Bringing Faith to Life
Archive for March, 2013
Communion Running
012 years
Let no one say that running is not worship. I went for a Communion Run this morning. Yep, right there, as the roadside gravel crunched under my feet, I sang …
eat this bread, drink this wine, trust in me and you will not thirst.
Works well if you have shortish strides and no place really to go.
And wouldn’t you know He even tossed in a bit of baptismal rain that threatened a downpour and spurred me to move spritely up the hill and quickly home?
Perhaps this is just an Easter event. Being that it’s Easter and I just attended the sunrise service.
I remember the sunrise last Easter. It actually rose during the service, as it’s meant to. We bowed our heads for prayer and when we looked up the sun peeked back at us. Not this morning. This morning was cool, cloud-covered and dry. The only hint of sunrise were a few wisps of pink off in the eastern sky. I willed them to be more, but they didn’t comply.
Oddly, as the service ended with the final hymn printed in our bulletin, I didn’t have trouble reading the words as I had for the opening hymn. Now, by the light of the sun I couldn’t see, I could see to read the words more clearly.
Somehow, instead of disappointing, I find this both miraculous and just as it should be. I know the risen Lord by way of His facilitation of my sight, my sound, my taste and touch and smell.
And why not on the road as I plod along in my Saucony’s? The rain doesn’t bother me at all. In fact I revel in it. Cleansing. Renewing. Changing rain. I’ve a hat and a jacket and two legs that will carry me forward.
And the mind it does whir. That’s creativity calling. It comes unbidden – in fact it almost never comes when I call it – and I stop to put down my water bottle in order to extract the sticky notes and pen that are nestled in my front jacket pouch. I just hope I can read what I’ve written by the time I get home. I hope it makes any sense. Because creativity has its own language. What seems to make sense at the moment of illumination is foreign even some minutes later.
Alas, I am a bit odd about this I know. But it is my bread and it is my wine. And today I am not thirsty. And neither will I be tomorrow. With thanks to John Indermark I know what’s happened. I have been Eastered. He writes…
“Holy Jesus, risen Christ, having shaken off the tomb and death: write your raising in the handwriting of my life. Grace me to live an Eastered life for the sake of the world you love. Amen.”
He is not here. He is risen.
Who would turn away the bread of life?
112 years
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” my neighbor says to my offer of a fruit tart.
“You’re SO disciplined,” my other neighbor comments, as she helps herself.
I have invited them to my house to share the tarts. I have made them especially for the occasion. Prepared them lovingly, presented them carefully and attractively, included only healthy ingredients. And yet, one declines, and it is said of her…you are disciplined.
I come to the communion rail and accept the piece of bread from the hand of the pastor. “Wendy, this is Christ’s body, broken for you.”
I dip it in the cup and hear, “Wendy, this is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”
I say amen. And I eat. Not to be graphic or anything, but some of it sticks to my teeth and the roof of my mouth. And I think, oh, I want to consume every morsel. Wouldn’t want to waste a crumb. And then I remember my kitchen table and think…
What if I came to Christ’s table and said, “Oh no, I couldn’t”?
Ironically, my neighbor declined the tart as an expression of guilt. Speaking but not saying, I can’t eat that tart because I feel guilty about the weight I’ve gained. It’s not discipline she is speaking, it’s shame. I wonder how many don’t approach Christ’s table because they are ashamed. Unaware of the grace offered there. How many decline His offering because others might see them and judge them unworthy.
It is certainly true that I haven’t earned the right to eat that bread and drink that wine. But Christ died so I might change my “Oh, I couldn’t” to His “Yes, you can.” And not only that. He stands beside me as I do and says, “You’re so disciplined.” And He means it.
God is a God of paradox. In His Kingdom, consumption is disciplined. Who turns away the bread of life? Eat up and follow Me.
We do have an odd and often unhealthy relationship with consumption in our country because we know our own willpower to be lacking and our discipline to be weak, especially when no one is watching. Funny how in community, when everyone is watching, we can discover a “renewed discipline.”
As Holy week approaches and Easter morning dawns I pray we can gather as especially large and forgiving communities and resist the urge to look right and left at who might be thinking what about our presence. Let’s be disciplined about looking one way. Upward at the cross. Perhaps we will hear the words again, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
And for a moment we will feast without guilt or shame at a table where we are completely welcome. We’ve been invited. Our host expects us to eat what He has prepared.
***I wish all who read this a most Holy Week and a joyous Easter. He is risen indeed. Amen.***
Morning Has Broken ~ welcome Spring!
112 years
In 1931, celebrated English children’s author Eleanor Farjeon wrote a poem for children to celebrate the first day of Spring. Set to a Gaelic melody, it climbed the pop charts as a Cat Stevens recording in 1971, and it remains one of Christendom’s favorite hymns. What a power lyrics have when we read and speak them!
MORNING HAS BROKEN
Morning has broken
like the first morning;
Blackbird has spoken
like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing fresh from the Word!
Sweet the rain’s new fall sunlit from heaven,
like the first dewfall on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
sprung in completeness where his feet pass.
Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning born of the one light
Eden saw play!
Praise with elation, praise every morning,
God’s recreation of the new day!
—Eleanor Farjeon
I’m told that Eleanor Farjeon’s inspiration was
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” ~ Lamentations 3:22-23
What words speak especially to you in this poem/hymn? Me? I love…
Mine is the morning born of the one light Eden saw play!
Happy Spring! And thank you to The Church of the Good Shepherd UMC for their devotional post today.
Does recreation serve a purpose?
0So many people out there working. They must be, because I don’t see them out and about. Not standing in the driveway talking to their neighbor. Not playing ball with their kid. Not even walking or jogging or biking. It just feels like we are all about the toil. Get up. Get to work. Come home exhausted. Maybe we rest and read the paper or watch the news or a show. But come morning, we get up and do it again. Kind of a treadmill existence, I’m thinking.
Work and rest. Work and rest. There’s a rhythm. And it’s purposeful. We get something done. But it begs the question, what about recreation? Because that’s what most people consider my job. I am in the recreation business.
Oh, I can convince them to exercise because “it’s healthy” or “it’s good for them” or “it will help them lose weight or have more energy or live longer…” or …- well, there are a number of ‘good reasons’ for exercise. I can explain ‘the purpose’ to them. And if there’s a purpose, because we are purpose-driven people, we can justify spending the time.
But what about recreation? What about something whose purpose is not so defined. It’s not exactly rest. It’s not exactly fun. It’s not exactly productive. Does it have a purpose? If not, why bother, right?
Rest-fun-productive…it’s all of these. How do I know?
Well, I am an expert, after all. I was trained in “exercise science.” My masters program, and I’m not making this up, was in the Department of Human Kinetics and Leisure Studies. Yes, ‘Leisure Studies,’ partly because they didn’t know what to do with the recreational programs (like dance and activity classes and sports skill classes) but also, I think, because there is something about ‘leisure’ that is worth applying oneself to studying. In today’s language, we would call it recreation.
Recreation, whether there are winners or losers, whether there is weight lost or miles covered, whether there are lessons learned or improvements made, is good. It provides time and space for the what else. The things that don’t command our workdays. Opportunity to connect with something that wasn’t in the game plan, someone we wouldn’t normally see or hear from, a place or a person who ‘just happens by.’ That person may be us. The ‘us’ that isn’t engaged in the four other things that need doing.
Now, full disclaimer, I am very bad at allowing space for recreating. I’m not that disciplined. I just keep plugging along at the work that is meaningful and purposeful. And I think I’m pretty productive in the slog, until something or someone comes along and insists we “recreate.” Throw a softball, go to a movie, go out for coffee or a lunch.
And a funny thing happens. When I return to the work I was doing I bring so much more to it. More energy. More ideas. More determination. More purpose.
I guess that’s why they call it re-creation. It’s good for you. But more than that, it’s GOOD-ness for you. I imagine it’s God’s approach to interval training. Work/Serve then Rest/Re-create. He’s in charge of it all. Created it for our good and His purposes.
Which I’m pretty sure I will never know if I refuse His offer. I mean, who in his right mind would refuse the invitation of God, “Come on. Let’s re-create you.” I sure feel more creative after I join Him. So, if I’m in the recreation business…I guess that’s a big job. Better get to work!
Where do Spirit Tears come from?
012 years
When the scrappy outside back (White) battles the opposing team’s forward (Blue) to win the ball near the touchline, we cheer her on. One shields, the other pokes. One leans, the other muscles in. The referee lets them play. All fair. No foul.
Blue turns sharply toward the field just as white lifts her head. White’s head collides with blue’s jaw. Blue goes down holding her chin. White hovers. I can see her mouth the words, “Are you okay? I’m sorry.” Blue doesn’t respond. I hear the hiccups of her tears coming. Her coach is running on. White still hovers. Her eyes fixed on blue who is standing now, crying and holding her chin. She does not look at white. White does not leave.
Coach examines blue and wraps an arm around to usher her off the field. Parents on the sidelines offer quiet applause in support of blue’s effort, a sideline salute. Our applause is muffled in gloved hands. White takes a step with blue and her coach and then turns back to the field, to her position. I am watching her face. Freckled and frowning, all compassion, all confusion. There is nothing to be done. A white teammate in-bounds the ball and the game goes on.
I am surprised by the tears that well up in me as I have watched this scene. Where do these tears come from? These are not tears of pain, nor sympathy, nor concern. There is something more here. Something that can’t be seen, only felt. It’s what starts the tears in me. Watching a kindness, especially an unreciprocated kindness, in a place not known for kindness or concern, gets me ‘right there.’ Where is right there?
It’s the same place in me that fluttered when…
- I saw the NC State jumbo-tron photos of Ian in memorium
- I heard Curtis Finch sing gospel
- I got news that my daughter was safe when I feared otherwise
- I saw the woman in the wheelchair ringing a silver bell in support of runners going by in the race
It’s that “choked up” place that, for some of us, is connected to a spicket that accesses our tear ducts. A gentle place. A tender spot.
A friend once told me that tears mean the Spirit is present. Tears like these.
I have come to expect them. Spirit tears. They are different from the “regular ones.” (My spicket has several on/off valves for sure.) But these…they seem to come even without warning. At unpredictable times, at least by other peoples’ estimation. They’re almost a signal to me from some place inside of me that says, “This is a special moment, a Holy moment. Hold onto it. Remember it. Revere it.”
It’s funny how the holy gets hold of us that way. Sneaks up and grabs us to get our attention. And all that’s left are a few Spirit tears, that distort our vision for a moment.
I blot them, and usually look around to see if anyone just saw me crying. I mean, who does that? Tears up when a 15 year old, pony-tailed kid, bends over to see if a girl her age that she’s never met before is okay? Ha. Just the memory of it has my vision blurring again. Another Holy moment. I can’t command them and I don’t know when they’re coming, but I am ever so glad to know when they’re here.
Have you seen the DQ Duckie?
512 years
by wlebolt
in Body, Christ, Christian, Deeper Sensation, faith, imagination, Mind, photography, Spirit, witness
Have you seen the ducks at Dairy Queen?
See them? Go ahead. Look carefully. See the eye, the beak, the fluffy little body? You see it now, right? Had you seen it before?
I can’t go to Dairy Queen without seeing them now. Just for the record, I do love Dairy Queen. Not that I frequent the place, but there’s one along the bike trail and I am all about rewards after a good day of riding.
And that store, right along the W&OD Trail was where my eyes were first opened… to the ducky. Our family sat at a small table, just beneath the advertising poster on the wall of the store. Our pre-school-aged daughter Olivia pointed to the sign and said, “Look at the duckie!”
We looked, but no, we didn’t see it. She insisted, pointing and describing the details. She wasn’t making this up. Right there in the ice cream, she saw the duckie. And finally, looking as if through her eyes, we saw it too. All the little ice cream swirls completed the heads and beaks and big duckie eyes.
Children see with different eyes. Eyes that haven’t already decided “what something is.” They are open in a way adult eyes don’t seem to be. But even in adults the child-like eyes are still there. I know because, with her help, my eyes could see it as she did. It wasn’t hidden. It just wasn’t apparent until I had a bit of help.
I think the eyes of faith are this way. Sometimes we just need a bit of help seeing what’s already there. Like an Escher painting, we need a shift in perspective to see what we didn’t initially see. Once we see it, it’s obvious. But we may need someone sitting at our table to point it out to us.
This week I heard someone say the Trinity is like this: God above us, God beside us, God within us. I probably have heard that before but it never quite struck me this way. That Christ is the “God beside us” opening the scriptures to us, imploring us, giving us strength, helping us see — opening our eyes to what’s obvious to Him but not yet to us.
I know the trinity is a sticking point between me and my Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters. The divinity of Christ, his membership with the three, the part He plays in connecting me with God the Father and God the Spirit, is not clear to them. They don’t know “God beside them,” just above and within. The Lord and Father they know compels them to incredible obedience – just as that same Father does me. I just have the Son beside me pointing the way.
I wonder how many times He has said, “Don’t you see?” And I haven’t seen, or haven’t heard, or just looked the other way in my distraction by other things. Jesus is in the perspective-changing business, and that’s all about the opening of eyes.
For some I imagine it isn’t till the end of things that the Lord’s presence allows them to make the triune connection. Of course by then any child could see it.
Stormy seas demand investment and balance
0My little family, the part of it still here and not traveling all over Europe, went to the Outback Steakhouse for dinner Saturday night. Not a regular dining spot for us, but the one selected this evening. My 16 year old daughter and I approached the door, and just to the right was a table ably “manned” by several girl scouts.
“Wanna buy some cookies?” one asked, smiling.
“No. We’ve already gotten some,” I replied and reached for the restaurant door.
But scout girl was ready, “You could donate some for the troops,” she said, voice pleading and head tipping to one side.
I stammered, and hemmed, and my daughter shoved me toward the door. “Uh, not this time,” I may have eeked out.
“Enjoy your steak,” she called after me.
Oooohh. Ouch. What a dig, I thought. And I said so to my daughter. She assured me this “little” girl meant nothing by the remark. I wasn’t so sure. To me it meant, ‘Oh, you’re gonna spend your money on a big steak but you don’t have a few dollars for the troops?’ I found it both unkind and indicting.
Happily the girl scouts had gone home when we exited the restaurant. I looked.
But this raised some uncomfortable questions for me.
- Should I be donating to the troops? Did they really need cookies?
- Did I need to give?
- Did I feel compelled to since I had been asked?
- Why wasn’t I ready with a response?
- Was the girl right, was I so tight-fisted?
- Did she really mean to accuse me by her question or was I just making this up?
- The kicker: what is my relationship with my dollars, donations, giving, resources?
Because obviously I had some baggage stowed around this issue. Amazing how a 10 year old with a green vest can call this out in me. Guilt around “not giving” when I “should.” Where does this “should” come from, and why have I given it so much power over me that I can’t even say “yes” or “no” to a 10 year old?
True, I grew up in a household where money was “not discussed.” Children were not to know how much Dad made or how much our house cost. We had what we needed and we got, within reason, what we asked for. I don’t ever remember feeling like I had to “go without.” But I never developed a relationship with money. It was something my parents managed for me.
Now that I’m an adult (by most accounts, pardon the pun) money is something I have to deal with. Asking for payment, paying the bills, negotiating the cost. How much are things worth? How much am I worth?
I am fortunate to be married to someone who negotiates these things beautifully. He handles the bills, investing, savings plans and kids education funds. His income is more than sufficient for our needs. Ironically, he grew up in a family where he was challenged to account for his spending. So much so that he even threatened to cut any ties to parental support at one point. In the matter of finances, he is free of dis-health because he was made to negotiate the boundaries.
I was not and don’t experience that freedom. I don’t think I’m alone in this, judging from the financial woes of so many in today’s America. It seems that many, even those well-resourced, settle at the extremes: either “don’t think about it – spend now and pay later” or “think about it constantly – and hold tight to every penny.” Oblivious or anxious, neither is healthy. We need to attend in a responsible way.
For me it means navigating mid-stream, making course corrections according to the wind and the waves. To say yes, go right, and when it gets choppy, say no, go left, adjusting the sails in the new course. Funny, I’m quite a good swimmer, but sailing never has been my thing. I think God knew this when he put in my mind to marry a man who had a sound footing in finances.
So it’s taken me until middle age to really become the skipper and launch the Fit2Finish (my fitness business start up in 2001, incorporated in 2005 and now writing my way into 2103) skiff into the world of “high finance.” Well, it seems high finance to me when I look at the wind and the waves. I just keep hearing,”Don’t get out of the boat!” I don’t think my swimming will save me and walking on water is not an option.
“Trust me; I’m making you a better sailor.” That’s what the wind whispers. So I set sail on a sea of resources, for which I give God thanks and praise. He has entrusted them to me – a great ballast of responsibility. Let me not be the one who buries them and returns what only what was given. Let me be the one who doubles them and returns them with interest.
No telling how the One who invested in me might magnify the return on that investment. That’s probably good. Don’t put me in charge of the investing, just the day to day spending. Maybe start me with a canoe and some paddles. Bi-lateral effort is my specialty.
Casting off was the tricky part, and there are sure to be waves. But tied to the shore is no place for a sailor like me.
Holy Willpower
0With thanks to my friends at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Vienna, VA, I share this article written for their Lenten booklet on this day, my Dad’s 78th birthday.
Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple. (1 Corinthians 3:16-17)I always have more willpower during Lent. I used to look forward to its coming and think, okay what am I doing that I really should get under control? Then I’d “give it up for Lent.” One year it was dessert. Another year, peanut m&m’s. Then it was Starbucks coffee. And I could do it! Somehow, during Lent, I could wield God’s willpower when mine was insufficient – but only for 40 days. Almost as if Lent was a trial period. ‘Try God’s willpower for 40 days. If not completely satisfied return it on Easter for a full refund.’
So, why can’t I sustain this willpower the rest of the year? Because it is Holy; it belongs to God. During Lent I don’t just give it up, but I give it up to God, and He shows me what His power can do. By His Spirit He demonstrates what a little bit of Holy feels like in my body and my soul. At my invitation, God is not just in my general vicinity, or in my community, or hanging around in case I should need Him, but He is in me. I am a walking, breathing Temple of the living God.
And then scripture says, “If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person.” Whoa, that’s protection. It feels good until I think what if I am the one tearing down the temple? How do I treat the temple for the rest of my 325 days?
Here’s what I know: God doesn’t leave me on day 41. He just leaves me to consider that, if I have let Christ in, then whatever I do to me, I do to God. Whatever I do for me, I do for God. As Oswald Chambers puts it, “I must decide whether or not I will agree with my Lord and Master that my body will indeed be His Temple.” Every day, all year long.
It is here that scripture makes its appeal, “…brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. (Romans 12:1)
In this is the wisdom of Lent. It may feel like God’s trial period with a money back guarantee. But I see it more as a chance to participate in the building of an indestructible Temple, the Holiest of all places, a life centered in Christ. Not by the power of my will but according to the will of the Father. It comes with a lifetime guarantee.
Today: Have you “given something up” for Lent? Ask God to show you what Holy willpower can do with your offering.
It’s just dessert: what a view grace must have
112 years
We were supposed to have a humdinger of a storm. They were calling for 8-12 inches in our first and only real snow storm of the year. This a daunting forecast in the DC area where plows can be days in coming and power and internet service can be spotty thanks to tall trees and above ground power lines.
So, in my current Lenten expression of “out of the GOODness of my heart” I sent an email to nearby neighbors the day before the storm: After the storm clears and if we still have power, let’s gather for our “Just Desserts.” I heard back from a few. You’re so clever, they enthused. What a great idea, they said, but let’s see what the storm does. One even said, if it’s happy hour time can we bring the wine?
I admit, I did love the play on words 🙂 And I wasn’t just playing. I had a wonderful fruit tart recipe from a dear friend who was ailing, and I wanted to try it out, as she would have, with a bunch of friends.
Well, storm day got here. And wouldn’t you know, the plows came fast and frequently. The storm did rage, briefly, but the flakes were large and wet. We got a few inches mostly of slush. Snow turned to rain, but, not to be denied, I shoveled our walk and driveway, put out the de-icer for the steps and, of course, made the tarts and brewed the coffee. When the snow stopped I wanted to be ready.
Of course, “when the snow stops” is not really a time. So, mid-afternoon when I sent the second email “Shall we say 5:00? Come on, when ever you’re done shoveling” I got several apologetic responses. Well, because we could get out, I did. I went to work. I went to tennis. I went to Brooklyn to be with my daughter who had a baby this morning (okay – that one was a pretty good excuse).
Yes, the call to community doesn’t have the attraction it used to. If we have power and internet and when we have transport, we connect to places far and wide. Only when we’re trapped and left without other options are we “forced” to be with our neighbors. I wonder at this. And at my inept method of invitation with its “flexible timing” and open-ended RSVP.
Five o’clock ticked to 5:30 and no one came. My tarts sat, a dozen strong on my counter. Accessorized by their pastry caps. I took a photo to share with my friend. They were lovely. She would be pleased, I hoped, that I had made them. She needn’t know that I didn’t have anyone to share them with. Even my husband said, “I’m not eating one. It’s almost dinner time.”
I transferred them to the Tupperware container and set them in the frig.
I’m not much of an organizer, but my invitation did come from a good place. That place of no expectations. Even when no one came I chuckled to myself, “What if I threw a party and no one came?” That’ll make a great blog post. I was okay with that. God made it okay. And just as He did, the doorbell rang.
“Uh-oh” my husband said. Translation, “Better get those back out.”
I open the front door to two smiling neighbors holding a bottle of wine. “Come on in!” I say, ushering them into the kitchen, where every good party begins. And we gather, we four, around the isle of tarts back on their pewter serving platters, and pour libations to toast the not-so-much snow.
Wouldn’t you know, the bell rings again. There stands another neighbor, “Where is everyone?” she asks. Her husband has opted to stay home on his computer where he has been working all day, but here she is anyway.
And into the kitchen we go. To join in neighborly conversation about friends and kids and jobs and movies. Some have tarts. Some don’t. Some have wine. Some don’t.
I’m not really cut out to be a hostess, but a different Host is at the center of this gathering. I know Him in the faces and the sentiment, the truth and the hardship, the humor and the realities. How would we have known of a birth and a death, a new job and one that won’t let go, a child in need and a mission to save them, all of these in the last 24 hours.
We say that news travels fast over the web. News among neighbors travels deep. Perhaps that was our just desserts. Isn’t that always the way with good? We just never could have known it ahead of time, but it’s always amazing looking back. What a view grace must have.
