Risk for the sake of the Gospel

Does “witnessing” make you want to hide?

I just had a couple of unexpected visitors. Two women, carrying Bibles, nicely dressed, pressed the bell and freaked out the Corgi. They asked me if was familiar with prejudice, and if I ever perceived of a day when it would no longer be a concern. I said, “Well, I suppose when the Kingdom comes.” That pleased the older woman, who still read me a verse from Acts and left me with a Watchtower magazine.

As they were sharing, I tried to get into what I call “spiritual director mode”–opening myself up to what’s going on within me, being prayerful on behalf of the person I’m with and trying to listen to the Holy Spirit, all at the same time. Today I got no further than opening myself up. I discovered I was nervous on behalf of these women and my attentiveness stemmed from my own desire that they feel heard. “They deserve to feel heard because of the risk they’re taking,” I heard myself say.

My reactions indicate my own insecurities about what we traditionally call “witnessing.” The further someone is from God, the more anxious I become about saying a word on God’s behalf. I don’t think I am called to do door-to-door pamphlet dispersion but I want to be able to see an opening–that piece of soil where God’s Word might take hold–and offer some seeds. I will never be like these ladies today. I will never be one who scatters seed broadly (perhaps even sowing in someone else’s field. But I do long to sow more, to have my seeds at hand, to scatter them without anxiety or fear and trust God for the harvest.

Frankly, I’m not really sure how to improve my sowing abilities. I am praying that the attentiveness that I’ve cultivated through my spiritual direction training will be more available to me all the time. I think that must include attentiveness to the fact that my call is simple (scatter seeds) where the work of growth is God’s. (If you have an ideas on how to unhook the anxiety from seed scattering, please comment!)

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because of a recent sermon by Fr. Gregory Whitaker on taking risks to share the life of God. So far, my attention has focused on the man who is caretaker of Lincoln Park, the park where I walk Roxie. I see him almost every day–sometimes twice a day–when I am walking her. Roxie is a great witness herself–she spreads joy to many people and this man definitely has a soft spot for her. So we usually end up chatting for a few minutes about nothing much–the weather, the grass, the late planting of the garden, how adorable my dog is–and I pray, I pray for a blessing for this man, for God’s life to meet him in his everyday life.

Lord God, give me your love for your children, the love that casts out all fear. Let your Holy Spirit show me where to leave the seeds of your Word that you have given me to share–and let me share them with gladness and joy. Amen.

Driving sober

I leave early, hoping to avoid the tangle of traffic around O’Hare. I don’t, although I rationalize that it could be worse. As the snarls ease, I charge forward in my husband’s Subaru with exuberance, only to have to brake hard at the Elmhurst curve. This accordion-like driving continues onto I-55 until magically the traffic reaches the driving equilibrium of “rural” Illinois. I begin to relax.

…

I listen to my favorite NPR trifecta of programs: Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, This American Life and Science Friday. Ira Glass is talking about the current patent wars. I feel knowledgeable and urbane as I am driving through the Chicago suburbs. Suddenly, I realize that I am not: we moved to Wisconsin to escape the patent wars, the tumble of quickly irrelevant technology, the sophisticated maze of structured investment products, and expectations of life that have nothing to do with a rhythm of rest and work, nothing to do with connecting to other human beings and God. Though we have chosen to step out of that life, I miss it. I miss its stimulation and the sense of power that comes from knowing something more or different than the next person. This sobers me.

…

Somewhere beyond Peoria, I get impatient to have the drive completed, to have arrived. As I listen with half an ear to a discussion of summer reading, I shift my body, relax my shoulders, take a deep breath and let it out. I have just switched to vacation driving mode. Enjoy the driving, let the thoughts wander; accept the boredom gracefully. There is nothing that can be done while I drive except to drive.

…

At some point, I realize I am not cool. I suspect I will not remember this for very long. Both of these things sober me.

…

I arrive at my hotel room for the night. This is an older hotel; the room is clean but spare. I am disappointed. Even though I made the reservation, I must have subconsciously wanted something more, something luxurious. I remember the last retreat I was on—this room is spacious and coordinated in comparison to that room. I thank God for the space, make my peace and am content.

Lord God, stepping out of the normal pattern of life heightens my awareness of the small movements within me attributable to your grace. Help me to carry that awareness back into my daily pattern, that I may better love, serve and hear you. Amen.

Bits and pieces

I must have reached some kind of milestone in my life. I find myself reflecting on how my life has turned out, how it isn’t what I expected, and–more importantly–realizing that my vision for what my life should look like is not going to happen. There’s not enough time, enough energy, enough motivation, enough healing to make that happen. I am grieving for the things that are impossible that I didn’t realize were impossible and that probably aren’t impossible for most people.

Have you heard the story about the beautiful teapot? It is beautifully decorated and full of itself, proud of its function to serve hot tea to grateful people everywhere. It is the queen of the pantry, lording it over the other dishes because of her beauty, grace and usefulness. Then, one day, a hungry hurrying child comes to the tea table and upsets the pot, sending it crashing to the floor, where it breaks into pieces. Some well-meaning person glues the largest shards together, but it will never hold hot tea again, and it sits on the shelf broken and despondent. Finally, a gardener comes. He takes the teapot, drills holes in the bottom (oh, the tea-manity!), fills the pot with soil and plants a seed. The pot resents this repurposing but begins to realize that something new is growing inside it. Eventually, a beautiful flower springs up and blooms from the pot and it is ecstatic at what it has fostered, the beauty that is beyond any beauty the pot ever possessed in itself. Finally, the teapot must be broken to release the flower, which is then planted by the gardener. The shards of the teapot remain, but are content to have birthed this life and to be broken that it might continue to thrive.

This is supposed to be comforting how, exactly?

I do get it. It’s a very christian (note the small “c”) story. But I personally don’t want to find myself continuing to suffer infirmities and frailties that results in being a used-up pile of shards. That doesn’t sound very Christian in the end.*

What does sound Christian to me is being worn out, ground down, pulverized into dust and being made into a completely new thing. Mosaics are fine, but they are ultimately made out of broken shards. They can be cunningly assembled, but they never look like a new thing to me–they’re recycling. I do not want to be a recycled Christian.

Paint, on the other hand, is made from extremely finely ground pigment, is mixed with oil and becomes a completely new thing, something utterly other than what it was originally. And it can be used to create beauty and truth simply by being that which it is created to be. It becomes a part of a pattern, a part of the whole and informs and reflects on the other paints around it simply by being in contrast (or harmony) with them. I want to be a made-new Christian.

Two things that have been helping me this week: One is the song “Beautiful Things” by Gungor. There’s a link below if you’d like to listen to it. The chorus and bridge go:

You make beautiful things,
You make beautiful things out of the dust.
You make beautiful things,
You make beautiful things out of us.

You make me new, you are making me new.

The other thing that’s helping: making Grannie Squares. I’ve been spring cleaning my yarn collection and have found so many scraps that cannot in and of themselves make anything at all. So I am collecting them and knitting them together so that they make a fabric that in the end, I hope does not look recycled, but rather intentional, each yarn in its place, bringing out new aspects of the yarn next to it.

So I grieve still, but not as one without hope. I just need to spend some time reflecting on the materials I’ve been given and ask God how to assemble them to make something beautiful that we both love. Amen.

*Can I just have Jesus’ resurrected body? Sure, he had scars, but walking through walls and through the time/space continuum more than balances out bodily blemishes!

Mystery and Unity

²⁰ “My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, ²¹ that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. ²² I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one— ²³ I in them and you in me—so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.

²⁴ “Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.

²⁵ “Righteous Father, though the world does not know you, I know you, and they know that you have sent me. ²⁶ I have made you known to them, and will continue to make you known in order that the love you have for me may be in them and that I myself may be in them.”
John 17: 20-26

I am sitting in the convening convention for the formation of our new diocese and I have been reminded of Jesus’ words to his church for the second time in two days. They are words of mystery and unity. Mysterious because we cannot know how this takes place–that we are a part of Christ and that gives us access to the Father and his own presence within us. Unifying because Jesus says that as we become a part of him, we are caught up together in him to the Father.

Just because Jesus says it is so doesn’t mean we understand it or feel it. Yet this morning, sitting in this “business meeting” of the church, we have had a time of worship where the Lord has been lifted up, has been glorified and I know unity–that it is not simply a theological construct or something known with the mind, but perceived and participated in with my spirit resonating with the Holy Spirit.

This is not something I can explain–I can only acknowledge the mystery. But I thank God that I don’t need to understand it to participate in it and let it refresh me for the next leg of my journey.

For more on the Convening Convention, visit www.midwestanglican.org.

 

Martha vs. Martha

Seems like most of my blogging is happening at Light of Christ right now. Here’s my latest reflection on the two contrasting pictures of Martha from the Gospels:

Martha vs. Martha | Light of Christ Anglican Church.

My Lent lessons: Turning and Community

This Lent has felt very different to me. In some ways, I feel as though I’ve been less attentive to the fact it’s Lent of any Lent since I began attending an Anglican church back in 1995. While I decided to make a fast this Lent, it hasn’t been especially difficult. The keeping of my “sin ever before me” has been more of a stretch than a pain. I often feel closer to the Lord in Lent; that hasn’t happened this year.

What has happened instead is a through-line of two strands: turning and community.

Our sermon series this Lent at Light of Christ has been called “Coming Home.” It was inspired by the story of the Prodigal Son, but is really supported by all of the readings this Lent. It also knits in nicely with our recent launch of house groups–an effort to deepen faith through meditating on the week’s sermon and readings in community.

The “turning” is an obvious theme for Lent. When you think about the prodigal son, he reached a point of coming to the end of himself and decided “hey, even my Father’s hired hands have enough to eat. I’ll go home and ask for a job.” The Father’s joy at the Son’s return is so lavish that the son doesn’t even have to complete his sentence, or even the walk to the house before the Father has received him back! But the son must first make the decision to turn back home.

In last week’s story of the unfruitful fig tree, the Lord works the soil around our roots in an attempt to make us fruitful. Even though we do not have anything to do with this process, there is still a recognition that the fertilizer might not work–that our roots can somehow refuse to take in the new nutrients that have been introduced.

What’s clear from these stories is that no matter how small or slight it seems, we have a choice: we can reject the Lord, or we can turn–and even if we’re far from home, he is often right behind us.

My experience of community has been different this Lent. Because I help in our Holy Week planning, I’ve been in many meetings as well as my house group, and we are always talking about the last sermon, or how Lent is going for us, or what the Lord is doing in our lives. The common thread of our experience in church helps us to weave us together through our discussion and processing. I am growing closer to the people in my parish and also sense God’s presence in that knitting together. The community comes because of God, for the sake of Christ, and it seems to have a life of its own–as it should.

For example: Last night I was at my healing prayer discussion group. One of the members of our group had gotten his car stuck in the mud. As we left that evening, we all participated in helping this man get his car out of the mud. One woman sat at the wheel. Several of us pushed from the front. One of our group and a neighbor rolled down the back windows and pushed from there. This car was pretty thoroughly stuck! It took us a while to free the car from the mud. Those of us in front got completely splattered! One of the men helping fell in the mud while pushing and got lovely mud-shaped kneepads on his jeans. Somehow I got mud all the way up my front AND back. Once the car was free, we all cheered and congratulated each other, exchanging affirmations and encouragement.

As I drove home, I found myself singing “Celebrate” (yes, by Cool & the Gang). There was an elation from helping this friend out of the mud that I don’t think I would have experienced if I had been the sole person pushing. We all got muddy and sore muscles, but none of us overextended ourselves. Our little community was able to accomplish something that, had any of us tried it alone, would have left us frustrated and exhausted. Instead, it felt like what a team building exercise is supposed to feel like: each of us had a part and we worked together and celebrated together. A tighter community was woven.

Lord, thank you for this small example of the strength of your church when it is working together for the one who is lost or stuck. Help me to continue to be attentive to your where I need to turn and where I can join my brothers and sisters for your glory. Amen.

All mine?

Recently I heard a sermon about temptation and how, just as we can be lead by God, we can also be lead by Satan–and that Jesus was effectively lead by the Devil during his trial in the desert (Luke 4: 1-13)! When our preacher mentioned this, it made sense logically, but it seemed too incredible to be true. My mind consented, but my heart and soul were skeptics. There was much food for thought in this sermon, so I shelved the idea and chewed on some other things.

This past Sunday, I was preparing myself for church and had picked up The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis. I’ve been reading it slowly, a letter at a time, and had come to letter XXI. I read the following paragraph:

Men are not angered by mere misfortune, but by misfortune conceived as injury. And the sense of injury depends on the feeling that a legitimate claim has been denied. The more claims on life, therefore, that your patient can be induced to make, the more often he will feel injured and, as a result, ill-tempered. Now you have noticed that nothing throws him into a passion so easily as to find a tract of time which he reckoned on having at his own disposal unexpectedly taken from him. It is the unexpected visitor (when he looked forward to a quiet evening), or the friend’s talkative wife (turning up when he looked forward to a tete-a-tete with the friend), that throws him out of gear. Now he is not yet so uncharitable or slothful that these small demands on his courtesy are in themselves too much for it. They anger him because he regards his time as his own and feels that it is being stolen. (The Screwtape Letters, Simon & Schuster Touchstone edition, pg 79.)

Ah! Here was an angle on being lead by the enemy that I could understand! Do I make claims on life? You bet! I have a schedule that I keep and nothing makes me feel more stressed than realizing the empty slots–which I subconsciously label as “MY time”–are getting eaten into by additional duties, conversations and engagements which I did not plan.

I had an immediate opportunity to be tested. I received a call that the family that was planning on hosting a meeting that afternoon had sick children, and could we please move the meeting to our home? I would have said “yes” anyway, but as I switched gears from planning to attend Sunday School to picking up the house I had to continually give that sense of infringement on “my time” to God. Next, during the service, I had forgotten I was scheduled to read the New Testament passage. I had to practice the presence of Christ as I rehearsed the reading of a ridiculously tricky translation from Philippians 3, because the stress and worry about not being good enough was threatening to block any ability I might have to find Christ in the scripture. Next, I sat waiting for communion feeling small and defeated, acknowledging to God my inability to gracefully move into these “outside but ordained” events, John touched my arm & signaled. Another woman in the church was frantically pointing to the back of the bulletin and then to me. I was scheduled to pray for people during communion  As I went forward to take communion prior to taking my place, I prayed “Well Lord, you always do your best work through me when I’m feeling the smallest. Just let me get out of your way today.” There were no miraculous healings Sunday, but I do know that I felt free to listen for what the Lord had for those who came to me for prayer on Sunday. There was grace enough for that, at least.

Since Sunday I’ve continued to experience random demands on my time and I continue to struggle with the sense of injury and infringement–particularly in light of the fact that I believe one of the things I’m called to right now is to take care of myself better. These demands are stressful for me to navigate, but getting them resolved internally is an important aspect of taking care of myself.

Today I finished Lewis’ letter XXI and read this:

And all the time the joke is that the word “mine” in its fully possessive sense cannot be uttered by a human being about anything. In the long run either Our Father [Satan] or the Enemy will say “mine” of each thing that exists  and specially of each man. They will find out in the end, never fear, to whom their time, their souls and their bodies really belong–certainly not to them, whatever happens. At present, the Enemy says “mine” to everything on the pedantic, legalistic ground that He made it. Our Father hopes in the end to say “mine” of all things on the more realistic and dynamic ground of conquest.

The story of Christ in the desert being lead around by Satan isn’t just a vignette  it’s a way we can live our life! Is there really anything that is our own only? Isn’t every good thing we have a gift from God? It is true that if we are not moving towards God, we are moving away from him. Let us resolve again to turn away from the temptations to control our own hungers, our spiritual life and even God himself, and turn back to Him as the only one worthy of our time, our sacrifice, our worship.

Lord, I give you “my time” today. I give you my plans and attempt to release them fully to you. Let me see each alteration to my schedule as an opportunity to do your work, even if it means saying “no” in a way that honors the interruption. Thank you for your grace that provides the cushioning between all of our relationships and fills in the gaps for every one of your children. Amen.