“Abide in me as I abide in you.” Jesus speaks these words in John 15 in the well known “I am the vine, you are the branches” parable of which songs and poems have been written over the centuries. I like metaphors and I therefore always loved the rich imagery of God as the vinegrower and pruner. I never paid much attention to His command to abide.
Theologian and storyteller Dr. Meg McKenna references this abiding in her introduction to Harm Not the Earth. The verb “abide” is used eleven times in the first eleven verses of John 15. “It is a very religious and biblical word, and one that is not often used in familiar conversation. It means: to tolerate, endure, act in accordance with, remain faithful to (as in a promise). One always abides ‘in’ – it isn’t something one does alone.”
That puts a whole new spin on Jesus’ “wherever two or more are gathered in my name.” He promises His presence with certainty when two or more people pray together. He’s also present when I am alone in prayer without another person, for He is one and I am one and we are one together.
Ever since I read her words several days ago, I've been struck with Jesus' side of abiding in our relationship; what he is tolerating and enduring me the way spouses and friends tolerate and endure each other's idiosyncracies and stubbornnesses; and how He is "acting in accordance with" who I am being and how far I am allowing Him into my heart and life. If I can expand my time with Him, He can expand His work through me. If I can open more of my heart to Him, He can increase my compassionate response to all who my words, my glance, my touch, my voice can reach. In truth, they are His words, glance, touch, and voice to begin with for I am His. He will act in accordance with what I give Him.
When my children were growing up, we'd call them into the front room away from the rest of the house when we wished to speak to them privately. They were always a bit nervous when we did so, for their immediate fear was they'd done something wrong and were about to be chastised. Our response to Jesus when He says, "Come to me (all you who are weary)" is often the same. Our desired conversation with our children was certainly sometimes to correct an approach they were choosing, but more times, it was an encouragement, a suggestion of help with something that was challenging them, or a secret surprise we were planning for another family member.
"Abide in me" requires our choice to do so. He can abide in us only "in accordance with" how much we allow Him to do so. Our gift of free will is unretreivable; God will never take it away. It is eternally ours and honored by God. Our biggest challenge seems to be going to the front room without fear, in complete trust in the enormous gentleness and exquisiteness tenderness of love filled with mercy and faithfulness of the very One Who created us in the first place.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Forgiveness
We focus so long on the closed door - for example, anger we may be feeling - that we fail to notice the open window we can go through. Forgiveness is the open window, the escape from the room filled with hurt and anger in which we feel trapped. But we're not trapped at all really. We can leave any time. It is only our stubbornness or desire for revenge or apology that keeps us there.
God is like the firemen outside that window of the burning building of your anger.
"Jump. I'll catch you," He begs.
He will catch you. His arms are wider than the entire universe that we can conceive in our minds, and then some. He is our safety net. It is our choice always to either die in the flames or leap to safety, leaving the hot anger for Satan and his minions. It is always our choice.
My forgiveness felt like I was jumping on a trampoline. I'd let go, release myself from the fiery anger and leap into the safety net. Ga-boing! Next thing I knew, I was back on the edge of the window of the burning room. I'd actually, figuratively, walk back into the hot, burning room and walk around it, revisiting my anger. Then, I'd leap again and Ga-boing again.
"As soon as we understand something, we have to be detached from our understanding in order to keep abreast of the exquisite delicacies of the divine action," says Fr. Thomas Keating (Contemplative Outreach News, vol. 27, No. 2, June 2011). To be detached means letting go. God shows us this with His Divine Mercy, endlessly forgiving us our sins and insensitivities, our stubbornness and misbehaviors the way a gentle parent firmly guides and overlooks a two year old's bad behaviors, choosing to focus on how adorable she/he is when sleeping or cuddling or innocently observing life. We have a hard time understanding how God can forgive us because we think only of the "terrible" part of the terrible two's, or focus only on the number of dandelions in the grass instead of the thousands of beautiful blades of green grass before us. Likewise, in trying to forgive, we must choose to see the grass not the dandelions, see the beauty in the child at rest, not the behavior of the child who's overtired or overwhelmed.
Forgiveness begins with our consent to forgive and is completed by God's merciful grace that finishes the job and puts out the fire. It is always easier to dig out the root of one dandelion than to ignore it until it has spread its seeds far and wide. When we form the habit of daily prayer, Mass, or lectio divina, we give God the opportunity to purify us, to weed out our dandelions and keep our souls green and fertile, or if you prefer, filtering our muddy waters so His "divine light can penetrate to the bottom of our being." Keating
excerpt from my soon-to-be-published memoir, Leavened.
God is like the firemen outside that window of the burning building of your anger.
"Jump. I'll catch you," He begs.
He will catch you. His arms are wider than the entire universe that we can conceive in our minds, and then some. He is our safety net. It is our choice always to either die in the flames or leap to safety, leaving the hot anger for Satan and his minions. It is always our choice.
My forgiveness felt like I was jumping on a trampoline. I'd let go, release myself from the fiery anger and leap into the safety net. Ga-boing! Next thing I knew, I was back on the edge of the window of the burning room. I'd actually, figuratively, walk back into the hot, burning room and walk around it, revisiting my anger. Then, I'd leap again and Ga-boing again.
"As soon as we understand something, we have to be detached from our understanding in order to keep abreast of the exquisite delicacies of the divine action," says Fr. Thomas Keating (Contemplative Outreach News, vol. 27, No. 2, June 2011). To be detached means letting go. God shows us this with His Divine Mercy, endlessly forgiving us our sins and insensitivities, our stubbornness and misbehaviors the way a gentle parent firmly guides and overlooks a two year old's bad behaviors, choosing to focus on how adorable she/he is when sleeping or cuddling or innocently observing life. We have a hard time understanding how God can forgive us because we think only of the "terrible" part of the terrible two's, or focus only on the number of dandelions in the grass instead of the thousands of beautiful blades of green grass before us. Likewise, in trying to forgive, we must choose to see the grass not the dandelions, see the beauty in the child at rest, not the behavior of the child who's overtired or overwhelmed.
Forgiveness begins with our consent to forgive and is completed by God's merciful grace that finishes the job and puts out the fire. It is always easier to dig out the root of one dandelion than to ignore it until it has spread its seeds far and wide. When we form the habit of daily prayer, Mass, or lectio divina, we give God the opportunity to purify us, to weed out our dandelions and keep our souls green and fertile, or if you prefer, filtering our muddy waters so His "divine light can penetrate to the bottom of our being." Keating
excerpt from my soon-to-be-published memoir, Leavened.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Loneliness fruit
We all have sacred, lonely moments when we yearn to be loved and wrapped in arms of protection and comfort. We long for the one person, or group of people who soothe our souls, who accept us for who we are, who desire to see us as much as we do them. Just as we use different prayer practices to reach out/in to God, He often uses lonely moments to encourage a connection to us. Our souls know instinctively these little invitations to God’s love because we feel the yearning - His touch on our soul - even when our heads or hearts do not recognize Who initiates it. Like the hairs on our arms that stand up in the presence of static electricity, souls leap to attention the moment they hear God’s whisper. It is inaudible to our earthly ears much as a dog whistle, yet the response is always one of instant alertness to something. We often look around, not recognizing what we “heard.” We ask others like Samuel asked Eli and none can answer us. If we stay attuned to these moments, however, we learn to recognize Him as a child learns its mother’s voice.
excerpt from my unpublished memoir Hook, Line and Sink Her.
excerpt from my unpublished memoir Hook, Line and Sink Her.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Discerning
"The goal of discerning is to reach purity of heart." Sr. Meg Funk
This is the place of still waters for me, where the waters of our sometimes agitated minds are stilled and we can see clearly what is reflected there, or (for me) hear the still, soft voice of Love Who speaks to my heart when I'm quiet enough to hear Him/Her.
I often resist the good, the God of all creation, because the egoic self is full of itself and thinks it can do without God, rationalizing sometimes: I don't want to bother Him; I can handle this. I loved Sr. Meg's expression: "Our back is to the window of grace.” In our moments of humility (some given to us so that we can hear or see our need for God), that resistance is melted by God's warm grace.
We must follow the impulse of grace... yes! And out praxes (e.g. Centering Prayer, Welcoming Prayer, Jesus Prayer, Guard of the Heart) makes this easier to do.
In my office, we removed a window to create an entrance door in its place. There is only 9 inches of a glass window that runs alongside this door. There is no other way for the light to get in. On days when the weather is warm, we leave the door open to allow more light and air in. On colder or hot, humid days when the door needs to be closed, I immediately pull the thin curtain back to allow daylight to enter the otherwise dark room. Recently, after pulling back the curtain time after time to let the light in, I rolled up the curtain and tied it on top. It will come down now only when the hot summer's sun needs to be blocked for a few hours to prevent the room from overheating (just as we walk between centering prayer sits to prevent the energy from becoming too intense within us).
Stand long enough in the light, and our entire being soon hungers for it deeply, desiring to turn toward it more and more often until one day, the curtain is pulled away forever.
This is the place of still waters for me, where the waters of our sometimes agitated minds are stilled and we can see clearly what is reflected there, or (for me) hear the still, soft voice of Love Who speaks to my heart when I'm quiet enough to hear Him/Her.
I often resist the good, the God of all creation, because the egoic self is full of itself and thinks it can do without God, rationalizing sometimes: I don't want to bother Him; I can handle this. I loved Sr. Meg's expression: "Our back is to the window of grace.” In our moments of humility (some given to us so that we can hear or see our need for God), that resistance is melted by God's warm grace.
We must follow the impulse of grace... yes! And out praxes (e.g. Centering Prayer, Welcoming Prayer, Jesus Prayer, Guard of the Heart) makes this easier to do.
In my office, we removed a window to create an entrance door in its place. There is only 9 inches of a glass window that runs alongside this door. There is no other way for the light to get in. On days when the weather is warm, we leave the door open to allow more light and air in. On colder or hot, humid days when the door needs to be closed, I immediately pull the thin curtain back to allow daylight to enter the otherwise dark room. Recently, after pulling back the curtain time after time to let the light in, I rolled up the curtain and tied it on top. It will come down now only when the hot summer's sun needs to be blocked for a few hours to prevent the room from overheating (just as we walk between centering prayer sits to prevent the energy from becoming too intense within us).
Stand long enough in the light, and our entire being soon hungers for it deeply, desiring to turn toward it more and more often until one day, the curtain is pulled away forever.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Labor Coach
Softly, I brush your forehead with my fingertips.
I curl my finger and wipe the tear that forms at the corner of your eye.
I kiss the lips that will speak My truth.
I brush your hair to soothe your spirit.
I fill your heart with a wellspring of joy and love.
Push now. It is time to give it birth.
My Spirit lifts it as a fountain that splashes with joy on all those who draw near.
I have called you by name. You are mine. Isaiah 43
I curl my finger and wipe the tear that forms at the corner of your eye.
I kiss the lips that will speak My truth.
I brush your hair to soothe your spirit.
I fill your heart with a wellspring of joy and love.
Push now. It is time to give it birth.
My Spirit lifts it as a fountain that splashes with joy on all those who draw near.
I have called you by name. You are mine. Isaiah 43
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Contemplative Dawn
Contemplative Dawn
A red finch and I watch from my second floor deck as God’s dawn alights with the softest pastel colors on an array of bulbous clouds. Low, flat-bottomed clouds carry the blue-grays; the cumulus proudly reach their necks up to catch the later sunrays, receiving a brilliant spotlight, like tree tops peaking above early valley fog. In between, the barest of mauves and pinks gently kiss cloud surfaces, like a mother bathing a newborn, slowly lingering in enjoyment of the intimate moment. The bay’s waters ripple softly like the pattern in my shower glass door, carrying the bright whites and pastels from sky to earth in shimmering ecstasy.
The morning is full of happy birds chirping and flitting about. They gather on the bird feeder they emptied yesterday, almost as if to say, ‘Can you not see it’s empty and we’re ready to eat?’ Like a dog pushing its empty food bowl noisily around, I am reminded of a duty to perform, but not yet. It is too deliciously still. The silence is so delicate that I can hear the rapid f-f-flutter of the feathery wings of each nearby bird as it flies to its next perch. Tiny schools of fish skim the bay’s calm surface, while punctuations occur here and there from a breakfast morsel getting nibbled from some sea creature below.
The Choctawhatchie Bay stretches itself before me and I try to imagine for a moment all of the life below its surface, serenely awakening and undulating their sleek bodies through the depths and shallows.
The cypress tree stands its guard as usual, its stalagtite-like roots as sentries below it. The birds disappear securely behind its leaves, or perch momentarily on its lone peak, a leafless branch offered generously for such overviews.
Morning glories are singing silently below in the wetland area by the sea wall. I can’t wait to get to heaven to hear their melodies. Even muted, they make me smile.
Thunder greets me as a heavy-laden cloud inches its way overhead. It will pass without a drop here. Skies are mostly blue still and the wind hasn’t shown itself on the water’s surface yet. I scan the bay for signs of dolphin but no fins break its surface.
Another rumble from the thunderhead reminds me to avoid grumbling this day and maintain a peaceful inner sanctity for the benefit of those around me.
Oh my! The rumble I hear causes me to look up. Greeting my eyes is a most magnificent cumulonimbus cloud. Fat, full and still climbing in altitude, it hurts my eyes to loop upon its brilliance reflecting the rising sun’s light. The description of Jesus’ transformation comes to mind on the mountain with Peter, James and beloved John witnessing and reporting to us. It is so dazzlingly white! I try over and over to look upon it for its brilliance transfixes one’s gaze. It is too much. Each time I must look away in pain from ocular overwhelm. The powerful reflective light is too much. Another reminder of the exquisite levels of blissful exhilarating joy, beauty and sound that await us in our heavenly home. Not yet, my soul, not yet! We have much work to do and joy to spread before to this life we are dead.
It’s time for coffee and later, for black swallow butterflies to gather the sweetness of my flowers that lift their stamens to their loving Creator and me. I offer my heart to you, Lord, this day in love and joy and gratitude for this gentle, tender, contemplative dawn so full of your masterful touches.
A red finch and I watch from my second floor deck as God’s dawn alights with the softest pastel colors on an array of bulbous clouds. Low, flat-bottomed clouds carry the blue-grays; the cumulus proudly reach their necks up to catch the later sunrays, receiving a brilliant spotlight, like tree tops peaking above early valley fog. In between, the barest of mauves and pinks gently kiss cloud surfaces, like a mother bathing a newborn, slowly lingering in enjoyment of the intimate moment. The bay’s waters ripple softly like the pattern in my shower glass door, carrying the bright whites and pastels from sky to earth in shimmering ecstasy.
The morning is full of happy birds chirping and flitting about. They gather on the bird feeder they emptied yesterday, almost as if to say, ‘Can you not see it’s empty and we’re ready to eat?’ Like a dog pushing its empty food bowl noisily around, I am reminded of a duty to perform, but not yet. It is too deliciously still. The silence is so delicate that I can hear the rapid f-f-flutter of the feathery wings of each nearby bird as it flies to its next perch. Tiny schools of fish skim the bay’s calm surface, while punctuations occur here and there from a breakfast morsel getting nibbled from some sea creature below.
The Choctawhatchie Bay stretches itself before me and I try to imagine for a moment all of the life below its surface, serenely awakening and undulating their sleek bodies through the depths and shallows.
The cypress tree stands its guard as usual, its stalagtite-like roots as sentries below it. The birds disappear securely behind its leaves, or perch momentarily on its lone peak, a leafless branch offered generously for such overviews.
Morning glories are singing silently below in the wetland area by the sea wall. I can’t wait to get to heaven to hear their melodies. Even muted, they make me smile.
Thunder greets me as a heavy-laden cloud inches its way overhead. It will pass without a drop here. Skies are mostly blue still and the wind hasn’t shown itself on the water’s surface yet. I scan the bay for signs of dolphin but no fins break its surface.
Another rumble from the thunderhead reminds me to avoid grumbling this day and maintain a peaceful inner sanctity for the benefit of those around me.
Oh my! The rumble I hear causes me to look up. Greeting my eyes is a most magnificent cumulonimbus cloud. Fat, full and still climbing in altitude, it hurts my eyes to loop upon its brilliance reflecting the rising sun’s light. The description of Jesus’ transformation comes to mind on the mountain with Peter, James and beloved John witnessing and reporting to us. It is so dazzlingly white! I try over and over to look upon it for its brilliance transfixes one’s gaze. It is too much. Each time I must look away in pain from ocular overwhelm. The powerful reflective light is too much. Another reminder of the exquisite levels of blissful exhilarating joy, beauty and sound that await us in our heavenly home. Not yet, my soul, not yet! We have much work to do and joy to spread before to this life we are dead.
It’s time for coffee and later, for black swallow butterflies to gather the sweetness of my flowers that lift their stamens to their loving Creator and me. I offer my heart to you, Lord, this day in love and joy and gratitude for this gentle, tender, contemplative dawn so full of your masterful touches.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
No words
Prayer, like love, needs no words. There are exquisite moments, silver quick and piercing, that lovers' eyes exchange. Wordless sentience flashes with laser beam intensity. Long after the flash, reverberations resonate and are replayed deep within the mind and heart and spirit.
No words are needed. There are no words for certain moments. And yet, something deep within human nature presses for expression. What is that energy that relentlessly whirls and pushes and cries out for release? A tea kettle must whistle or it will blow its lid. Food overheated in a microwave spits itself out in reaction to the intensity of over-excited molecular agitation.
Some race, some wage war, some paint, some sing, some build, some destroy, some drink, some dance, some text, some tweet. It is human nature at its core that is driven to express itself. It is the very Creator of the universe within each human being continuously expressing herself to all of creation. When stimulated, the essence of love expands. The more open one's heart, the lighter the touch necessary to trigger the reaction.
It is worth the effort to endure the pain and conflict in life that purifies our hearts, each such moment granting God access to excavate the hardness of our hearts and fill them with Her/His light. Our hearts become like Morning Glories, opening obediently, happily and lovingly to the daily dawning of the Light of the World within us.
No words are needed. There are no words for certain moments. And yet, something deep within human nature presses for expression. What is that energy that relentlessly whirls and pushes and cries out for release? A tea kettle must whistle or it will blow its lid. Food overheated in a microwave spits itself out in reaction to the intensity of over-excited molecular agitation.
Some race, some wage war, some paint, some sing, some build, some destroy, some drink, some dance, some text, some tweet. It is human nature at its core that is driven to express itself. It is the very Creator of the universe within each human being continuously expressing herself to all of creation. When stimulated, the essence of love expands. The more open one's heart, the lighter the touch necessary to trigger the reaction.
It is worth the effort to endure the pain and conflict in life that purifies our hearts, each such moment granting God access to excavate the hardness of our hearts and fill them with Her/His light. Our hearts become like Morning Glories, opening obediently, happily and lovingly to the daily dawning of the Light of the World within us.
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