A Meditation Gone Awry

Mar 1, 2013 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I listened to a meditation a few days back called, “Inner Goddess.” What enticed me to such? First, it was free. But second, really, how could I resist that title? Not seconds in, I heard these words:

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

Though the calm voice intended for my breath to slow; mine caught in my throat. I gasped. My pulse quickened. And my mind leaped far beyond her words into concepts, ideas, and entire worlds of my own.

Somewhere in the distant recesses of my mind I heard her mention Isis, Medusa, Aphrodite, and others. I listened, distractedly, to the affirmations she called forth; specific messages each of these goddesses wanted me to hear, incorporate, and believe. But more, I recognized my heartbeat – a deep, steady “yes” that longs for, trusts in, and knows this connection to other women who have lived throughout time; for me, the ancient, sacred women of Scripture.

Maybe this is uniquely my bias, but it seems we are far quicker to assimilate the relevance, messages, and presence of goddesses like Isis, Medusa, and Aphrodite than we are those of Eve, Hagar, and Mary (just to name a few). We have the conceptual bandwidth to understand and allow for the influence of mythic archetypes, but find ourselves quickly tripped and bound by the biblical text (and accompanying doctrine, religion, dogma, conservativism, et. al.) within which so many incredible and inspirational women’s stories dwell.

This is not only problematic, it is nearly unacceptable.

Today, were a woman’s identity known only as “the wife of…” she would rail, scream, and fight. And yet, we are content to let Eve and her lineage’s identity remain only as “those stories in the Bible.”

As long as we do, we are disconnected from our own lineage and our own legacy.

This breaks my heart.

This propels me forward.

This transforms my life.

That is not to say that I don’t understand others’ perspectives and experiences. It can feel messy and tricky and even seemingly dangerous to wander into Scripture; so prone are we to distrust what’s housed within or the agenda of the one who is interpreting it. Still, the beauty and wisdom inherent in these ancient sacred narratives is powerful and cannot be denied. Like the Greek and Roman goddesses, these women too, are available (and waiting) to be called upon, invited, and heard.

This is what I attempt to do: resurrect, re-imagine, re-tell their stories so that they are redeemed; but more, so that we might be strengthened by their companioning presence, their hard-won wisdom, their connection to our truest self. I’ve done it over and over with Eve; the gorgeous women even giants couldn’t resist; Noah’s wife; Sarai; the Extravagant woman; and so many more to come.

I’m just getting started.

It’s possible, of course, that I’m preaching to the choir; that I’m writing this post for the sole purpose of convincing myself of what I most need to hear. If so, I’m fine with that. But if, somehow and miraculously, my words are what you need to hear as well, then you can be certain that I am smiling…and…feeling my breath catch in my throat while my heart beats, “yes.”

Trust me, Eve and so many others are experiencing the same resonant response – each of them inviting you to call upon them, beckoning you to know them, encouraging you to walk with them; but more, to experience the sense of transformation we so passionately long for and which can so readily be found in those who have gone before us – who remain with us, even now.

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

May it be so.

Inspiration Incarnate

Feb 26, 2013 | Writing

I used to believe that the words, verses, chapters, and books of Scripture were composed by God – the writer’s hand merely the conduit for Divine Script.

All Scripture is God-breathed . . . ~ 2 Timothy 3:16a

Now I know them to be a human (albeit, inspired) attempt to sustain an oral tradition of signifocant narratives that defined a particular people within a particular culture within a particular time.

We write to remember our nows later. ~Terri Guillemets

Still, I wish I could return to my earlier belief. Maybe it’s the mystery. Maybe it’s the miraculous. Maybe it’s allowing for and trusting in something larger, something more powerful, Something, Someone, God.

And maybe, no, most definitely, it’s because I long for the same: I want my writing, my creativity, my articulated, expressed heart to be God-breathed.

Divine inspiration, please!

The work-work-work of writing can be tedious, to be sure, and often uninspired. In such times, the idea of a muse, a dæmon or genius, a creative sprite who inhabits me, even if only temporarily, and imbues me with mystery, miracle, and brilliant prose, sounds heavenly.

I ever wish for a Divine hand that can make sense of my jumbled thoughts, my tumbling heart, my endless hope, my cycling doubt. And to remind myself that I’m not crazy, I watch, yet again, Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk on the elusive creative genius. Her words are like communion wine: exactly the warming libation I need to press on; to be reminded that it is in the act and art of writing that I am connected to something larger, something more powerful, Something, Someone, God.

No matter what I believe (or don’t), here’s what I know: I want to dwell-without fighting in the mystery and miracle of text – sacred and my own. I want to be Divinely touched, through its stories and the writing of my own. I want to feel the igniting spark of the Divine flow through me, onto the keyboard, into my computer, and out to the world.

I also know this: the battle is epic. There are more days than not in which my angels and demons are at war with one another, in brain and heart. And truth-be-told, the demons often have the edge. I am tempted to despair, to doubt that anything worthwhile will ever move from my oft’ tormented brain into form or function, meaning or manuscript.

The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell whether he knows it or not. ~ Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

And then – mysteriously and miraculously – explainable as nothing other than God’s grace, I am reminded that I am not alone; that all creatives throughout all of time have fought the same fight and suffered the same wounds – maybe most certainly even those who wrote the Texts we now understand as the Divinely inspired Word of God. And that makes me feel a little bit better, breathe a little easier, and head back to the words imbued in that Text and the ones I form, create, collate, and offer.

Lastly (at least for now), I wonder if we are not, at least in part, that muse, that sprite, that hope and inspiration for one another. Because, of course, we are the carriers of the Divine Spark and the Divine Story. Our voices and hearts on behalf of one another are the very thing that remind us – whether writers or not – that our voices and our very selves matter.

We are inspiration incarnate.

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.

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.