A Mercy Sandwich

Before I became mildly unlawful in my efforts to get the girls to school on time

Before I realized that I had forgotten about Gigi’s Family Tree project that was due today and only half-way finished

Before the collaborative pancake-making efforts yielded a flour incident, and fights over who got to put in what, and who got to stir

And before a food coloring experiment with the pancakes caused Gabi to stomp off shouting “That’s grey. I DON’T EAT GREY!”

Before we kissed Papa off to his three-day conference in Anaheim

Before all of that…

There was stillness.

And the dawn’s light ushered in the cool breeze

And then the bird’s morning song

And a very intentional, very forced toot from somewhere within our house

And a text from a friend who was savoring the new mercies of the morning that she’d managed to find amidst the layers of a ham sandwich while recovering from an overdose of caffeine, thanks to a sleek, shiny new espresso machine which she’d bought the day prior

And then two little girls with hair in every direction came in for a good morning snuggle, and set off to select matching outfits for themselves and their American Girl dolls, and

Then showed up at the kitchen counter in plenty of time to make pancakes and then scooter to school in the oodles of extra time that we’d most assuredly have…

Leaving me, hours later, remembering the mercies of the early morning and grateful for the reminder from a friend to watch for them

Hours later still, holding them up a bit higher in my mind

And I found the subsequent unravelings to leave me not quite so bare

Yet even if I had missed it all, they’d have been flung out there anyway—millions and billions of good and perfect things

The endless displays of mercy—ageless yet new, sufficient for the day, renewed and renewing

And like the waves of an undiscovered, rustic wilderness

Persisting whether or not anyone is watching

Given recklessly, lavishly, quietly, constantly

All the while, slowly

Patiently

Creating over time

A landscape of softened stone and expectant life

Mercy upon mercy, sifting and crashing, gently reforming the place where it lands, into a shape that will someday receive its gifts more fully

Moving the immovable, it descends and transcends, refining its heir amidst the layers and layers of mercies

The Prodigal’s Part

As near as I can figure, there were four things (maybe five) that the Prodigal Son did before the Father rushed to him.

1. He acknowledged that everything around him was literally shit. He saw with his own eyes that, apart from his Father, all things and all resources decomposed into a pile of disappointment. He saw, face-to-face, the reality of the world, and acknowledged the tragedy and despair of being separated unto it.

2. He humbled himself. He softened his stiff upper lip, and stopped trying to make his own worth. He stopped putting his hope in a better day, stopped hiding in shame, and stopped denying the ever-pressing reality of his lowly and hopeless state. And in this, he stopped perpetuating the distance between himself and home.

3. He confessed—and hoped—that there was a better way. He realized that being a servant in his father’s house had a better end than being a ruler in his own world. The reality of this hope (or was it his desperation in the direness?) enabled him to let go of everything he was striving for. He no longer hoped in his own visions, but instead, in his Father’s forgiveness and faithfulness and love and provision.

4. He turned and walked toward his Father.

That “maybe fifth” thing is something I’m pretty sure about, but I don’t know how to say. It comes before number one. It’s the idea that the Prodigal Son had to first, intentionally, go off on his own and take his abilities for a spin. He indulged in a little “Rumspringa”. It’s not my intent to tell anyone to run head-long into a pig-pen, but I think it happens without us even realizing it, and it’s perhaps part of the plan—to live life as our own gods, and pursue our own good—before we’re certain that we actually want the person of God.

As for the Prodigal Son’s eventual acceptance of defeat after leaving home: I, too, remember avoiding the idea that there was badness in this world. And who wouldn’t want to keep failure at bay? I had a sort-of Pollyanna mind, and I was a good person, and good meant seeing the glass half-full. Besides—seeing badness meant an acceptance that I was not able to make it otherwise. I didn’t know how to reconcile it. So I avoided all badness, thinking that, in itself, made me good. But Jesus didn’t avoid badness and failures. He made a beeline straight toward it.

In our first-world country, failure and badness seems to be avoidable for awhile, and then we try to sweep the rest of it under the rug. It is very uncomfortable—very humbling—to admit that we struggle, that things are hard, that there is a nagging feeling of being let down despite bringing our admirable A-games into all that we do.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I was brought face-to-face with the end-result of the best this world has to offer. I could no longer avoid saying it—so in fact, I started shouting it: “This life is hopeless! It is depressing! It is despairing! It is shit!!” And I could do nothing about it.

That in itself was humbling.

Don’t good people buck up and press on? But somehow that was perpetuating the distance between me and true Hope. I was certain of it. And I was certain there was a better way. But I didn’t know how to get there except to turn from the direction I’d been heading. So I turned away from myself and toward the hope of God, whatever that looked like—whatever that meant.

Number four is the part of the story I mean to examine–turning from the old life, and walking toward the hope of new life. The story says that the Prodigal Son had gone to a far off country. How far away had he gone? Far enough for there to be a different climate, because there was a famine in his land, as opposed to his father’s. Far enough away to where his family name meant nothing.

And so my question is “How far did he actually have to walk before the Father saw him from a distance?” Because after I saw the world for what it is, after I humbled myself, after I knew I wanted God, and after I turned from my ways…

I felt like I had to walk for years before I was finally found.

And it was a long, humiliating, grueling pilgrimage at that.

There is a crowd of people right now, walking back home, because every other direction has proven to be unsatisfying; yet God hasn’t come. He hasn’t rushed out, there has been no party, and the distance feels impossible.

For those of us who have turned from the hope of ourselves in this world toward the hope of God, and yet still feel un-found, the story offers us this encouragement: keep walking. Timing is a mystery. Hope is a mystery. Gods ways are a mystery, but keep walking

Because here is a certainty: the Father is watching for you. And He will come to you.

Dear Bella

Dear Bella,

It’s the season of your ninth birthday, but I don’t need a calendar to tell me that. Everything points to it—the wind, the angle of the sun, my allergies, my fragility, the way I can’t seem to engage in anything… everything cries out that you were born now. I know it in my bones.

You know what? It is still sad. Even my present and future hope doesn’t stop me from recalling and realizing that there are still deep pockets of sadness. These aren’t the kind of pockets that are waiting to be expelled by the light of exposure. They are just waiting to be visited and acknowledged—these deep, quiet, intimidating places where I have space to remember who I am and Whom I need.

Emptiness is full of potential.

If I am met in that space, no matter how slightly, an effervescence—an energy—comes of that emptiness meeting eternal life, reminding me that the only liability of sadness is its denial, and its toxins come only from its suppression. Everything else about it is divine.

Coming to my end, and up to the banks of my vast nothingness affirms that I am forever broken and forever must be saved, which is not so bad in light of the good news promised to people like me who are too poor to bring about their own fulfillment.

After all, the Gospel is only good news to those who know they need it.

What are you doing today?
Mama

Universal Truth

Quick. State a Universal Truth.

How long did it take? Maybe forever? The answer is still up for debate, despite the world’s most intelligent, scientific, spiritual and philosophical minds chewing on this concept since it was possible to wonder about it.

Since we can’t agree on what/if there is/are Universal Truths, perhaps we can at least agree on what the definition of a Universal Truth is. See if you at least don’t at least disagree with the following:

• It is something that is factual on this side of the world, and the other.

• A universal truth is today’s reality, and also yesterday’s and tomorrow’s reality.

• Like gravity, it exists whether it can be seen or not—whether it is believed personally, or scientifically figured out—a universal truth simply IS.

• But unlike gravity, universal truth isn’t limited to this Earth. It is true on Mars, and in the neighboring galaxies and everywhere else, too.

• A universal truth remains truth regardless of any economy or government.

• It exists despite any belief structure or cultural custom.

• If someone wanted to teach from any cross-section of religious texts, one could be certain that universal truth was “is-ing” in that moment, regardless of any inaccurate recording or accurate apprehensions.

• If one knew what the/a universal truth was, they could pick any time in history, or place in nature, and be certain of its existence there.

If you look up “Universal Truth”, you will find there aren’t any listed. Because we aren’t big enough to prove anything that big. We can’t get far enough away from truth to see its entire shape. And we can’t see far enough along to observe its complete linear pattern.

It is impossible to scientifically prove or disprove because we aren’t currently able to go to the ends of the universe, or go back before there was time, or read the fabric of the spiritual dimension.

But if something is universal, then every moment possesses the opportunity for some of it to be observed. And if it is so “everywhere”, you might not even know you’re looking at it.

We have a certain capacity, or a potential, to believe in Truth, but what we fill that capacity up with is completely up to us. There is plenty of freedom and creativity, and also nearsightedness in the mind to paint an inaccurate picture of Truth; and there is plenty of imagination and fear to help us reinforce that picture to an extent. Fortunately, there is a proliferating dose of curiosity in the mind, and need in our souls, compelling us to know more.

As we are universally curious, we can at least observe parts of Truth as we gaze from a finite perspective. We can record and observe that which we can read of the sky and the earth, and of all beings, because if there is Universal Truth, then our whole universe cries out its truth. All around us is a universe of Truth: perhaps buried in the realities of perpetuating life; in order and seeming randomness. There are systems, and seasons. There is transformation, evolution, and adaptation. There is consumption and creation, harmony and separation, power and purpose. There is law and paradox. And somewhere, around it and within it, is Truth.

By definition of the term, I believe that the Universal Truth is God—and the universe is reflective of this Truth: both infinite and expanding. I believe I can say I know Universal Truth. I don’t know all of the Truth (I don’t even know all of my own self), but I know Who it is.

Doing is Believing

In this world there are doers and thinkers. Maybe there are other kinds of people too. Maybe there are some half-breeds out there, in which case, I want to know you. I want you to be my mentor.

I am not a doer by nature. It seems rash, reckless, and impatient. It’s too committal for me. Many of my past knee-jerk “doings” have stemmed from restlessness, control issues, and a now-long-gone savior complex. Even worse, the guilt or regret that threatens to follow me after a wrong-doing sends me running for my comfort zone of thinking.

Thinking is my life-giving offering—my niche and my gift to whatever I’m a part of. I know that thinking and contemplating and critiquing have a very important place. They reveal the voice of wisdom and conscience. It can help root out delusions. It exercises patience and refines the spiritual ear. It leads to enlightenment and truth. But this is my signature move: to take a thing too far.

I can think, until the smallest specs of dust blow up into impasses. I analyze until I’m paralyzed. I strive for clarity, perfection and blamelessness—as if they are my gods—instead of letting those things naturally occur as I am in God. I will think, until every option sounds right and wrong, which accounts for my less-than-stellar, multiple-choice test-taking skills in college. I have magnified my thought, until I believe that my mind possesses the only true perspective.

Thank goodness I married a doer. Together, we range from passively nuclear (on the rarer bad days), to effectively productive.

After a recent binge of over-thinking, withering away in a stymied state, searching for clear-cut directions, renouncing boundaries and creating my own suffering… the most freeing thing happened. As I was praying, I felt like I was given divine “permission to fail” and a thought that said “progress over perfection”.

I don’t discount that contemplation is an act in itself, and I’m not promoting proud, kamikaze, impulsive acts (though God has rescued me from all of those, too). Obviously, those two sound-bites have all kinds of potential to be wildly misconstrued and manipulated to suit any motive, but it was exactly what I needed to hear to help pry me out of my overwhelmed, gear-locked position.

For all you thinkers out there, consider the sanctity of doing:

Doing says that God is big enough to work for good, even in my mistakes.

Doing gives me the opportunity to experience that God is in this step, that step and everywhere in between.

Doing means I believe that God can handle the aftermath.

Doing says that ultimately, I trust God to save me, more than my own perfection.

Doing is often the act that reveals where to step next.

Doing cashes in on the boldness and courage of God, and dethrones the worries of this world.

Doing prizes the privilege we’ve been given of being the actual hands and feet of salvation.

What does my reluctance of doing say?

Faith begins as we say “I believe therefore I will do”. Doing allows us that priceless, maturing, experiential faith which also says “I have done, therefore I believe”.

Without the outflow of doing, a rank, toxic stagnancy begins to build up in me. Doing keeps me in the Living Current.

Respect the doing, appreciate the thinking. One is not useful, and is harmful, without the other. Whether thinking or doing, let it all stem from an earnest, honest, humble posture—one of acquiescence to Christ.

And on the days when I find myself crushed by indecision and critical assessing—held back by doubt and uncertainty because I have sat inactive for too long (and this is not God’s intended end for me!)—something must change. And I must consider this: fear of the consequences of doing is wrapped in my ego, not in the reality of grace.

And then I must DO whatever comes next.

If you need a Savior

Blessed are you if you know you need a savior.

Blessed are the guilt-stricken, the needy, the addicted, the betrayed, the crushed, the unable, the sick, the poor…

If you need the Savior, then you shall have Him.

Two Steps Back…

You again? You’re still there? Haven’t we warred for decades?

And still, you persist.

I can name you, but not all the places where you live.

You only impart confusion. You make sin feel like righteousness, and righteousness feel like sin. You are anything but gracious. And yet, I’ve given you the throne.

You are my tyrannical task master. You play me like a predator does its toy.

You are too big for me to confine by definition, but I spend all my time trying to master you. A clever way to get me to exhaust my whole day thinking about me.

You are not my god! I refuse you! But I can’t see you, so I can’t kick you out.

Oh, for clarity.

Christ! Snatch me out of its vortex!

A Case of the Ordinaries

“Do you know who I am?!” I assailed my barista friend, jokingly, once I finally reached the counter, “I’m a very important person! I am an art docent. For kindergarten and second grade.”

And I drive a Honda Civic which is almost old enough to buy alcohol, and has an air-vent fan that hollers like Chewbacca when I turn it past the first click.

I have no remarkable titles after my name.

My current scope of work: get up, feed, clean, laundry, errands, homework, feed, clean. Repeat one million times.

I’ve got a case of the ordinaries.

I don’t have any money to plan something, like a massage or a trip to Croatia, in order to push aside my overwhelming sense of mundanity. The best I could do that day was coffee, which isn’t so bad, except that right then, it felt more like an exercise in avoidance than indulgence.

I checked my texts (any amazing propositions?).

Emails? (something besides spam?)

I incline my spiritual ear, “Still no sensational calling, God?”

Oh, the burn! My increasingly less frantic life sometimes doles out such wrenching withdrawals of restlessness!

Why do I doubt lowliness—a life which money doesn’t acknowledge? (“Children of mine! Be anything but!”). Aren’t I closer to the truth as I inhabit a day of teaching, feeding, forgiving, and disciplining?

God, be enough for me in this day.

You align me squarely with you by your patience and gentleness, so subtle, that I doubt you, too.

Give me a gift of you today. Something like assuredness, or awareness, or fullness. Or perhaps a sense of your grandeur, or a surge of appreciation for this perfectly complete moment which you’ve had planned since the beginning of time.

How Big is God?

“How big is God and why can’t I see Him?” said the four year old boy as a form of greeting to me on the morning I was helping in Children’s Ministry. I’m not opposed to the usual style of greetings: “Look at my new Spidey shoes”, or “Watch how this dress twirls”, or “My mommy said a bad word”, but I happen to live for that first kind of question.

Fortunately, I have two equally inquisitive daughters of my own, and so I had a bit of a script already prepared. On that Sunday morning, I got to share with the boy as much as his thirteen-second attention span could gobble up. But as with most of us, the boy went away unimpressed—dissatisfied.

The longer version of that response is something I get to share occasionally with my girls at bedtime. After the jammies, and the teeth brushing, and the new glass of water, and the library book and the short Bible story, and the back scratch, and the prayer, and the song, and all is finally spent; one final request comes.

Sometimes, this question comes out of sheer desire to avoid having to go to sleep, and sometimes they’ll ask out of genuine curiosity. “How big is God and why can’t I see Him?” And because it’s their only hope for staying up, they sit still for the answer, which on any given night, goes something like this:

“We can’t see all of God, because He’s too big to see all of, but we can see parts of Him.

He is in the warmth in sunshine, the sparkle in the stars, the strength of the tallest tree, and the water that makes you clean.

He is the sadness when you’re hurt, and the comfort that makes you feel better.

He’s farther away than the moon, and closer than your thoughts.

He’s the breath in your chest and the beat of your heart.

He’s the kindness of a friend, the silliness of your whole entire family, and your good feeling when you try hard.

He’s in the teachings of your mama, the provisions of your papa, the food that helps you grow, and the work that makes you stronger.

He is the sleep that gives you rest, and the sweetness of this bedtime kiss…”.

Sometimes, on a good day, after they’ve listened long enough, they’ll drift off to sleep. And sometimes, on a bad day, after the girls are asleep, I lie down and keep going:

“He is bigger than my most important thing.

He is bigger than disappointment, and shame, and bigger than whatever I am against.

He is bigger than the distance between here and perfection.

He is bigger than my preferences, and my prejudices, and my personality.

He is bigger than aloneness and indifference and ignorance.

He’s bigger than my debt. He’s bigger than what I’m asking for.

He is bigger than all of the sin and all of the sadness in all of the world, put together.

He is in my joy, and my peace. He is in my willingness. He is in my grief over injustice. He is in my anguish as I encounter loss.

He is triumphant, and He is the waiting that brings us all there.

He is big enough to keep us from our biggest fears, and big enough to destroy our fears. He is big enough to sustain us as we endure our fears, and big enough to resurrect us after being ruined by our fears.

Tomorrow, He will be the hope that gets me up, the invitation that compels me to Him, and the task that comes next…”.

One

One Creator God, in and through all things.

One Creation, moving of its Creator.

One human, made of creation, born of its Creator, one with the God in all things.

Beloved.

One Beloved, woven together with joy. One Beloved, privileged to express and create, reflecting the image of its Creator.

One Beloved, born first to receive; placed in relationship, as its Creator is perfect relationship.

One Beloved, each cell made with intention; not made out of necessity, but made out of love, just as Beloved itself is intended to proliferate. Each cell with its own name, yet each with the same need: oneness with God-in-All-Things. Each with its own ability, yet each for the same final purpose: oneness with God-in-All-Things. Each cell reflecting the cosmic reality: in unity there is Life.

One Beloved, given freedom and choice, as Love frees, and is also a choice.

Beloved chooses separation from its Creator; uniting with un-Life. Reflecting the now-broken relationship with its Creator, it breaks apart within itself; and remains unfulfilled in its state of detachment. Yet the human is sustained, loved, and called to by God-in-All-Things.

The human evolves through the ages, given to and guided through its choice; empowered by Love that Beloved might choose to return. But it doesn’t. All but one fiber has united with un-Life.

Preempting an eternal end to Beloved, the Creator tears and gnashes and violently reduces it down to the one vine left that is rooted in Life. Earth becomes an agent of destruction, as if all of Creation became corrupt by Beloved’s choice. Creator grieves.

Brought into the Age of Rules, Beloved learns the motions of obedience and humility, that the motions might one day be inhabited by innate will, and that these ways would not be foreign to Beloved upon inheriting new Life of God-in-All-Things. The Age exposes Beloved’s temporal truth: alone, it is unable.

Exile leads to surrender in part of the human and prepares it for a New Age. “Beloved, taste and see for yourself, the resurrected and resurrecting nourishment!” The Firstborn dies to death, that all of Beloved would do the same. Forgiven and redeemed once and for all, the human is rescued from an insatiable Law, into that Law now perfectly fulfilled by grace and humility: “Now Beloved, be this higher form of righteousness!” All for the sake of oneness—always oneness.

Where there is humility and will for change, now indwells the Spirit of God-in-All-Things, transforming, enabling, coming to bring Beloved out of un-Life and into oneness with God-in-All-Things.

Beloved endures persecution and encouragement; oppression and enlightenment; holocausts and humanitarianism. The human process unfolds, laced with life and death, that it might choose life, understanding that life without love is not Life at all.

Each cell reflects the story of the whole human, just as Creation reflects the molecules of its makeup. Partly unable, partly willing; partly destitute, partly equipped; partly oppressed, partly free. Beloved, a broken version of the mystical paradox who created it: The Wounded Healer.

Beloved ages into its global eye. The places of poverty in its mind and its world become harder and harder to deny. The Message of peace and compassion magnify amidst theft and destruction.

Existing as one, the whole body can be restored by One, just as one point of sin once infected the whole body.

In the existence of One, Beloved’s prayer is a continuation of the one spoken from its inception. It’s the resounding truth spoken by all of Creation: “Alone, we are unable; in oneness there is Life.” It is the uniting reality of Beloved who is both here, and in the veiled dimension.

In the reality of One, suffering the collective burden is an unavoidable expression of what IS.

In the spirit of One, the perfect reflection of God-in-All-Things is participation in all things, including the least of these things.

In the truth of One, Beloved encourages within itself only that which it wants to live with eternally.

Fiercely, patiently, grace in all forms nurtures Beloved toward its intended identity. Its worlds’ foundations reveal their faults, placations expose their costs, structures fall short, and systems begin to fail, and All Things compel Beloved to cling to Life, desperately.

Gently pushed and pulled by hope, Beloved will resonate with its only Fulfillment; deep will respond to Deep. Beloved will be restored. It will receive, and give, and create with the eternal materials of God-in-All-Things. Mercy, purity and meekness—what was once perceived in Beloved’s youth as weak and overcome, are the very building blocks of new Life.

Beloved will return to its Creator. It will be made perfectly whole. This is the will of God-in-all-things which has happened, will happen, is happening. The relentless certainty of God’s will, which was once the greatest source of frustration for Beloved will be regarded as the greatest reason for peace and gratitude.

Oh, that it would hurry and be restored to its beginning and perfect end. But to rush any age is unnatural. Just as seasons, and grief cycles and the germination process insist that they be respected, Beloved too, matures in trust and patience. All of Beloved may embrace its place in time and each age leading to it, because all are loved, and all will be used, nothing will be wasted in bringing a whole Beloved into oneness with God-in-All-Things.

“I will gather you, Beloved. I will restore your splendor and fortune, and the years where destruction has laid waste. I will replace your ruins with my goodness. I will not leave you behind. I will bring you out of exile into a New Age, marked by complete oneness.

Oh that this would sound good to you—that this would be enough!

Realize your truth: Beloved be one, as I, the Trinity, am one. Be one in me, and I will be one in you, and together, we will be how it was and how it will be:

One.”

← Older Posts
Newer Posts →