It's International Women's day. I dream of the vision: the blessing of wholeness in church and world— with no -isms!
It's also Mardi Gras. I savor the grace of joy and people and look forward to Lent: the precious opportunity to be quiet and alone and know myself and Godde better so I can know and love others better.
No matter your gender or what your faith, celebrate and bless yourself.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
2011.03.09 Ashes. Ashes......
I think like an adult .... but I wonder like a child.
I thought “ashes ashes” was a nursery rhyme, a kid’s game (not about the Bubonic plague, btw)
I wondered if it were also the Wisdom of God reminding me that any minute now I could fall down and skin my knee, or more.
Today I thought . . . phone poles are dead trees put into service so we humans can gossip or call loved ones to make sure they are alive.
I wondered if the tall straight once-tree poles drew water from the well of the earth like living trees do, miraculously defying gravity one of our most precise and precious laws.
I THOUGHT on Ash Wednesday that the ashes in the small bowl were the remains of the palms from last year’s Palm Sunday— funeral reminders of great expectations gone sour. And I thought ashes were a powerful symbol to let us know we all will die unrequited in many ways.
I THOUGHT, then what?
I WONDERED if the ashes in the small cardboard box were really my father, at last all contained and right there to scoop up into the palms of my hands, kiss goodbye, and toss once more into the waiting hole in the damp ground.
I WONDERED, then what?
I THOUGHT Lent was a somber but not depressing time, just to stop and reflect, maybe learn a thing or two about what to do differently the next time you . . ., or he . . ., or they . . ., or it . . .
I WONDERED if Lent were really 40 days of Jesus’ starving and praying and wasting away in the desert wilderness without his Mom and Dad or any friends to love, stuck alone with an invisible God he began to call Abba.
I THOUGHT that was a crucible of unnecessary proportions for a very good man.
I WONDERED if that was why my small grandson insisted on having his door open at night, wide open to house light and moonlight, to escape, to give an opening for the sound of his voice should it call out, or to the sound of his Daddy’s footsteps running toward his open door.
I thought “ashes ashes” was a nursery rhyme, a kid’s game (not about the Bubonic plague, btw)
I wondered if it were also the Wisdom of God reminding me that any minute now I could fall down and skin my knee, or more.
Today I thought . . . phone poles are dead trees put into service so we humans can gossip or call loved ones to make sure they are alive.
I wondered if the tall straight once-tree poles drew water from the well of the earth like living trees do, miraculously defying gravity one of our most precise and precious laws.
I THOUGHT on Ash Wednesday that the ashes in the small bowl were the remains of the palms from last year’s Palm Sunday— funeral reminders of great expectations gone sour. And I thought ashes were a powerful symbol to let us know we all will die unrequited in many ways.
I THOUGHT, then what?
I WONDERED if the ashes in the small cardboard box were really my father, at last all contained and right there to scoop up into the palms of my hands, kiss goodbye, and toss once more into the waiting hole in the damp ground.
I WONDERED, then what?
I THOUGHT Lent was a somber but not depressing time, just to stop and reflect, maybe learn a thing or two about what to do differently the next time you . . ., or he . . ., or they . . ., or it . . .
I WONDERED if Lent were really 40 days of Jesus’ starving and praying and wasting away in the desert wilderness without his Mom and Dad or any friends to love, stuck alone with an invisible God he began to call Abba.
I THOUGHT that was a crucible of unnecessary proportions for a very good man.
I WONDERED if that was why my small grandson insisted on having his door open at night, wide open to house light and moonlight, to escape, to give an opening for the sound of his voice should it call out, or to the sound of his Daddy’s footsteps running toward his open door.
Monday, March 7, 2011
2011.03.07 Reflection on Well Being
How does the phrase "my well being depends on your well being" sound? It's one of those snaky half truths. Fine, until you stop to think that it's a child's point of view, a child’s truth.
Substitute "is enhanced by" for "depends" and you have a whole truth:
My well being is enhanced by your well being.
(You think on such things when you get older and fear for your partner’s well being—and yours.)
Substitute "is enhanced by" for "depends" and you have a whole truth:
My well being is enhanced by your well being.
(You think on such things when you get older and fear for your partner’s well being—and yours.)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
2011.03.02 Serenity Prayer for Today—and Tomorrow
Today's version of the Serenity Prayer, aka Lyn trapped in a den and din of words, trying to sort, sift, order, disorder, love and hate—and all in order to write an intimate letter to strangers! (That’s what writer Pico Iyer called writing and I call memoir writing.) Sheesh.
God, grant me the serenity to hate my life
the courage to love what I hate
and the wisdom to know the goddamn difference.
AMEN
God, grant me the serenity to hate my life
the courage to love what I hate
and the wisdom to know the goddamn difference.
AMEN
Sunday, February 27, 2011
2011.02.27 Your Preferred Spiritual Posture
IF you saw and really believed that God by whatever name you call Her suddenly appeared in the flesh and stood before you smiling would you:
fall on your face prostrate before the grandeur of God?
jump for joy, toss boundaries out the window, and rush into His open arms?
bow your head and create a little steepled “church,” hands in prayer-pose
drop to your knees in reverence?
smile in return, cock your head, and wait?
drop to one knee and genuflect as you speedily cross yourself?
burst into song?
turn and run?
shout OMG! and open your arms?
head for the “hills?”
Your body doesn’t lie. It usually leads the way. What is your preferred spiritual posture, the way your body responds before you think too much?
OK...... so many of you, especially if you are Anglo-Episcopalians, will say, “It depends...” On what? Your mood? The weather? What your neighbor will see if she’s looking out the window? Your actual physical capacity?
I learned this wisdom long ago and didn’t trust it, because I thought I had more control, and I told myself I behaved differently with God than with my neighbors:
HOW YOU STAND BEFORE OTHER PEOPLE IS HOW YOU STAND BEFORE GOD.
Check it out.
fall on your face prostrate before the grandeur of God?
jump for joy, toss boundaries out the window, and rush into His open arms?
bow your head and create a little steepled “church,” hands in prayer-pose
drop to your knees in reverence?
smile in return, cock your head, and wait?
drop to one knee and genuflect as you speedily cross yourself?
burst into song?
turn and run?
shout OMG! and open your arms?
head for the “hills?”
Your body doesn’t lie. It usually leads the way. What is your preferred spiritual posture, the way your body responds before you think too much?
OK...... so many of you, especially if you are Anglo-Episcopalians, will say, “It depends...” On what? Your mood? The weather? What your neighbor will see if she’s looking out the window? Your actual physical capacity?
I learned this wisdom long ago and didn’t trust it, because I thought I had more control, and I told myself I behaved differently with God than with my neighbors:
HOW YOU STAND BEFORE OTHER PEOPLE IS HOW YOU STAND BEFORE GOD.
Check it out.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
2011.02.23 Wisdom for Writers
You sit before a blank computer screen all lit up and ready for you to come on stage. You decide to get a cup of coffee. It’s your third attempt to jumpstart yourself.
You return to your seat and stare into the blank white wilderness, which is not sand or snow, but page.
You are a writer. You are full of ideas and hopes, determination and resilience, creativity and vulnerability.
Suddenly an idea comes flying across your mental screen. “I write most eloquently when I write about grief.” You write that down. You wonder if it is a truism. Can it count for universal?
Who writes about joy? It’s too boring. Too much like Eden. No wonder Eve and Adam broke out. Another thought occurs to you: “Freedom is joyous and a very hard ethic.”
Then you remember a phrase in a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer. It’s one of the closing prayers in the service of Compline said at the end of a day just before sleep.
“Shield the joyous.”
It wraps up a series of petitions: “comfort the afflicted,” “give rest to the weary,” “soothe the dying.”
Then, “... shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen.”
Unbidden tears blur your view of the page. You remember your mother’s forced joyfulness, her many uncried tears you longed to see and share.
You begin to write about your mother’s locked heart. You write your tears into words.
You are a writer writing—and all for the sake of love.
You return to your seat and stare into the blank white wilderness, which is not sand or snow, but page.
You are a writer. You are full of ideas and hopes, determination and resilience, creativity and vulnerability.
Suddenly an idea comes flying across your mental screen. “I write most eloquently when I write about grief.” You write that down. You wonder if it is a truism. Can it count for universal?
Who writes about joy? It’s too boring. Too much like Eden. No wonder Eve and Adam broke out. Another thought occurs to you: “Freedom is joyous and a very hard ethic.”
Then you remember a phrase in a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer. It’s one of the closing prayers in the service of Compline said at the end of a day just before sleep.
“Shield the joyous.”
It wraps up a series of petitions: “comfort the afflicted,” “give rest to the weary,” “soothe the dying.”
Then, “... shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen.”
Unbidden tears blur your view of the page. You remember your mother’s forced joyfulness, her many uncried tears you longed to see and share.
You begin to write about your mother’s locked heart. You write your tears into words.
You are a writer writing—and all for the sake of love.
Friday, February 18, 2011
2011.02.18 All Sacred, Yes?
Churches have a practice called de-consecration of sanctuaries that will close and likely be used for another purpose. There is a gathering of mourners probably, a bishop and a rite with prayers, etc.
I’ve never been to one of these events but today they are popular given the fact that there are many parishes in moribund states—alas.
As one who had a natural bent from childhood to consecrate stuff, and as a priest of the Eucharist, I think it odd to de-consecrate anything.
Do we imagine that we control the presence of holiness? Do we think holiness comes and goes at the wave of a hand? Do we think a secular use for a space will make it not sacred unholy?
Why not leave the building in its consecrated state and leave it to the Divine Spirit to inspire new occupants (condo owners?) or to resurrect life even after a wrecking ball comes?
(In this post there is a clue to the where is God in this “divine story” I posted just days ago. Perhaps God was in the DNR decision? Do we strive for life at all costs even if our efforts are loving?)
I’ve never been to one of these events but today they are popular given the fact that there are many parishes in moribund states—alas.
As one who had a natural bent from childhood to consecrate stuff, and as a priest of the Eucharist, I think it odd to de-consecrate anything.
Do we imagine that we control the presence of holiness? Do we think holiness comes and goes at the wave of a hand? Do we think a secular use for a space will make it not sacred unholy?
Why not leave the building in its consecrated state and leave it to the Divine Spirit to inspire new occupants (condo owners?) or to resurrect life even after a wrecking ball comes?
(In this post there is a clue to the where is God in this “divine story” I posted just days ago. Perhaps God was in the DNR decision? Do we strive for life at all costs even if our efforts are loving?)
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