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Tuesday, April 15, 2014

“Unless you become as a child…”

by Paul Hettinga

Psalm 121:“I lift my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

Does my help come from the hills, or the sunset beyond the hills or the waves stretching out to the horizon? What is it about looking off to the hills or up into the sky at night or at a sunset on the beach at Nuevo Vallarta that attracts us? Or more to the point; inspires us, humbles us, puts us into a broader perspective of our place in the world around us. As I lay on the beach last month in Nuevo Vallarta I spent hours gazing at the waves, the ocean, the sky; watched the sea birds gliding, hunting, catching and eating only to repeat their cycle. I stood on the balcony looking off to the mountains to the south, the ocean to the west and watched the Iguana’s bask in the sun in the tree branches across from our deck. There were times when I lost myself in the looking…my mind wandering off into space someplace without much focus on anything and losing all sense of time and place.

I can remember as a child fishing with my dad in the bayous around Grand Haven, Michigan where I had similar experiences. I would lay face down with my head actually hanging over the bow on the deck of our little fishing boat as my dad drove it through the waves on our way to his favorite fishing spot. As I lay there watching the boat cut through the waves I would start seeing through the surface of the waves and instead of seeing the waves, I saw what appeared to me as the bottom of the bayou. It was as if the water disappeared and we were magically flying over the terrain beneath us unsupported by anything. I can still picture this and get that same feeling today as I remember this. I can remember ‘losing myself in that looking’ as well. It was as if all other reality was left behind and I was flying / floating in this imaginary world.

As you read this I hope that you are reminded of similar experiences in which you left the other realities of your life to touch, experience, connect and get lost in…if only for a moment. There is a kind of childlike transcendence in these moments.

Jesus consistently pointed to children to teach us how to understand and experience his new and coming Kingdom. “Unless you become as a child…” is a phrase that most of us know and to some degree understand, yet it is counter intuitive to the culture we live in. We live in a world of intelligence, science, reasoning, hard work, success and power - not exactly the attributes of childlikeness. Our success in this world is too often accomplished only through our devotion to the lifestyle contained within those words. Yet, as people who draw much of our identity from beyond, sometimes we long for more.

Take time to regularly find a beach or a balcony or a lake or the deck off the back of your house or your office window or a park with tree’s and sky, and look off into the nothingness beyond to imagine the God beyond all this - to sense the spirit of God, the creator, the sustainer and the finisher of all. Imagine for a moment that you are captured in that reality that is beyond. Become childlike in these ways for just a moment and you might find yourself leaning into that which is beyond words, beyond accurate description but yet has the power to transform our sometimes ordinary lives into the extraordinary reality that God imagined for us in our mother’s womb.

 Psalm 139:13-16 MSG
"Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration—what a creation! You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; you know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, the days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day." 

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Prayer for the Stories We Remember

by Angier Brock

In the late sixties, I attended a small women’s liberal arts college at which faculty members were nearly always accessible to students—and sometimes a little quirky. One, a crusty old bachelor named Dr. Brice, sometimes introduced a riddle into the middle of a lecture, promising “extra credit” to the first student who solved it. Here’s an example: Two perfectly preserved human bodies are found in a cave. You are able to identify them immediately. Who are they, and how do you know? 

One evening, a classmate and I were eating at The Elbow Room, a hamburger hangout a few blocks from our dorm. As we finished supper, I jumped up exclaiming, “I know! I know! Come on!”  Mystified but willing, she dashed with me to Dr. Brice’s apartment. He invited us in. I had gotten it right! (The answer is in the next-to-the last paragraph below.)   

All this is according to my classmate, who recounted the story last weekend at our 45th class reunion. For my part, I have no memory of it. I suggested that she had me mixed up with someone else. No, she insisted. She was certain I was the one.

Shared memories are amazing. There were some things that all of us attending our reunion could recall without question—though some of us had slightly different versions of the same event. Sometimes we could piece together a whole story by pooling fragments of what we remembered. Sometimes even combining shards of memories could not fill in all of what happened. Occasionally a specific memory could be unearthed or confirmed by memorabilia preserved in a scrapbook for four and a half decades. Sometimes—as in the story of Dr. Brice and the riddle—we simply had to trust our classmates’ memories. In each case, however, a rich and generous goodness came from our sharing. Speaking our memories helped us see ourselves and others more clearly and with more compassion. Reflecting on our memories brought us a greater understanding of who we were then and who we are becoming now.

In the coming weeks, as Christians observe Palm Sunday, Holy Week, and Easter, and Jews observe Passover, some of the world’s most treasured memories of shared experiences will be shared in families, churches, and synagogues around the globe. Like those of my college classmates, those memories (and fragments of memories) sometimes differ slightly in how they recollect an event. They nevertheless have become stories we tell and re-tell, for they help us see ourselves and one another with compassion and appreciation. They help us understand our experiences. We hold them as sacred.

Memories of our own lives can be sacred, too. The story of Dr. Brice and the riddle? I’m still wondering why I didn’t remember it, but I delight in its return to me. The story reminds me of the goodness and generosity of that time. It gives me a sense of continuity between how my mind worked then and how it works now. It makes me feel seen and valued by the friend who held that story all these years. It gives me a sense of gratitude for her having shared it (particularly as she shared the answer to the riddle as well: Adam and Eve. Because neither had a belly button). It is a memory I will cherish, even as I consider to ponder it.  

In what stories of shared life or faith do you experience affirmation? Which of your memories feel sacred to you? Can you ask someone to remind you of a piece of your story you may have forgotten? Are you holding a memory of someone else’s story that it is now time to return to that person? Whatever the stories you remember or tell or hear in the weeks to come, may you find in them rich and varied blessings. 

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

A Wider Lens

by Doug Wysockey-Johnson

Here is what I notice about myself:  the busier I get, the narrower my focus.  The narrower my focus, the fewer people I think about, care about, or pray for.  It is a little like the definition of sin I learned back in 7th grade:  Sin is turning in on yourself. 

In our retreats on call, I often speak of the importance of saying no, clearing space, and pruning.  I do not believe that we are all called to care for everything and everyone.  I also believe that self care is critical to following a call.  But all to often I feel my focus narrowing to the point where functionally, it is all about me.

In this poem by Lumunos blogger Alice Ling, I hear an invitation to widen my lens in order to see the impact of my actions on others:

just back from a walk
my feet wet, hands cold
glasses in search of wipers
on the brink of a whimper
I remember the disturbingly dry land
craving this long, cool, refreshing drink
I revel in sparkling snowflake powder
ravishing beauty, snowshoe paradise
as my stomach churns
with thoughts of the hairpin turns
on snow packed dirt roads
I must navigate at day’s end
rarely can I have it both ways
cheap food likely means someone is underpaid
life supporting irrigation equipment drains
fish habitat and fisherman’s playground
upscale housing distributes eviction notices
to deer, moose,  families barely holding on
it’s not all about me
my comforts or convenience
I can never know the reach of ripples
set in motion by my life
but I can look through a wider lens
choose from a deeper heart

For many of us, Lent is a time to focus a bit more on our spiritual life.  Some give up something that is not healthy, spiritual or otherwise.  Others chose to take on a practice that might open their hearts more fully to God.  I’m going to try this one for a few days.  I’m going to see what happens when I widen my focus, and attempt to see the impact of my actions.  My hunch is there will be an “ouch” or two in there. But I hope also a deeper heart, more open to God’s presence in the world. 

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Be at peace

by Tom Pappas

Pastor Jen started me thinking on Ash Wednesday with the question, “Have you decided to do a Lenten discipline?” We were at a local coffee shop where she had made arrangements to impose ashes for people who approached her table. (It was nicely done.) I presented my forehead at about 8:30 and was her sixth sign of the cross.

Her question prompted me to a possible awkward moment where I had nothing to say because I hadn’t really given it much thought. (I don’t lead the way on this planning ahead phenomenon.) But I defied awkwardness this time and we segued into a discussion of previous Lents with the coffee incident of ’84. That was memorable.

She asked me to read Psalm 32, which I present here from The Message.

 Count yourself lucky, how happy you must be—
    you get a fresh start,
    your slate’s wiped clean.
Count yourself lucky—
    God holds nothing against you
    and you’re holding nothing back from him.
When I kept it all inside,
    my bones turned to powder,
    my words became daylong groans.
The pressure never let up;
    all the juices of my life dried up.
Then I let it all out;
    I said, “I’ll make a clean breast of my failures to God.”
    Suddenly the pressure was gone—
    my guilt dissolved,
    my sin disappeared.
These things add up. Every one of us needs to pray;
    when all hell breaks loose and the dam bursts
    we’ll be on high ground, untouched.
God’s my island hideaway,
    keeps danger far from the shore,
    throws garlands of hosannas around my neck.
Let me give you some good advice;
    I’m looking you in the eye
    and giving it to you straight:
“Don’t be ornery like a horse or mule
    that needs bit and bridle
    to stay on track.”
10 God-defiers are always in trouble;
    God-affirmers find themselves loved
    every time they turn around.
11 Celebrate God.
    Sing together—everyone!
    All you honest hearts, raise the roof!

Something happened.

I became aware of a seething anger in me that had to be dealt with. Oddly, as I re-read it, nothing in this passage connects today with the words with which I will describe as my Lenten Discipline. But I know God used the passage and the pastor to work with me.

I am was mad at politicians, who put party above the common good. I am was mad fellow humans who live their extravagant lives as if what they consume and/or waste today doesn’t matter for all of us tomorrow. I am was at Christians who hate in the name of God. I am was mad at world events. I am was mad.

Somehow the words “Peace” and “Peacemaker” came to me. I committed to be at peace, and be a peacemaker where I could.

So far, I continue to NOT be mad in this second week of Lent. I have been at peace and am looking to every situation for Christ’s way to be a peacemaker.

Be at peace yourself.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Tender and Strong

by Lauren Van Ham

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

Matthew 19:14, NIV

It crept up on me, the effect of what was happening.  Tears were wetting my cheeks before I understood why I was so moved.  I was watching the South African singing ensemble, Ladysmith Black Mambazo.  For thirty minutes or more they’d been singing a series of simple, looping melodies, layered with the buttery harmonies and rhythms of their blended voices alone.  No other instruments, no fancy costumes.  Just nine men, standing side-by-side and singing….and occasionally, dancing – a simple swaying movement, a little jump, perhaps, and then, giggling.  Yes, giggling!  Nudging and joking with one another playfully.  The throng of these men, standing and singing with passion and joy, was unquestionably masculine and strong.  They exuded presence and confident leadership.  Their voices, solo and united, were commanding.  And their playful interaction with one another was refreshingly innocent, free from competition or any “poking fun at,” for the sake of a cheap win.

That’s when I got it – the powerful image of male energy, strong AND tender…. and how, in the Western world, it’s not modeled much.  It’s not limited to males, I suppose.  Afterall, as a female, I use a lot of my masculine energy to “push” through the world.  But it isn’t the only way, is it?

Years ago, when I was in India, I visited a shop where the shop-keeper had two posters on the wall behind him. On the left was Mahatma Gandhi, bare-chested and at his most frail.  On the right was Arnold Schwarzenegger, also bare-chested and wrapped in ammunition.  “Tell me about this,” I invited, gesturing to the posters.  The shop owner smiled and with an Indian nod explained, “Both strong men.  Different reasons.”


It is the second week of Lent, a period of spiritual discipline and determination.  It strikes me that the 40 days before Easter are an invitation to watch for and live with strength and tenderness.  A few examples….

The daffodils bravely pushing their way through the not-quite melted snow
The life of man who over-turned tables in a temple, and welcomed children to his side
A message that there is a love that is stronger even than death; a love that offers miraculous, sustaining hope to us all.

During Lent we are encouraged to give up or take on certain practices so that we might better appreciate the dimensions of Jesus’ willing sacrifice.  Certainly, if this is undertaken with a sense of martyrdom, we’ve missed the point.  The fine balance in our Lenten routines might then be to find strength in our resolve and joy (tenderness) in our effort.  What does this look like for you?  How, in your life, with your family, at your work, do you experience your strength and your tenderness?

About Lauren: Lauren lives in Berkeley, CA.  She serves as Dean at The Chaplaincy Institute (ChI), an interfaith seminary and tends her private practice as a spiritual director.  You can read Lauren’s blog at: http://www.laurenvanham.com/

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Prayer for the Choices We Make

At the Tupelo Hardware Store on Main Street in Tupelo, Mississippi, you can walk through the very door a ten-year old Elvis Presley walked through with his mother Gladys in 1945. (In the photo, it’s the one on the right.) You can stand on the very spot, or close to it, where he stood at the cash register while his mother bought his first guitar. I recently did that, not because I am much of an Elvis fan, but because I happened to be passing through Tupelo, the hardware store was there, and I had time to let my curiosity lead me in.

I was glad I made the stop. The place remains a wonderful active hardware store boasting, among other things, over two thousand lawn mower blades. Opened in 1925 and currently third-generation owned, the old-fashioned building boasts a lofty first-floor ceiling, sliding access ladders along the side walls, and sturdy wooden cabinetry and floor fixtures with dove-tailed drawer after drawer full of nails, screws, bolts, washers, and such.  

And I got to hear in situ The Story of How Elvis Got His First Guitar, which goes like this: Elvis and his mother had originally set out for the Tupelo Hardware Store not to get a guitar but to get a bicycle. When they arrived, however, and stood at the place where today an “X” is taped to the floor, Elvis spotted a .22 caliber rifle in a case behind the counter. He promptly lost interest in the bike, fixing his heart instead on the gun. His mother responded with a firm No. The young-and-future King pouted. Discussion ensued. In the end, a compromise: Elvis left the Tupelo Hardware store with neither a bicycle nor a gun—but with a guitar.

Wow, I thought, trying to take in The Story’s implications. What if Elvis had never gotten that guitar? The question makes for interesting speculation, as does a second one: What if more of us did as he did and chose guitars over guns? We can only imagine.  

On a less revisionist scale, the story invites us to consider our own choices—not just past ones (from which we still may have something to learn) but current ones, too. The choices we face today, this week, this month may not be the kind we expect to have life-changing implications for us, let alone for the entire future of rock and roll. Then again….

Each day we make dozens of choices: What to wear, what to eat, which route to take to work or school or the gym—or whether to go to the gym at all. How to pray, and for whom—or whether to pray at all. What to spend, what to give away. What words to use in speaking with those we live with, work with, meet along the way. What to do in our spare time.

Lent, which begins this week, calls us to reflect on the things we choose: bicycle? gun? guitar? It invites us to consider what factors influence our choices: predetermined ideas? in-the-moment impulses? inner (or outer) Gladys-type guides?

Lent also nudges us into a liturgical space in which we can choose to observe a particular spiritual practice over the coming weeks. If we choose wisely, who knows? Even a small and seemingly insignificant choice may affect us—and our world—more than we can imagine.  

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

My Cathedral of Ice

by Paul Hettinga

Like so many other mornings, this morning I woke, grabbed a hot cup of coffee and went to sit down in my favorite chair to read, reflect, pray a little and generally try to be available to meet God in my own contrived ways. This morning however, I was delighted with the scene shown below. So simple - yet for me profoundly beautiful.  I stood looking at it with my coffee cooling for at least 3 or 4 minutes, which for me is an eternity. Then I snapped this quick picture - sat down to start the process of ‘meeting’ God in my chair with my own “Ice Cathedral” just outside the window.

I sold my company and began retiring from full time work on Jan 1st of this year. I have hopes that I will use this time to ask God what’s next for me…who does he want me to be in the later years of my life? Should I just assume to continue to be who I have been all those working years - retirement simply being a different place to be the person I was before? Or is there a new - generally undiscovered me within, that God would love to reveal to me? I’ve jokingly asked “So, who am I going to be when I grow up? 

Well, guess what: this is tougher than I thought. While I’m only about 6 weeks into it, I can see that I’ve hardly begun the journey so far. Partly, that’s due to some complications with the sale of the company, partly due to some family matters that I’m attending to but mostly, it's due to ‘ME'. ‘ME' is still in the center of the process and as long as that’s the case, it’s going to be tough for me to stop being ME long enough to sense the presence of GOD. I read, I write, I reflect and yet it’s all ME doing this. I intuitively know that silence and being in his presence is probably more to the task. Yet, this creates a kind of uncomfortable insecurity deep within me. I’ve got to get up, think, write in my journal; i.e. take control - be decisive - do something! 

Is it possible to stop centering around ME, and not feel so insecure? I recognize that many of the thoughts and behaviors that I dislike in myself come from this place of insecurity so I usually run from it pretty quickly. But perhaps insecurity of this sort might be a good place to start from on this spiritual journey. Being insecure enough in my own strengths, ideas, feelings, in me, might just create the kind of space where I can sense and be enveloped in God’s quiet presence right in the middle of my day - right where I am. 

Kind of like sensing the beauty of an icicle that’s been hanging outside my window for a couple weeks now. Today was the first day I really ‘saw’ it - so maybe my journey has just begun.