Some Advent Reflections (1)

Dec 2, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

In the spirit of Advent – the beginning of the church year – I decided to begin something (again): I went to church.

Not having been on a Sunday morning for nearly a year, it was an odd yet very familiar and comfortable experience. I saw many faces I recognized, most of which I haven’t seen for a long time. I sang songs I recognized, most of which I haven’t heard for a long time. I felt home…even though this particular community of faith is new for me.

This morning felt like an appropriate start for Advent – the season of beginnings, of anticipation, of expectation of God’s coming, of God’s longed-for presence. Though my theology tells me that God is with me whether I ever darken the door of a church or not, there was something right and good about knowing Emmanuel (God with us) in a sanctuary with candles, bread and wine, music, and others. I’m grateful.

But wait, there’s more…

I’ve been thinking about the acknowledgement and celebration of Advent as a discipline for myself this year. Perhaps going to church this morning sparked that reality; nevertheless, it’s my desire and intent to be able to post some reflections using the daily texts (though I’ll extend myself enough grace here at the outset to acknowledge that I may not get to this every day…).

So, I begin.

Sunday, December 2 Scripture Readings:
Psalm 111, Amos 1:1-5, 13-2:8, 1 Thess. 5:1-11, Luke 21:5-19

With the exception of the Psalm, these are some scary verses – all doom and gloom, warnings of God’s wrath, and projections of what life will be like at the end of all things. In the Old Testament reading we hear words of anger, war, judgment, fire, exile, battle cries, much harm to pregnant women. In 1 Thessalonians, Paul speaks of the Lord coming like a thief in the night and…again with the pregnant woman
language…with destruction coming on people suddenly as labor pains on a pregnant woman. And in Luke, Jesus speaks of nations rising against nations, of being betrayed by family and friends, of being hated.

Not really the messages we like to read – especially in a season filled with happy Christmas carols, jolly Santa’s, twinkling lights, and present purchasing.

What are these passages about? Why the first readings of Advent? What are they trying to say?

These verses, in many ways, articulated the reality that people already knew. The Israelites had been waiting for deliverance, for their Messiah, for a very long time. They knew much about God’s anger, judgment, and the experience of exile. In such a state wouldn’t one anticipate and long for God-with-us, Emmanuel even more passionately? Wouldn’t advent be a beginning deeply hungered for? And in Paul’s day, a church in early beginnings, fits and starts, and much persecution, wouldn’t the be hungry for a message that reminded them that the Divine was yet to come; to be alert and on the watch for God-with-us, Emmanuel? As Jesus prepared his disciples for his imminent departure, would they not hunger for the signs that would let them know that he was going to return; that God-with-us, Emmanuel would come and reign?

Advent: a season of anticipation.

Advent: a season of acknowledging what is – in our fear, in our disappointment, in our dashed expectations, in our tired-of-waiting state.

Advent: a season of hungering for more – for God-with-us, Emmanuel.

In the midst of what is we can take heart. We can encourage one another. We need not worry. We will be cared for. We need not fear. We can stand firm. That is good news. That is, indeed, God-with-us, Emmanuel.

Choosing the Storm

Mar 6, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I’ve been thinking a lot about how strong my proclivity is for calm; for a life that is tame, sedate, and predictable. 

Somehow, I’ve gotten the notion into my head that surely God’s desire for me would be a life of comfort and ease. God’s protection and promised presence would surely look like secure relationships, finances, profession, retirement, future…

I’m aware that at least in part, this incessant and often subconscious demand has come about by growing up and living in Western theology and culture that tells me I not only can, but deserve to have it all and that this is what God wants for me too. Even though I know that this is a lie, it’s hard to shake. I find myself asking questions like, “Can’t things just be easy?” “Can’t my life go the way I want it to?” “Why does life often feel like such a struggle?” 

And then I begin to wonder: if God were to answer these questions the way I want (translate: by granting me a perfect, conflict-free life) who would that god be? Surely not the God I know from Scripture. 

Who is that God? 

It’s the God who sleeps in the storm: 

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were lled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41) 

This is not a tame, sedate, predictable story. This is not a tame, sedate, predictable God. And the natural question to follow: Why would I anticipate my life to be such if this is the God with whom I’m in relationship? 

I’ll admit it: I’m somewhat afraid to let this narrative (and nearly every other one found in the pages of the Bible) define my God or shape my life. If I chose to reflect on, believe in, and live by this image of God – a God who was nonplussed in a treacherous storm – who might I become? That potential – to be like that God – dangerous, risky, not afraid – is more than I often want to imagine or bear…but not in the ways you might think. 

The following two quotes speak beautifully to what it might be like, at least in part, to let the images and stories of scripture define my God…define my life: 

Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are. (Don Miguel Ruiz) 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. (Marianne Williamson) 

Ultimately, the disciples’ fear is not about either death or being inadequate. The disciples’ fear is over what to do with a God who can sleep through such a storm, who can choose to calm it, who has dangerous, unquenchable, beyond-imagining power. Who might they become if they really understood, believed in, and followed this guy? 

And like the disciples, our fear is not really over what might happen to us, what might overtake us, what storms might bluster and blow. Our fear is of who we might actually be if we believed in this God of Mark 4, this God of the Bible. Our fear is that we might actually have to let the wind blow; that we might just have to let go of our incessant demand for a life of ease – and the all-too-familiar comfort of doubting God’s faithfulness when things don’t go our way (or God seems to be asleep). We might actually have to get wet! 

I think, maybe, that’s what I want… 

Maybe – by Mary Oliver 

Sweet Jesus, talking 
his melancholy madness, 
stood up in the boat 
and the sea lay down,
silky and sorry. 
So everybody was saved 
that night. 

But you know how it is 
when something 
different crosses 
the threshold—the uncles 
mutter together, 
the women walk away, 
the younger brother begins 
to sharpen his knife. 

Nobody knows what the soul is. 
It comes and goes 
Like wind over the water— 
Sometimes, for days, 
you don’t think of it. 

Maybe, after the sermon, 
after the multitude was fed, 
one or two of them felt 
the soul slip forth 
like a tremor of pure sunlight 
before exhaustion, 
that wants to swallow everything, 
gripped their bones and left them 
miserable and sleepy, 
as they are now, forgetting 
how the wind tore at the sails 
before he rose and talked to it— 
tender and luminous and demanding 
as he always was— 
a thousand times more frightening 
than the killer sea. 

No, I’m certain of it: this is the God I want to follow – tender, luminous and demanding, a thousand times more frightening than the killer sea. 

This is the God I want to reflect. This is the life I want to live: choosing the storm.

Tiptoeing

Feb 24, 2007 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I can’t tell you how tired I am of tiptoeing; of having to navigate through so many potential landmines that I feel I’ve traversed twice the distance required to get to my destination.

Why do I do this? Why do any of us? 

I sat at a conference today that was really not good. I’m being kind: it was horrible. And I needed to be there. It was important that I represent my employer, that I pick up my nametag and packet of information, that I check off the appropriate attendance box. What I wanted to do was stomp and scream and make a scene. But I didn’t. I tiptoed. 

I got an email today that implicitly asked me to tiptoe instead of stomp and scream. And so I did. I actually walked through a mine field and dismantled any hidden bombs so that others wouldn’t inadvertently get hurt. And as I tiptoed, I felt small, squelched, silenced. 

I could articulate all the details, but more than anything, I’m aware of how much ruckus is created when one attempts to walk firmly, boldly, even loudly into areas that most would prefer remain hidden and quiet: feedback on poorly conceived and run conferences, needed conversation about issues of gender and women in leadership, asking for shared participation and repentance in stories of harm… 

Tiptoeing is usually seen as a delicate and endearing way of remaining unheard and undetected; like a small child who wants to surprise a parent with a hug or a handmade card. I know that kind of tiptoeing, too. But today all I want to do is put on my loudest, heaviest, bulkiest shoes and stomp, stomp, stomp. I want my thoughts, feelings, motives, and heart to be heard and understood. And I don’t want to have to gather up all the potential landmines first. 

It’s late and I’m tired. Too much tiptoeing today. I might try stomping through tomorrow…not second guessing my every step but trusting that I know where I’m going and that I can actually get there without getting blown up.

Choose Life

Feb 22, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I spent a couple of lovely hours with a young woman this morning who asked me what I thought about spiritual oppression.

“Do you think that the deep insecurity I feel, the fear of saying what I most know to be true, the anxiety over how others will perceive or understand me could be spiritual oppression?”

This is a paraphrase of her story, her words, her experience, but it captures what I hardly believe to be unique to her. 

What does it mean for us to truly believe – and act upon – what we feel and hear deep within ourselves? What do we do when we can anticipate – far ahead of time – how others will respond to our “truth” or our actions? How do we quiet the voices that tell us it is better to remain silent, behind the scenes, hidden, adaptive? And how do we honor the deeper voice that tells us we are beautiful, strong, wise, gifted, powerful, worth hearing? Not easy questions. And they are familiar questions that are imbedded deep within our souls – particularly as women. 

My spiritual director has often said to me, “Ronna, what God offers and invites is always life. Do the questions (and their answers) with which you struggle bring you life or death? If the latter, they are not of God. Choose life!” 

As I listened to this woman this morning I wondered what her life would bring: what realms of ministry, relationship, struggle and hope will she step into? What will her questions invite both in her own choices, as well as in the lives of others? How will she totally change her world – and the world around her – by choosing life, over and over again, no matter the cost? I believe that this is what God wants of and for each of us: changing our own world and the world around us by choosing life – no matter the cost. Splitting the world open… 

“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.” Muriel Rukeyser 

Whose Story Am I In?

Jan 21, 2007 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I just finished writing this entire post, went to read through it from the beginning before hitting “publish,” and lost the whole thing. That somehow seems appropriate given the subject matter… 

I’ve been reading Genesis this month. I’m attempting to stick with the plan and get through the entire Bible in 2007. This morning I must have read 2/3 of Genesis, which gives you an idea of how far behind I am already. If you must know…I should be to Exodus 14 by today. ‘Got a ways to go. 

Anyway, as I’ve been reading I’ve been struck by the endless drama and ever-present crisis that seems to be in the midst of someone’s narrative nearly all the time. It feels familiar, certainly within the text, but also in my own life. 

What am I to do with this text; this collection of stories that seem to be about particular people (and are, of course, to some extent) but are really about God? What do their stories – filled with such drama and crisis tell me about this God?

For one thing, this God is not so concerned with individual plot twists and turns; mistakes and foibles and minutae that are constantly creating such messes. That’s comforting. This God is weaving a much larger story that inculcates individual stories but is far more redemptive, passionate and powerful than any one story could possibly be. Comforting, yes – but also a bit disconcerting. 

Frankly, I want my story to be the one in which God is a part, not the other way around. Seems like if that were true, then drama and crisis and pain and struggle wouldn’t have to be the experience du jour, but instead, peace and calm and ease and freedom. Apparently that’s not the way it works – for anyone in the Biblical text or for me. 

Perhaps it’s the very reality that I want things the other way around that creates the drama and crisis in the first place. 

Will I let my life be a part of God’s story? Will I allow my own drama and crises to be evidence of God’s grace, kindness, redemption, and love? Will I rest and breathe deeply in the reality that my story doesn’t have to be the be-all, end-all? Will I allow the plot twists and turns I experience on a daily basis become the gentle (and sometimes bellowing) call to a larger story, to God’s story, of which my narrative is a part? 

In my best moments I don’t want to be in charge of my story…not really. Sure, I’d like to have not lost my previously typed blog text (even though it was nothing like what I’ve now written). But I want rest and peace far more than control. I want to know that the drama and crisis of my life are not the end of things; that the God who loves stories, certainly those in the Biblical text, but also mine, is writing, directing, and producing a story that is far bigger, better, and more beautiful than I could imagine or dream. That is comforthing. I will rest…maybe after I’ve read a few more chapters yet tonight.

I Am This Woman

Oct 1, 2006 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I wrote what follows for the women’s event, Conversations (mentioned in my last post). As the days have progressed I’ve marinated in these two realities and wondered – even more than when I wrote them – how they might be true for me. 

In the first chapter of Proverbs, a series of verses appear that speak about wisdom – wisdom described as feminine. 

Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. At the busiest corner she cries out; at the entrance of the city gates she speaks…Proverbs 1:20-21 

What if “wisdom” at the city gates is not just the use of the feminine pronoun, a descriptive metaphor, but really me?

As a woman in leadership, this image feels more than familiar. I often feel on the outside. I’m near the city and can even see what’s inside, but I’m not ever let completely in. I often speak, raise my voice, and yes, even cry out; but am not heard.

And I know that I am wise – not in metaphor, but in reality. From my on-the-edges viewpoint I see different things than those inside. From where I sit, and sometimes stand, I hear different things than those inside. From where I live, work, and love I experience different things (personally, institutionally, relationally) than those inside. These sights, sounds, and experiences gift me with wisdom.

It’s a painful reality: growth and beauty coming from misunderstanding, exclusion, and pain. Will I continue to cry out? Will I continue to speak, hear, and act in (and as) wisdom? Will I continue to raise my voice in ways that call others to see beyond their walls, their perspectives, their normative realities, their privilege and power?

These verses are more than a metaphorical use of the feminine pronoun for me. I know this woman. I am this woman. 

In the last chapter of Proverbs, a series of verses appear that have been understood as a prescriptive text for the perfect woman/wife. She is clothed in strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 

What if this woman is not just the perfect wife, but a metaphor for God’s hope on my behalf; imagery of how God invites me to live?

In these words I simultaneously see a glorious woman and a captivating little girl. The woman stands tall. She walks with condence. She is unafraid. She has seen much, heard much, experienced much and survived. She does not compromise herself and she can be gentle, graceful, and kind because she has known much pain and harm.

The young girl holds her hand over her mouth as she suppresses peals of giggling. She has been given a secret to hold and it’s all she can do to keep it to herself. She runs and leaps and dances through her days because she is filled with the joy of what this secret means – for herself and for others. She is unafraid. She is spontaneous, playful, and even mischievous. She knows no pain or harm.

These two, combined, speak to me of what I most desire for myself. All that has gone before and all that is yet to come enables me to be clothed in strength and honor. And what I know and hold deeply in my heart of God’s love and care for me and others is what enables me to laugh, even if only to myself.

Will I stand tall? Will I wear the strength and dignity that are uniquely mine because of the pain and harm I have known? Will I laugh because of the God who shares a secret with me that no one and nothing can destroy? These verses are more than just a description of the perfect wife. I know this woman. I am this woman. 

These women – metaphorical and real – are who I want to be: wise, listening to and living with those on the margins, gaining strength through perseverance and struggle, dignied and fearless, forever laughing with the abandon of a child. God knows and loves this woman. I am becoming this woman.