the last day, but we never got the chance.

I invite you to read them aloud today to all who would listen.

---

My friends…do not lose heart. We were made for these times. I have heard from so many recently who are deeply and properly bewildered. They are concerned about the state of affairs in our world now. Ours is a time of almost daily astonishment and often righteous rage over the latest degradations of what matters most to civilized, visionary people. 

In any dark time, there is a tendency to veer toward fainting over how much is wrong or un-mended in the world. Do not focus on that. There is a tendency, too, to fall into being weakened by dwelling on what is outside your reach, by what cannot yet be. Do not focus there. That is spending the wind without raising the sails. We are needed, that is all we can know. And though we meet resistance, we more so will meet great souls who will hail us, love us and guide us, and we will know them when they appear. Didn't you say you were a believer? Didn't you say you pledged to listen to a voice greater? Didn't you ask for grace? Don't you remember that to be in grace means to submit to the voice greater?

Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. Any small, calm thing that one soul can do to help another soul, to assist some portion of this poor suffering world, will help immensely. It is not given to us to know which acts or by whom, will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good. What is needed for dramatic change is an accumulation of acts, adding, adding to, adding more, and continuing. We know that it does not take everyone on Earth to bring justice and peace, but only a small, determined group who will not give up during the first, second, or hundredth gale. 

One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times. The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares, builds signal fires, causes proper matters to catch fire. To display the lantern of soul in shadowy times like these—to be fierce and to show mercy toward others; both are acts of immense bravery and greatest necessity. Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it. If you would help to calm the tumult, this is one of the strongest things you can do.

Photo: Tom Pierson



Peace At The End Of The Day

Sometimes peace means getting to the end of the day and knowing you’ve done what you could.

You’ve done the very best you could with what you had to work with that day. 

You’ve extended grace to others...and to yourself.  

You’ve managed a little more faith and a little less fear. 

You’ve done what is yours to do, and left others free to do the same. 

Be at peace. You’ve done what you could.

Rest In Peace

“And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” 
And he replied: 
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.” 

(Excerpt from the poem The Gate of The Year by Minnie Louise Haskins”

The summer before last we got lost on our way down from the summit of Mt. Adams. Originally our intention was to hike down that same day, stopping to pick up the tents and gear we’d left behind at Lunch Counter, a flat area where hikers camp before summiting. But as the day wore on, it was obvious that we would need to spend another night on the mountain. As darkness began to fall and with no camp and no other hikers in sight, it became obvious that our only option was to bivouac. In other words, spend the night outside at 9000 feet in below freezing temperature without a tent or cover. Family and friends were expecting a call to say we’d made it down, but we couldn’t find a spot with cell service.

We found a small flat area surrounded by a crude rock wall that others before us had built, and did our best to settle in for the night. We put on every layer of clothing we had in our packs and pulled an emergency blanket over us. Think laying on your driveway under a big piece of tin foil. It was going to be a long night.

My biggest concern wasn’t that we wouldn’t make it out, but for the people who loved us who were expecting our call. When they didn’t hear from us, I knew they would be scared something had happened to us, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Except maybe pray. Which I did.

Night time is for sleeping, but that night, there was no sleep to be had. But even when back home and in our oh-so-comfortable bed, there are nights when sleep is illusive. What is it about 2am in the morning? Or, in my case, 2:20am to be exact. That is when, if I am going to wake up and fret, it will be then, and nothing seems to be off the table. Money, health concerns, worries about family and friends, the economy, those currently in the White House, climate change, dementia, hearing loss, sagging skin, and the thousands of family photos that need to be organized. The next morning I am always amazed at how much better things look, but in the middle of the night, things can look mighty bleak.

That night on the mountain however, as I lay there alternately worrying about those who were worrying about us, and praying for the whole situation, my attention turned to the night sky. There was nothing I could do about our situation until the morning, but I had a front row seat for the Perseid Meteor Shower, the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and the Milky Way. I’d never spent an entire night watching the magic show on display that goes on whether we see it or not, and the splendor of it all took my shivering breath away.

There is something about being stranded on a mountain, under the heavens that puts everything into perspective, and laying there I remembered the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” And somehow, I knew she was right. All was well, and all would be well. Maybe not immediately, but eventually.

Dawn began to appear, and it was time to move our stiff and aching bodies down the mountain. Reaching for my cell phone, I found that where I hadn’t been able to get a signal the night before, a few bars appeared and I was able to make a call to put other’s minds at ease.

All was well.

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

The Baby & The Bath Water

Our church is currently without a pastor, and as we search for the next one, each Sunday different members of our congregation take on the responsibility for giving the reflection (aka, the sermon). It is a wonderful practice, allowing us to learn more about each other, and be inspired by one another’s stories.

This morning a dear friend stepped up to the pulpit and shared the story of the people and experiences that have helped shape her faith into what it is today. While she spoke of several significant relationships, the one that struck me the most was the influence of her mother. As it turns out, their relationship was complicated and painful. What made the story so powerful was that while she has had to live with and acknowledge the hurtful and hard parts, she has also chosen to honor and appreciate the significant and positive ways her mom influenced the faith she so values today.

Most of us are a mixed bag, and most of the time we are doing the best we can with what we’ve got to work with. However, when it comes to relationships that are different from how we wish them to be, especially one as significant as that between a daughter and a mother, it is easy to focus only on the negative and painful. My friend was able to sort out her mother’s mixed bag separating the good from the not-so-good, the wheat from the chaff, the gifts from the trash.

We can be quick to throw the out the baby with the bathwater. The story shared today was a grace-filled reminder that we don’t have to.

Wing-Walking

“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”

~ Havelock Ellis

There’s something called the Wing-Walker principle.

Often featured stunts in airshows of the past, wing-walkers were those daredevil folk willing to crawl out of the cockpit of an airborne biplane, and walk on the wing. Those watching from the ground, as well as the walker on the wing, knew that imminent death was a possibility.

The wing-walker principle, as explained to me, is that you never let go of one handhold until you have another one to grab on to. Makes good sense to me.

This same principle holds true on more than an airplane wing.

Life often feels as precarious as being out on an airplane wing, high above the ground, and the wind ready to blow you to kingdom come. There are times when it feels like you won’t survive, and that death is a real possibility if you can’t find something to hold onto.

When big change is upon us, what we’ve held onto in the past may not be able to sustain us where we are going, and In order to make our way forward, we have to find the next handhold.

Not the next ten.

Not even the next two.

Just the next thing to grab onto that will help us to hold steady in the gale force winds that threaten to push us off into thin air. That handhold could be the next phone call, decision, step, action, or piece of new information that will allow us to let go of the old, and begin to take hold of the new.

One handhold at a time, until we are again on solid ground.

Safe Is Overrated

  “Well, we are safe, even as we are as vulnerable as kittens,  because love, the riskiest thing we do, makes us safe.”

~ Anne Lamott, from her new book: Almost Everything

In C.S. Lewis’s classic, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the Pevensie children find themselves in the magical land of Narnia after stepping through a door in the back of a wardrobe that is stored in an attic. Once there, they learn of Aslan, who is anything but a vulnerable little kitten. He is the fierce, gigantic, talking lion known as the King of Narnia, the King of Beasts, the Lord of the Wood, and son of the great Emperor-Beyond-The Sea.* He is powerful, wise, kind, just, and loving. All of those on the wrong side of all that he stands for fear him, as rightly they should. All of those who seek to stand on the same side of all that he stands for fear him, as rightly they should. He is, after all, the King of Narnia, King of Beasts, Lord of the Wood, and son of the great Emperor-Beyond-The-Sea.

Susan, the middle child of the four Pevensie siblings, has heard much of Aslan, but has yet to meet him. She has heard only of all the good that the powerful Aslan has done, and will do, and is excited at the prospect of meeting him. And, as you might imagine if you were going to meet a fierce, gigantic, talking Lion who reigns over all, you might be a tad bit nervous too. Hoping to allay her fears, she has a conversation with her new friend, Mr. Beaver. 

“Is he-quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"..."Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

Safe is overrated.  

Being true to your convictions isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Speaking your mind isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Adventures aren’t safe. But they’re good. 

Curiosity isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Creativity isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Meaningful work isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Authenticity isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Vulnerability isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Hard conversations aren’t safe. But they’re good.

Asking for help isn’t safe. But it’s good.  

Raising your hand in a meeting isn’t safe. But it’s good.

Reaching across the aisle isn’t safe. But it’s good. 

Speaking truth to power isn’t safe. But it’s good.  

Asking for forgiveness isn’t safe. But it’s good.

Extending forgiveness isn’t safe. But it’s good.

And above all else... 

Love isn’t safe. But it’s good.  

When we go for safe, we will never get the chance to walk through the door in the back of a wardrobe that is stored in an attic, and find ourselves in a magical land. Not to mention the possibility of meeting a fierce, giagantic, talking lion. 

I’ll take good over safe any day.  

  

* shmoop

Keeping The Faith

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

~ Hebrews 11:1

Fifteen miles as the crow flies, out in front of our home, sits Mt. Adams, a 12,281 ft. high volcano in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. It was the mountain that first drew us to this piece of land, and the day that we decided to stake our claim here, the mountain was out in all of its glory. I knew then, as I have every day since that I would never, ever take for granted this beautiful place in which live.

We built our home to maximize the view of the mountain, and almost without fail, when someone visits our home for the first time, they walk in, and if the sky is clear and the mountain in full view, their first words are something to the effect of “Wow! Look at that. Did you plan your house so that you could have that view?”

Ummm…Yes.

But for me, it is about so much more than a spectacular view. The mountain is a daily reminder of my daily need for faith.

You see, there are days when the mountain is shrouded in clouds, and not visible at all from morning till night.

On those days I have to remember, that even when I can’t see the mountain, the mountain is still there.

There are other days when the mountain is partly hidden behind the clouds that blow through our valley.

On those days I have to remember, that even when I can’t see all of the mountain, the mountain is still all there.

This past summer, with fires raging to both the north and south, it was hidden for days on end behind the terrible, suffocating smoke.

On those days I have to remember, that even when I can’t see the mountain, the mountain is still there.

Every day I am in need of faith. And at this particular time in our world, I am in need of it more than ever.

Faith in the creator, and in creation itself.

Faith in the triumph of love over fear, and good over evil.

Faith in humanity, and in myself.

Faith to keep going when I feel like giving up.

Faith to keep writing when the words don’t come easy.

Faith to show up as myself when tempted to hide behind my own wall.

Faith to speak up when it would be easier to stay silent.

Faith to keep putting my work out there when I’d rather play it safe.

While it may be true that faith can move a mountain, I’ve learned that a mountain can move me to have faith. Because even when I can’t see the mountain, I know that the mountain is still there.