Gift
Maybe this should be titled “Gratitude” or perhaps “Reflections by a Skeptic.” However, I think “Gift” works as that is what I’m reflecting on.
There are some relationships that of late have seemed strained and distant. I believe I have some understanding of why this might be. The misinformation that gives rise to it is painful. The desire to jump up and shout “You’ve got it all wrong!” and proceed with a defensive stance is strong but probably not a useful response. So I sit with the situation, and I wrestle with understanding and forgiveness. And I am seldom of a mind to believe in the Divine Intervention.
On Sunday, in the midst of much disorganization and chaos, I pulled a dear friend aside and asked her to pray over me. She obliged, calling the Spirit to bring healing and wholeness to the immediate situation. I felt a bit of calm, a bit peace and a hope that I would be able to work through the babble and chaos with grace. That was good enough.
Good enough until I was face to face with a couple of people that had exuded a coolness in my direction of late. In every case, there was warmth and peace. An unspoken closing of distance surfaced. Over and over I noticed these flashes. And I marveled. It seems that the Holy Spirit decided that my expectations set the bar a bit too low. The Spirit was not in to simply meeting my expectations – Her vision went far beyond.
Thanks to my friend for her presence in prayer. Thanks to the Spirit who breathes out healing and peace. Thanks for the gift that was, and is, so much greater than expected.
Why Write?
I’m taking a class this term with OLLI – “Writing Our Lives.” One of the questions posed in the reference book we use for the class (The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing, Sharon M. Lippincott) is “Why are you writing?” Obviously there is no right answer to this question. But, it caused me to struggle a bit as I reflected on the “Why?”
My writing is not to tell my story for my children and grandchildren. If they find my writing interesting, that is wonderful. But, I write to tell my story to myself. I write to sort my memories which are dominated by the emotions of the moment/event instead of objective observances. Often, I can recall how I felt, but not what caused me to laugh or cry. This is strange, since I overtly make decisions by thinking through things. This is not so strange when I recall that big decisions are made based on my gut.
Writing is a way to walk back through a memory and put flesh on it. Writing forces me to not just have an emotional response, but to sit with it and hear what that emotion is telling me. It might be telling me about myself or about another person. If I remember fear, writing about it helps me to sort through what made me afraid [or sad, happy, content] and learn not only what I fear, but why. Writing is helpful because it helps me to name my fears and joys and sorrows. And, if have found that in real life, just as in magic and fantasy and folklore, if you can name something, it loses a lot of it’s control over you.
I suspect that the unpronounceable name of God, YWHW (or whatever those letters were) was affirmation of the fact that we can never truly name or tame God. We can however name and take some control over other things and relationships in our lives. Writing is my way of doing that.
Unexpected Returns
Anyone who knows me is not surprised that I find the current English mass translation to be rather poor. In general the translation seems poor, cumbersome and does not invoke a sense of beauty or better understanding of what we celebrate. I find it distancing.
There is an exception: one of the responses I learned, and repeated, from the beginnings of my journey within the Roman Church went this way:
Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the Word and I shall be healed.
The current translation is now:
Lord, I am not worthy for You to enter under my roof, but only say the Word and my soul shall be healed.
(OK, I’m not positive I have the words exactly correct, but I think I do.)
It’s the “enter under my roof” and “my soul will/shall be healed” that have had the impact. When I heard and said the former version, I was focussed strictly on the Host — that little wafer that I received. Not that this is a bad thing, but the “enter under my roof” and the addition of the word “soul” seem to broaden my understanding. I now reflect on allowing God to enter into my “house” – into my “home” — into my life in general. My house is the world, the heart and the mind where I live. When I say the words “under my roof” it calls up a vision of welcoming God into that space where I live. And, the grounding for where I live, day to day, in physical terms or in emotional or spiritual terms is my soul.
Now, I’m not sure what the intent of the change was. For me, this opens doors. It gives me something more concrete to work with. It points to the places where I live and to the reasons and forces that empower me to move day by day. What a beautiful surprise!
What kind of greeting?
Today’s gospel is one of those where the angel Gabriel comes to Mary:
The angel Gabriel was sent from God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David, and the virgin’s name was Mary.
And coming to her, he said, “Hail, full of grace! The Lord is with you.”
But she was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.
I have to admit that I’ve had this reaction — someone greets me with a smile and a message that is sooooo positive. And my first reaction is one of suspicion. What does she want from me? Anyone/anything that happy to see me must want to eat me for dinner. The list goes on from there, but you get the idea.
And so, I look to Mary for the followup. She hears the rest of the story and ponders it a bit. And then she simply asks – “How can this be?” That is where I fall short, it seems. I hold my questions and suspicions close and don’t reveal my hand most of the time. I can only ask for Mary’s simple courage as she wonders aloud “How?” She doesn’t try to sidestep the issue, she doesn’t play at false humility — she just goes with it.
It seems I must accept that the questioning is essential, but so is the acceptance.
Moments of Change
I went to hear Wayne Flynt talk about his latest book ( Keeping the Faith: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives ) last week. It is a memoir and to hear him speak, it was very painful in the making. He dug up events that were very stressful and unpleasant as he recounted [his] history from his viewpoint.
After he talked a bit about himself and the book and finished reading a section , the floor was opened for questions. One struck question and answer struck me deeply.
Wayne comes from the Deep South. He worked registering voters in Birmingham during the Civil Rights Movement. He has worked with the Southern Poverty Law Center. But, this was not the mindset of the community into which he was born. He was also a Baptist minister at one time in his life.
The question: “What event had the most profound impact on your life?”
His response ran something like this: That would have to be my conversion.”[Remember he is a Southern Baptist flavor of Christian] My conversion experience caused me to no longer fit in with my church or my community. I could no longer reconcile my own beliefs with those of in my church community or my family.
There just simply are not that many people who can say that — it is difficult to be transformed, difficult to allow God to touch me so profoundly that I no longer fit the mold. This simple witness was not preachy, but the simplicity and honesty of his statement dug deep. No apology, no brow-beating — just truth.
Amen.