Holy Week and Les Miserables

Mar 26, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

It’s Holy Week. As is often the case this time of year, I feel some ambivalence: a tinge of regret, a flood of emotion, a lifetime of memory.

So many Easter Sundays spent. A young girl in a new dress and white patent leather shoes. A mother with young daughters in new dresses and white patent leather shoes. And now, a faith-full and church-less woman with no logical reason for a new dress or patent leather shoes.

Was there ever really a logical reason for white patent leather shoes?

My now-less-young daughters came home from a weekend at their dad’s with the Deluxe Edition DVD set of Les Misérables – including the collectible book, the collectible cards, and lots of behind-the-scenes content. I thumbed through and then tumbled across four phrases, all in caps, each on their own page, boldly proclaiming the film’s Eastertide (and practically-illogical) message:

ONE DREAM CAN CHANGE THE WORLD.
FIGHT FOR WHAT YOU LOVE MOST.
FIGHT FOR JUSTICE.
HOPE CHANGES EVERYTHING.

Doctrine, denomination, an affinity for epic musicals, and ambivalence aside, Holy Week tells a similar story. The message inherent in the life of Jesus (and Les Mis) is both impossible and impractical (sort of like white patent leather shoes). But that’s exactly why we love it so; why we weep at its poignancy and power; why we silently hum (and pray) the lyrics to I Dreamed a Dream or Handel’s Messiah; why we fondly, wistfully recall our days of new clothes and shiny shoes. Because it’s the impossible and impractical, the seemingly-crazy, the risky, the beyond-belief, the self-sacrificing, and the love – Love – LOVE that touches us more deeply than anything else, that moves us, that inspires us, that invites us to believe.

To believe — even for a moment — is holy, is sacred, is resurrection for your very soul.

Believe that no form or aspect of death can contain the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love. Believe that it is the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love that enables you to rise – again and again. And believe that whether you don white patent leather shoes, or not, the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love is a dream worth dreaming, a fight worth fighting, justice beyond compare, and the hope that changes everything.

It is my prayer that you will know and experience infinite and overflowing amounts of this impossible, impractical and wild Love throughout Holy Week (and always) – in unbridled, unimaginable, unlimited ways; that our world will know the same.

May it be so.

Giving Up On God

Mar 22, 2013 | Spirituality

Giving up on God: I’m considering it.

I don’t ponder this from an atheistic precipice or in a state of existential angst; rather, it’s an all-out gamble on (and hunger for) a God who supersedes my doubt, who surprises, who stays, who’s relevant and BIG and full-of-felt-love.

The argument could legitimately be made that the God I’ve known since childhood is this God. I would not disagree—completely. But it’s much more complex. That God has often been so bound in strictures of thought and doctrine and prescribed behavior that I’ve felt suffocated at times – unable to breathe deep, to imagine wildly, to believe in ways that expand my heart, my soul, my world.

If God is, as I have been taught, full of unconditional and endless love, then my experience of such should be defined by freedom, grace, and ease, yes? Instead, many of my learned patterns take me to compliance, obedience, aspiring-toward-perfection, penance, offerings, and yes, that prescribed behavior; the manifestation and “proof” that I am good enough, worthy enough . . . enough, period.

I do not believe these things to actually be of God, still, they are the predominant ways through which I’ve come to not only measure my own worth, but also the health/status of my relationship with the Divine. And yes, I can intellectually argue myself out of all of this, but that does not lessen its grip; its ingrained, deep within, at-a-cellular-level hold on my heart.

I should be quick to say that I’ve also had profound personal experiences and seasons of belief that have been incredibly meaningful and even miraculous. It’s not a binary – my thoughts of God: all good or all bad, all true or all false, all worthwhile or all folly.

It’s complex: this God thing. And some days, it exhausts me; other most days it’s the only thing that sustains my hope.

Lest you are worried, it’s not actually giving up on God that I’m considering; it’s giving up on the work of considering God. It’s my desire, intention, and prayer to fall into Open Arms, ease, acceptance, flow, and grace; into a Presence that strengthens and soothes; into a God I inhale and exhale as naturally as I breath.

And maybe this is that:

If God is God, then I can trust that He/She/It will not give up on me.

Inhale. Exhale. Yes.

A Woman’s Faith

Mar 14, 2013 | Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

It takes faith to be a woman. Whether married or single; a mother or not; a lover and/or friend; self-employed, other employed, or unemployed; a home owner or renter; physically fit or not; old(er) or young(er); extroverted or introverted; religious/spiritual or atheist/agnostic; sister, cousin, aunt, daughter. Each of these requires something more of us, takes something more from us, and calls forth something more in us.

This is not the Faith of our Fathers: a rock solid, immovable system of belief in a male god, a hierarchical church, a patriarchal theology and all the tenets therein.

This is the faith of our Mothers: oft’ unknown and unnamed by them, but ours to carry, to name, to memorialize, to grieve, and to heal. This is a faith that is fluid, highly adaptable, feminine, and grounded in a belief in self.

This is a woman who knows, relies on, and makes her substance known/seen in every realm – living out loud in unconscious, gracious, natural ways. A woman who understands her power, her presence, her passion. A woman who imbues life and wisdom in every conversation and relationship. A woman who gives a resounding, “Yes!” to all things beautiful , tender, vulnerable, courageous, and justice-
focused.

A woman who risks everything for what/who she loves. A woman who sacrifices and suffers much on behalf of her own heart and the hearts of others. A woman who can see the impact and ramification of her words, her thoughts, her actions and chooses integrity, compassion, and generosity at every turn.

A woman who extends herself and others grace. Who does not hide in places of shame or silence; rather, can and will acknowledge her goodness (sometimes fleeting and floundering, other times bold and amazing) and her truest voice. A woman who knows patience – with self and with others.

A woman who is real. Afraid. Tentative. Hopeful. Dangerous. Weighing. Balancing. Walking a tightrope. Hanging on by a thread. Loving with abandon. Getting burned. Making mistakes. Achieving greatness one moment at a time. Believing in herself. Laughing. Weeping. Comforting. Knowing. Holding.

The Sacred Feminine with flesh. The power, knowledge, and beauty of the ages woven into her heart, her mind, her soul. Undaunted. The goddess within. Not an entity outside ourselves in which we place our belief, our trust, our hope. She is seen and experienced in a strength, a power, a beauty we know in our bones – even if only faintly – as an echo, a whisper, a breeze.

This knowing, this belief, this faith is intuitive, resonant, and wholly ours. We imbibe it/her. We inhabit it/her. And she inhabits us.

Have faith, woman. She is here.

In Me. In You.

The “but” changes everything.

Mar 11, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

With an hour’s drive ahead I pulled up Google on my iPhone – on the hunt for a scintillating audio to keep me company.

You might find it hard to believe, but I typed “Walter Brueggemann sermons” into my search bar. An Old Testament scholar extraordinaire, Brueggemann offers brilliant and innovative insight into ancient texts that continues to dazzle me. This was no exception.

He told the story of a young woman who attends his church, bound to a wheelchair, unable to speak, fed through a tube, and completely dependent upon caregivers. He pondered what she must think about on Sunday mornings. Week after week of sermons, liturgy, and ritual – none of which she can talk about or participate in, at least as others around her do. In this context, he then read Psalm 31: 9-15,
positioning her as the psalmist.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.
Because of all my enemies,
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors
and an object of dread to my closest friend —
those who see me on the street flee from me.
I am forgotten as though I were dead;
I have become like broken pottery.
For I hear many whispering,
“Terror on every side!”
They conspire against me
and plot to take my life.

I can imagine Brueggemann is right: this must be how this young woman feels so much of the time. And though I don’t begin to understand her plight, I know my own version of these emotions. So do you. Different circumstances, but no less acute, our complaints are allowed and legitimate.

This psalm reminds us that it is normal and even acceptable to articulate such a dirge; to express exactly how we sometimes feel – to a god of our own understanding who can handle it. Indeed, in the face of such injustice and ache, the divine is often the only one who can handle it – and us – raw honesty, complete candor, no holding back.

This, in and of itself, was worth the sermon and the drive. But Brueggemann continued, turning the corner in the psalm and drawing his listeners attention to the “disruptive conjunction” that occurs after the litany of frustration, fear, pain, and emotion; one small word that changes everything:

But…

But I trust in you, Lord;
I say, “You are my God.”
My times are in your hands…

Yes, there is much that threatens to destroy, but…
Yes, there is injustice, but…
Yes, there is heartbreak, but…
Yes, there is misunderstanding, but…
Yes, there is sickness and sorrow and sadness, but…
Yes, there is anxiety and worry, but…
But…my times are in your hands.

This is what changes the psalmist’s perspective. This is what changes our perspective – about ourselves, about those around us, about our world. Not a dismissal or diminishment of any or all that threatens to overwhelm; certainly not a dismissal or diminishment of a young woman’s wheelchair-bound existence. But one simple conjunctive that disrupts lament with something else; someOne else.

The but changes everything.

Is it that simple? Does just saying it make it so? Is it true even if belief is less than rock-solid? Is it enough to repeat the words like mantra without the accompanying feelings?

I do not know. Here is what I do know:

I’d rather cling to even the most doubt-laden and insincere repetition of that but…than to let go of faith and trust.

To hope-to-believe that my times are in the divine’s hands (and my ever-changing definition/experience of such) changes how I act, how I choose, how I behave, how I love, how I live. And that is enough. At least for today.

The last verse of Psalm 31 says this:

Be strong and take heart,
all you who hope in God.

No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it: may it be so.

 

The God of Once Upon a Time

Mar 5, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

Once Upon a Time. There was a day when these four small words would instantly transport my eldest daughter to another world. Her imagination and senses would engage. And she implicitly trusted that something rich and beautiful, something of dreams and intrigue; something that touched in deep and anticipation-filled ways was on the verge. She was a child.

Now she is a teenager. She has no time for such tales. At least not those of myth, of history, of fairytale. She is steeped in story, to be sure; but now they are narratives that create pressure and leave nothing to imagination. Boys. Body image. Behavior. They broadcast nonstop.

Everything is blatant. Everything is seen. Everything is said. And a Once Upon a Time world, at least to her, feels silly, if not a waste of time.

I cried today. For her, for myself, and in remembrance of days gone by when I could hold her on my lap and make everything right. Now hard stories seem to abound. There is no fantasy for escape; no fairy godmother to wave a magic wand; no prince to rescue.

And so I pray.

*****

I have heard that God, when beckoned, shows up for some in palpable and find-a-parking-spot ways.

This is not my experience.

Sometimes talking to God feels as silly as the stories to which my daughter now rolls her eyes. God? Really? How am I to understand, to trust, to know there even is a God – who hears and understands, let alone acts on behalf of a 52-year-old mother and her 16-year-old girl? Please.

“Please?”

*****

In all good stories the plot builds. We feverishly turn the pages, longing to see what happens next. And something significant always occurs – somewhere between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After. We lean forward in anticipation and hope (maybe even prayer), implicitly knowing and believing (maybe even having faith) that the tide is about to turn. We are rarely, if ever disappointed.

Nor am I.

The divine does show up. No magic wand or parking space. No “fix.” No miracle. Or is it?

A gentle wind blows through my mind and a sacred tale catches on the jagged edge of my heart. Grace whispers and soothes. And story returns. Once Upon a Time…

  • Eve longed for more, reached, and desired.
  • Noah’s wife, in the face of tragedy too excruciating to comprehend, survived.
  • Hagar was abused, abandoned, and alone…but not forgotten.
  • Hannah agonized over infertility and God heard her cry.
  • Esther took incalculable risk to save a nation.
  • Mary knew ecstatic joy and the depths of sorrow with her son.
  • The woman at the well, lost in shame, was seen and loved.
  • Mary Magdalene felt deep emotion, deep passion, deep love, deep heartache.

These stories and hundreds more are answered prayer for me. They hold and comfort. They accompany and guide. They lift me up. They calm me down. They bring me home – to myself and to the God who dwells within them. They remind me that I am not alone.

One could say that I find the divine in story. But truth-be-told, the divine, maybe even God, finds me.

And this is miracle, indeed. For in this infinite finding, I return to Once Upon a Time. To perspective. To wisdom. To hope. To an epic quest and heroine’s journey. Plot twists and turns. Battles lost and others won. Ball gowns and scullery rags. Heights and depths. Laughter and yes, tears.

*****

I cried a second time today. Deeply aware and profoundly grateful for a God who intimately and palpably reminds me I am not alone; who dwells in stories – others’, my daughter’s, and even my own.

Are there days when I wish for simple answers or a quick fix? Yes. Today was one of them. But given the choice, I’ll forego the God of good parking spaces Every Single Time for the God of Once Upon a Time.

Being Certain about Uncertainty

Feb 20, 2013 | Spirituality

Faith is not being sure. It is not being sure, but betting with your last cent . . . Faith is not a series of gilt-edged propositions that you sit down to figure out, and if you follow all the logic and accept all the conclusions, then you have it. It is crumpling and throwing away everything, proposition by proposition, until nothing is left, and then writing a new proposition, your very own, to throw in the teeth of despair . . . Faith is not making religious-sounding noises in the daytime. It is asking your inmost self questions at night and then getting up and going to work . . . Faith is thinking thoughts and singing songs and making poems in the lap of death. ~ Mary Jean Irion, from Yes, World: A Mosaic of Meditation

I am certain these words were written for me. I need their deep-breath-ness: when desire seems foolish, far away, and graspy; when not being sure is both ghost and muse.

I am certain these words are the only ones I can offer others when deep breaths are needed but hard to come by: when blows, disappointments, and heartaches buffet; when not being sure seems the only dependable thing.

And though I am loathe to admit it, these words remind me that not being sure is the only way to experience faith, hold on to hope, and believe in love. I’m certain of it.

None of this is pretty, or easy, or even sane. But then, few things of deepest passion and lasting value ever are.

*****

I type these words praying they are true; that the hard things of life – in mine and others’ – are the very things that invite the certainty of faith’s reward. I’m not sure . . .

And maybe that’s the key. Letting go. Loosening my grip. Deep breaths. Allowing uncertainty and un-sure-ness to carry rather than bearing the intolerable burden of demanding answers or assurance.

*****

Faith is not being sure. It is not being sure, but betting with your last cent . . . Faith is not a series of gilt-edged propositions that you sit down to figure out, and if you follow all the logic and accept all the conclusions,  then you have it. It is crumpling and throwing away everything, proposition by proposition, until nothing is left, and then writing a new proposition, your very own, to throw in the teeth of despair . . . Faith is not making religious-sounding noises in the daytime. It is asking your inmost self questions at night and then getting up and going to work . . . Faith is thinking thoughts and singing songs and making poems in the lap of death.