This past weekend, instead of a sermon, our student pastor led us in an Ignatian Examen prayer practice where we reflected on the day prior, examining our emotions, our failures, our desires, and God’s calling on our lives. It was such a simple gift–those fifteen music-filled moments during which I shut my eyes and reflected on all that God is doing.
But I’m often missing it.
Like so many of us, I’m a do-er, a thinker, and in my eagerness to use my time wisely, I forget that listening to God is time that is never wasted. I’ve been doing a spiritual discipline during Lent where instead of jumping into tasks when I arrive in the office, I put on music and write for just one minute, reflecting on my fears, worries, and where God is in the midst of my life.
And God is there.
Beneath all of those very present needs and fears, God is always there–working and patiently waiting for me to quiet myself and connect. In my own Ignatian Examen last weekend, I realized I’m missing valuable moments of connection with others and with God in my life. In this week, I haven’t made great strides, but I’m thankful to God for making me aware of this connection that exists even when I fight or ignore it.
What’s so powerful about the Ignatian Examen is that while our moments of reflection are but fleeting, God’s call and action on and in our lives is omnipresent. I realize how, not just during Lent, but everyday, I need to commit to turning off my mind and using my heart to listen to what God is doing.
What about you? How do you connect with God? How do you listen and find meaning in the everyday?
If somebody had told me even a few years ago that gratefulness is a skill, like dribbling a basketball or tying knots, and you have to hone it if you want it to stick, I’d have been unconvinced.
But while we might assume that gratefulness comes naturally, in a world where ambition is praised, we’re constantly in pursuit of more, and success is golden, gratefulness often falls by the wayside. I think we often confuse gratefulness with complacency; we think that if we become grateful, filled with praise for what God has done and what God is doing, something of ourselves, our own unique gifts and promise in this world will be lost.
A friend of mine wrote a little post the other day where she warned of the danger of “all or nothing” thinking, the kind of thinking that makes us worthy and good when we are at our best but turns us to nothingness, lousy, and down and out when we inevitably fail others and ourselves. She talked about the goodness and meaningfulness instead of living in the in between, especially during this muddy season of Lent.
A practice of gratefulness affirms that our worth is not based on our own failures or successes but upon God’s gracious and everlasting love for us. Being grateful in the “nothingness” teaches us that despite the in betweenness of life, God’s love is constant. Instead of doing, being, and having it all on our own and for us, we rejoice in our own need for God, the beauty of relying on others, and the wisdom of finding joy in the everyday.
As you can see, gratefulness, for me at least, requires great practice. It’s a mental practice that requires turning from the things the world preaches to the things that God teaches. It’s a practice where God quietly reorients my will to God’s service and God willing, I obey.
How do you practice gratefulness? What is God showing you during Lent?
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast,but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogantor rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.
I’ve heard these verses countless times–at weddings, from the pews, we even memorized them in Sunday school. But I hardly noticed the clanging of my own symbol or the noise of my own gong until the words were already out of my mouth, until it was too late.
I don’t think I’ve experienced such peer pressure since high school but I didn’t recognize it as such because I was in the company of adults. The trite laughter at the expense of others, the insider-outsider politics, and the meanness of it all should have made it clear.
But I played along.
I laughed with those mean-hearted academics, albeit with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I became a clanging symbol, a noisy gong, a person I, myself, despised.
What I did that evening over a lovely dinner with not so lovely company is that I bowed before the god of knowledge, success, and reason rather than the wisdom of grace. Feeling myself seduced by the grandeur of expertise and success I felt ugly, false, and fearful. These are the feelings that make me question how I can ever live out this academic vocation while remaining true to a God of love and grace?
At the end of the day, I felt so blessed to come home to my husband and daughter and see that in spite of my antics that evening, their grace and God’s grace embraced me fully. At that moment my efforts to fit in and be smart were a farce, and forgiveness made me feel low and humble, but fully at home and free.
The scripture above says that even knowledge will come to an end! And when knowledge fades, it is only faith, hope, and love that remain. I am inspired by this pursuit of knowledge in my life, but the other night was a good reminder that it should not consume me. I will not be consumed by worshipping these false gods of knowledge, success, and self-aggrandizement. Instead I will rejoice in worshipping a God who wants more for me and for all his children, a God whose grace is sufficient, a God whose love is everlasting. I will struggle to be faithful and I will call myself blessed.
We take it for granted that God is always standing there with arms wide open, poised and eager to receive our burdens.
Eager to receive our burdens.
Who in your life is truly eager to share your burdens? Eager to gather all your hurt, your pain, your fears, your worries, shoulder them, carry them away, and all you need to do is let go?
But we don’t.
We cling stubbornly to our ways. We try to make it on our own. The world feeds these desires, telling us that independence is the height of satisfaction and success. That dependency, vulnerability, and weakness can be conquered if we just ignore them and push on.
But this type of pushing will drive you insane.
This type of pushing will deny you your true self, will keep you from honest relationships with others, and will keep you from a God who merely wants to share your burdens.
So try it this morning.
Try letting go.
Let God see your fears, your pain, and your hurt. Let God walk alongside you, accompany you in the darkness. And finally, let God take all those things to which you’ve been clinging and bear them, as Jesus did the cross, so that you can be free.
You may weep.
You may weep because this type of grace does not come easy. Not because God is not willing but because our flesh is weak. You may weep because this grace is deeper, wider, bigger than the satisfaction we may feel at our own successes. You may weep because to be in the presence of God is holy, astounding, and awe-inspiring.
You may weep because tomorrow God will be standing there once again with arms wide open, eager to receive our burdens.
I have been thinking lately about how helpful it is to reframe major challenges in life as adventure.
You know how sometimes you’ll be going through something and someone will try to comfort you by saying, well, it will make a great story later, won’t it? What if we could embrace the great story now?
It sounds crazy, but I think my life is just as much, if not more of an adventure, here in the everyday with a baby, classes, and trying to be faithful to God as it was living in China and traveling the world. I’m trying to be grateful for the adventure as I’m living it rather than tomorrow or in a couple years. I’d love to hear how you do that in your lives!
It’s finally a little warmer, though there’s still heaps of snow on the ground. Yesterday our little family took a lovely, cozy walk through the snow. I just love how it crunches under your feet. About a year ago, a friend gave us the children’s book, The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, because our daughter, who will turn one next weekend, was born in between two snow storms. It is my favorite children’s book that we own, and I’ve been reading it to her a lot lately and reminiscing about her coming into the world amidst slow flakes coming down in the wee hours of the morning.
Yes, I’m adult, yes, I was raised in Wisconsin, but there’s still something so magical to me when it snows. I remember my husband trying to describe snow to his students in South China who had never seen such a thing. They were incredulous and full of wonder. I wonder if they will ever see it snow in their lifetime.
Sure, it gets cold out here. But life is quite the adventure anyway.
But to acknowledge and relish that I really get a kick out of talking about theories, ideas, and people is a small start. And then the other day as I chatted with a colleague on the seminary campus who turned to go into her office, I turned to head back to the university campus, to my syllabi, articles, and ideas. And I was so thrilled and so grateful to have that desk, that community, and those ideas. I realized as scary as it is to admit, I’m not ready to give up on the academic job search yet. I want to see it through a bit longer. I want to continue to pursue these possibilities, because I have so much passion for the work I did with foster families and children with disabilities in China, for China itself, for students, and for anthropological knowledge and those ways of thinking.
The other morning I saw the sun for the first time in a long, long time, and some words from good ol’ Anne of Green Gables came to me as I happily thought, “Today is fresh, with no mistakes in it yet.”
Trying to live in that freshness, faithfulness, and fullness that God so generously provides.
In our church, we do epiphany stars every January. We select stars with words on them out of a basket and reflect on them over the year, seeking to be open to what God might be teaching us. Usually there’s some sort of reversal: the meaning of the word originally seems straight forward, obvious, or even kind of narrow, but as the year goes by the star often becomes imbued with a deeper meaning or revelation.
It occurred to me recently that we all spend a lot of time reacting, rather senselessly to one another rather than living with intentions such as kindness, gentleness, and patience. So much pain and hatred that is spewed is not about us, but very much about the private suffering of others. The question then becomes, do we choose to spend our time arguing over the validity of that suffering or rather enter into it?
I think Jesus was different because he entered into the suffering of some of society’s seemingly most “deserved”–tax collectors, thieves, and prostitutes, to name a few. He did not judge their worth by the pain they may have inflicted upon others or the validity of their suffering, but rather, their need for him. This is a theme I was meditating on a bit a month ago–that it is in our neediness, in our weakness, that we are made holy.
I’m wondering if it is we who misunderstand righteousness to be an elevated, holy ground, whereas it is God who humbles us by making us righteous precisely in our weakness. I am trying to adopt an intention of kindness, gentleness, and patience in the new year, remaining aware of the illogic of deservedness and the wisdom of grace, the reality of suffering, and the opportunity to be made low and righteous and whole.
As 2015 has begun, I’ve been filled with this desire to be faithful to God. But what does that mean?
As I’ve reflected on all the uncertainty in my own life and the world, I continue to struggle with trusting God with the future and what is beyond my knowing. When I picture the future, my wildest dreams still sometimes tend toward anxiety, and I begin to worry, doubt, fear, and breed resentment. I know these are not faithful feelings, and I worry that I’m just not cut out for this life of faith.
But I’ve also realized something. When my daughter cries, I turn without thinking to wrap her in my arms. When a student in front of me needs counsel, I listen intently and reply with carefully chosen words. When those around me are hurting or in need, I lift them up in prayer, and I strive to serve them.
When it comes to one moment, I think I can be faithful. I can be faithful with this moment rather than fearful of what I do not know. And suddenly faithfulness becomes not something unattainable or fleeting, but a daily practice of breathing and walking with the God of this moment.
A couple days ago I found myself saying to a tearful student in my office, “I know at this moment, you have no idea what decision you will make in the future and how you will make it. But you are a capable person. You are doing everything you can to gather all the information and be prepared to make a good decision. Therefore, I trust and believe that you will make a good one when the time comes.”
I love saying those words.
I love letting others know that when the world and uncertainty fill them with doubt and fear, there is reason to trust otherwise. I love believing in a God who is invested so deeply in our lives, in making us capable, faithful people, rather than leaving us to our own devices. And I love knowing that faithfulness isn’t just about some lofty goal or distant future, but is the stuff of now, of taking care of this moment, with God never far away.
This is one of my favorite posts to write, because it forces me to go through all the lessons of the previous year and cull together all that God has taught me and all that God is doing. 2014 was such an eventful year for me personally, with the birth of my daughter and the defense of my dissertation. Both of those have opened up some exciting conceptual space for me to dream and imagine my future vocation and God’s work in my life.
I don’t know about you, but for me it’s been a particularly sobering Advent.
While we’ve entered this season of hopeful expectation sometimes I feel positively hopeless in the face of racial injustice, gun violence, and torture at the hands of our own government. I want to believe that God is doing a new thing, but I am doubtful amidst the evils of the world. My faith fails me. I do not wait faithfully. Instead, I heave great sighs, I mourn, I turn away from God.
But do you know what I’ve realized?
God can take it.
God can take our anger, our sorrow, our pain, even our distrust. In a poignant reflection, Alece Ronzino talks about how even after several years of what she calls “spiritual detox,” God was still there, big enough to take her rejection, her skepticism, and her doubt.
Sure, Advent is our season of hopeful expectation in the Church, where we prepare our hearts for Jesus, where we wait as the ancient world once did for the birth of a savior, but isn’t it just as much about how God waits on us, faithfully and patiently, no matter how often we turn away in fear, anger, or sadness? Even as the prophets and the kings and the ordinary people in the Old Testament waited on God, God out-waited them. God out-waited their faithless acts, their petulance, their mistakes, and their fears. Despite them, God made something new, God brought a savior to this world, God redeemed and redeems, so don’t you think God can take it?
Sometimes I think we are the ones who can’t take it–we can’t take the paralyzing intimacy that God desires of us. We’re the ones who back away, not only from God, but from one another, convinced that it would be better to give up, than to be failed or to fail one another.
But God does not fail us.
God waits on this world just as God prepared the ancient one for thousands of years. God’s love is steadfast. And no matter our sinfulness or our betrayal, God does not turn from us, but rather accepts, forgives, and waits out our indiscretion. So as God waits on us and this fallen world, what would it be like this Advent if instead of turning from God, we turned toward God with all our anger, sadness, pain, fear, doubt, and even indifference? What if we threw all of our hopes and fears onto God and waited for God to do a new thing in and amongst us?