All Dressed Up for God Knows What

Everyone was in a hurry.  Frantic enough to know there was only one place to be and no time to notice getting there all at once made the air too thick to move quick.  Yet there amid the thick, my feet left the cold steel grate beneath me.  The crowd was too convincing to resist.  They carried me out and away and my opposition didn’t matter. 

Everything was numb.  My feet, my legs, any remnants of a body I could control, now tuned to the buzz of sterilizing artificial light above the migrating heads below.  I looked, only to find no one else looking.  Bodiless heads and hollow-moon eyes, all locked forward in an anxious trance that somehow threatened to dissolve my vacillating awareness to vapid illusion.   

Something was missing.  We all knew it and nothing else seemed to matter.  Except for me. Everyone moved on with such certainty, as though our bleak existence depend on it.  Should I call out? I knew where we were going.  To the suits. But, it was all wrong.

We poured out into the darkness, scrambling between the perfect formation of massive mechanical suits.  Each one identically armored and prepared for nothing but destruction.  What were we all doing?  Where could we be going? There were no further directions, no one in charge and nothing in sight beyond our formation.  Only a dying purple sky, loosing out to a shade of haze ominous enough not to question. Everyone seemed to know which body of armor was their own.  For once, I did too.  But, nothing seemed right. I had already began to climb up into my machine suit in preparation to lock myself in with the same color dread still looming in the smoky sky beyond. 

I looked again. Surely, I am not the only one who knows!  We don’t have to do this.  We don’t have to get in these suits—There! To my left. He saw me look! He knows there’s more than this.  I’m not the only one! I called out, “We don’t need these!” God, why can’t he hear me? 

But, I had already locked myself in.  My hope for another cry slipped into the unconscious gray before us.  My anger and final lucid thought crumbled before it could initiate another move...I needed out. I must escape. 

A calm swept over the formation of our bodiless souls and I woke suddenly.  Just beyond my window hung a night sky flirting with the chance of another end. 

Things We Don't Speak Of

Everyone does it.  Some secretly, while for others it’s more public and at times quite embarrassing.  When we’re aware of it most of us would prefer not to talk about it.  Revealing it seems far more humiliating than pretending there’s nothing much to reveal.  Many of us become such skilled pretenders we’re convinced we don’t do it or don’t have it at all.  At this point, it probably has us.  Fear so willfully takes on disguise, it has a creative ability of becoming part of our way of being in the world.

If my fear were a mode of transportation, it would be the old mountain bike I used as an early teenager.  It was a hand-me-down.  In my household, with three brothers and good parents who either didn’t have the money to throw down on new stuff or simply didn’t see the point, you had to learn to love hand-me-downs.  I guess I learned to love my bike, kind of.  It had already been well loved by one or two of my brothers, so I’m not so sure there was much left to love. 

My bike was rusting all over and the seat never stayed put.  It made all sorts of obnoxious noises as I rode up and down the street.  A lot of strange clicks, knocks and squeaks most days.  Sometimes it sounded like someone emptied his toolbox along with a small animal into giant blender.  And I swear I spent every Saturday morning repairing punctured or flat tires.  Somehow this old bike got me to baseball practice, over to a friends house or to my next odd job, but almost never without frustration.  On occasion the chain would suddenly lock up or fall off track.  Whatever travel plans I had on those days were shot.  I’d have to lift up the back end and push my failing bicycle all the way back home.  I never quite figured out how to put the chain back on by myself.  The gears made it all too confusing. 

Now, I don’t live in fearful apprehension of an apocalyptic disaster.  I don’t worry a tsunami will reach Portland, as plausible as that may be.  I suppose most of us are undeservedly fortunate to live without fear of real physical harm.  Although, a few days ago I suddenly awoke just before dawn and immediately noticed a black speck on the ceiling.  It was a little spider, probably poisonous, camping out directly above my face.  He was just watching me sleep.  I’m pretty sure I only woke to turn over onto my side, but once I saw him I froze.  When women and children shriek at the sight of a little spider, I like to play it off as no big deal.  I assure them all is well and walk over calmly to remove it with a kleenex.  In truth, the poised assurance I offer indicates I’ve already peed my pants.  If I fell back to sleep, I knew this spider would dive bomb directly into my mouth or begin to chew my face off!  For all I know, it did.  Cleo was completely unaware and no help at all, so I laid there paralyzed.  I was so tired and disoriented I eventually fell back asleep.  Remarkably, I haven’t died yet.  

Irrational phobias aside, some of my real long standing fear has went along unnamed.  I hate this.  I prefer to walk about with some inner familiarity in life, as though I’m walking into the bar on Cheers.  Being afraid generally assumes we have somehow become conscious of something known or unknown, which seems worthy of panic or dread.  Fear of unknown outcomes or some identifiable situation is one thing.  But, I’m especially acquainted with the first more draining part of the phenomenon. 

It’s the part where you sense some ambiguous anxiety has set in but can’t fully see what’s wrong.  These emerging feelings are usually named worry or doubt.  And they may be well named.  However, our conversation with even these two is usually so brief it can barely pass for an introduction.  When we’re really frazzled, anything related to fear within our inner self hardly gets a willing glance.  Yet, it all remains with only a nickname.  This has me wondering if our most powerful fear wanders among the most hidden things within us.  If it does, I’m not so sure it’s meant to be treated as an intruder.       

We may be frozen, standing on the edge of a stuck, failing relationship; or feel the darkness of our circumstance pulling us into the deep, but at least there fear has emerged with a presentation of opportunity.  Must something change now?  At that point we form a response, whether intentional or not.  If nothing else we may pretend we’re fearless or shamefully refuse to acknowledge and converse with our fear, whether we know what exactly it is or not.  This must be why Jesus asks ridiculous questions of us at clearly inopportune times, like “Why are you so afraid?” (Matthew 8:26)  Oh Jesus, for God’s sake SHUT UP! I’m busy not dealing with the real problem!

After going nearly my whole adult life terrified of my answer to Jesus’ question, I’ve finally started listening to the resounding yet vague string of frustration tangling things in my life.  This year for Lent I knew I needed to pick up and carry my cross, to follow Jesus up the hill.  I felt the weight of it before I ever knew what I was carrying.  If I knew it would require me to expose any of it, I would have left it there on the ground.  But, I guess Jesus wasn’t afforded the luxury of bearing his cross in private.  So, I decided I would attempt to fast fear.  At the time I only knew I felt plagued by it.  I could feel its way of stocking my every hope.  Gathering what remnants of courage I had, I entered this season of dying with some discipline, trusting this part of myself would be lost as Easter approached.  As I took it from one pastor friend of mine, in its place I wanted to feast on whatever sources of love and strength I could find.  To my surprise, the journey has not called for an urgent retreat from fear, but a willingness to venture out alongside it, wandering among whatever else might be found near it. 

It’s been a rather uncomfortable ride.  It always has been really.  I sense the deep desire to reach out in vulnerability to a friend, but retract convinced he/she can hear my embarrassing inner racket.  I’ve told myself for so long it’s better not to move when something needs repaired, it’s easy for me to cancel travel altogether.  At least then, if the other decides I’m not the best ride-along I will be spared the hurt.  I haven’t given up though.  I know where I need to go most often.  It’s just that moving forward wholeheartedly will likely invite more potential breakdowns.  I’m sure I will hindered when  met with others’ judgment.  I will most likely be hurt and confused by their inability to see what is genuinely difficult to see in me or within themselves.  But, I think I’m tired of this way of getting around. 

Fear can get us to where we’re going, but we never arrive in the best shape; and sometimes it changes our destination en route. 

Lately, I’ve been getting around via different transportation.  One of Jesus’ good friends once said “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…” (1 John 4:18).  I like this.  I imagine this disciple whom Jesus loved has been around the same block I circle continually.  The love he speaks of here is divine in character.  It is something different and beyond us, which is precisely what we might lack and desperately need—to be seen, to be known.  Even if there was no one else, this love reaches out to us until our character is set free to match his, the One who keeps reaching.  It’s just hard to recognize and trust because love like this gently but intentionally touches everything frightfully painful as it reaches.  The inner racket continues as I write it, but I choose the risk of traveling by love.  Ultimately, our great effort to maintain the “safe” old mode of transportation wastes grace and energy.  Thankfully, we have friends who are awfully patient and are so willing to go along with us.

This is how it works I think.  I’ve been blessed with small experiences that confirm stepping through fear toward the connection I so desire is actually possible for me.  One of my aunts told me I don’t have to be annoyed by my fear and that I should let fear be a teacher.  Whether the teacher is fear itself or the ones who can stand in it with us, we can learn to greet whatever once paralyzed us.  In this way, fear doesn’t have to be feared.  What if we don’t need to fight or flee?  It doesn’t always lead to where we desire, but it’s still not a dead end.  There may be no fear in love but in order to learn to love and live in it, fear has something to reveal on the way.  

Christmas Weight Loss

“You guide me in your divine counsel; and once I have been grasped by it, 

I can finally know your glory.”  From Psalm 73,  A Psalm of Asaph

“The Word became flesh and lived among us; and we have seen his glory, 

the glory of the unique one from the Father, full of grace and truth…

He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, 

the world did not recognize him.”  John 1:14,10

What do you do when your second unborn baby has just died; and no encouragement, nor empathy offered to your supposed best friend seem to matter; and all your “I love yous” are met with dejecting silence; and in hope of reclaiming some meaning in life, you’ve emptied what’s left of yourself into projects at work only to realize it’s been for nothing; and at the close of the day, even the prospect of a restful night’s sleep is a tease of the end you wish was possible?...

…You make important life decisions.  You end up making choices that may dominate whatever time and remnants of energy you have left.  Choices you secretly trust will eventually bring the opposite effect of the numbing one they create most immediately.  Up late on that hopeless weekday night, you turn to the light.  Standing there, illuminated at the sight of what comforting gifts your old friend offers, you scavenge the fridge for a suitable late night snack.  But it still feels too dark, so your brilliance leads you further, toward an even brighter light.  Balancing your plate of microwavable promises atop your drink, you make your way through another dark room guided only by the light pulling you forward.  Finally, with a deep sigh you plop in front of the TV with that not so healthy snack in hand.  Once there, you decide you might as well begin watching LOST. You know, the TV series from a few years ago, which for many of us is probably as addicting as crack! Okay…well…this is what I did some time ago. 

It wasn’t long before the only place I found myself was somewhere inside the story of these fascinating people crashed and lost on a deserted island.  While I took another bite, they searched desperately for food and my mind wandered off with them.  Their island seemed just as mysterious as mine, where I sat alone and numb, waiting for my mind to desert my body long enough to finally fall asleep. 

I’m pretty well through the anxious spells from back then.  The ones where simply surviving another night, another week or month seemed like an accomplishment.  It’s a matter of years now, thankfully.  I’ve been relieved of the pathogen causing my prior disease, yet an all too familiar sickness still lingers.  Lately it’s symptoms are most apparent in the great contrast brought forth within the Christmas season. 

I really love Christmas time. Whether one is particularly religious or not, the Christmas season has a unique way of inviting joy and excitement into our hearts.  There are fanciful stories and family traditions.  Cheerful carols and children’s concerts, gift giving and getting, dark things set to life with color and light, everything seems to warm winter’s chill with long awaited feelings of peace and harmony.  But, it never seems to last very long.  A few weeks ago, I couldn’t take it anymore.  Or maybe I couldn’t take myself anymore.  To begin, I almost always end up eating way too much in all the gatherings and festivities.  The music eventually gives me a headache; and if I saw another jewelry commercial or heard “Every kiss begins with Kay” one more time I was going to swear at the TV!  Then, about the time those smaller things threatened to ruin my Christmas spirit, innocent children and other beautiful people are shot to death. What are we left to do? 

In the annoying irony that is my life, I recently found myself up late again, mindlessly wandering through the fridge and soon after, my Netflix library.  I couldn’t stomach any of the cute Christmas movies, so I kept browsing.  Somehow, without actually intending to, I realized I had committed myself to watching the entire series of LOST over again.  Of course, my poor habit of eating too much too late has accompanied this repeat LOST addiction.  Now, I’m in the middle of season four seriously pondering what’s wrong with me! 

In addition to the shame of occasionally eating myself into a food coma, I hate how I find myself relating with those lost characters again.  After fighting to survive and finally recovering some of me from the wreckage, I’ve trusted there would eventually be more finding than losing.  So, I hate it when time turns an otherwise pleasant and uneventful day into an anniversary of pain.  When something moveable and possible in life suddenly feels tethered and unlikely again it seems disappointment calls forth the subtle need for anesthesia.  Then, when more signs of sorrow appear than stars of great promise, it almost feels artificial, even impossible, to enjoy the joy supposedly arriving with Christ at Christmas. In fact, simply recognizing him here with us often seems far too heavy a task, which presents those tried and true weight loss plans as hopelessly attractive solutions. 

It’s strange how the symptoms of our sickness have the power to initiate a response reflective of our anxiety rather than the way to a cure.  The dream of new conditions and hope come to stay seems real enough that not being able to claim its actuality in our lives only awakens a response which pushes it further away.  We’d like to say “it is well,” and “plans will bring success and security,” and live at peace in all our relationships, yet our stretch for that awesome state may leave us more awfully estranged than when we had first begun. We’re even provided with a whole season to remind us of the healing cure and still, whenever we feel the weight of humanity’s sickness pressing down we can’t wait shed the pounds and box up the decorations.  Meanwhile, in the Creation-Christmas story from John, we’re reminded of something that changes everything and so our response must also change!  Glory has been made visible.  Glory—the transforming presence of the One whose weight and profound value transcend the very humble nature which he took on in order to display its fullness.

What if this whole struggle is meant to be part of Christmas? What if my not so secret ways of achieving this illusory weightlessness when there’s more grief than glory actually expose the space God most desires to heal within me?  Have I been missing you, Jesus?  How long have you gone unrecognized?  While I try to leave, you come to stay.  While I curse the weight of my humanity, you bless it and take it on once and for all.  I’m afraid I’ve spent so many years treating Christmas as some temporary pause for my spiritual restlessness I wonder if I’ve somehow interrupted the story you’ve meant to continue within me all along!  When did I, like Asaph, confuse my passionate reach for the kavod of YHWH with my desire to be someone other than the human you created in the sanctuary full of your divine glory?  When did I start confusing the weight of your image within me with that of the sickness distorting it? 

It’s impossible to fully celebrate Christmas if we refuse to live and love in the bodies Christ celebrated here and now.  After all, God chose a body and a home on the Earth, knowing a full display of glory could only be experienced if our humanness was recovered here.  So, it’s not enough to pass through life here in the world naming the struggle as why we’re not meant to be here.  Nor are we pointlessly enduring ourselves or others now, only to leave it all behind as though it was some test to see if we can handle being something other than human later. There’s something about this glory that both reveals the extent of estrangement and awakens its cure within us, even in spite of all temptations to be rid of it. 

And I wonder if it’s impossible to authentically live and love in any other day of the year, if our sickness guides us to reach for the condition which is not solely ours to grasp.  Perhaps, this is why we are in need of such a Holy Other.  We cannot lose the weight of our humanity because it’s not all meant to be lost.  We cannot ultimately heal our sickness on our own without also becoming less human through our desperate attempts. 

So, while the season, past or present, stalls us somewhere between hope of knowing the glory come to restore us and anxiety of not wanting to face what may need to be restored, there’s probably a humble prayer waiting to be lived…

Jesus, ground of all existence, you have chosen a mysterious way to heal and re-create.  I confess it is more involved than I prefer to be sometimes.  Please restore my interest in being me here and now, in spite of all else pulling me away.  Empower me to stop grasping for glory while wanting to be rid of it.  Guide me by your gracing presence and counsel me in your divine wisdom until I find myself grasped entirely by you. Recognize me until I recognize me as the one you so lovingly created. 

Thanksgiving Drinks

I am so thirsty!

Not too long ago, I could hear my voice drown out yours

whenever we cried out for this cup to be taken.

But, now I am anxious with thirst.

I’ve tasted and seen that you are good.

That you, beyond all others, are able to light, to create, to live

In the meaningless void that once threated to move to the center of my being. 

When I took the cup and drank it I knew it required my willingness

To follow you into the paradox of divine love;

Where darkness, dust and death become reminders of the center yet to be recovered.

But now my thirst is unrelenting!

It wasn’t that you chose my cup as your own,

Remotely inspiring me to go on; or assuring me that I am not alone from afar.

I’ve experienced you in both the presence and absence of love;

In love’s immanence and transcendence.

When I take the cup and drink it, when I receive the bread and eat it,

You are nourishing me with your very presence!

Love and grace are made tangible in the offering of your body and blood.

And I have never been more thirsty for you!

Oh Father, would you empower me to be light where darkness reigns?

To create alongside you where ashes and dust make unfertile ground?

To know the power of life resurrected while still knowing the defeat of death?

Christ, enliven me by your love until I find myself in deeper relationship

With all those a part of your body, and especially those who have yet to realize it.

Spirit, would you awaken us to sense your real incarnate presence

Around us, between us, within us?

Use this little cup one more time to love us, accept us,

And further mark the ugliest parts of us cruciform.

I’m so sorry it’s been so long.

Forgive me for being late to the table so often.

Please receive my thanks and praise today.

Satisfy my thirst, yet leave me wanting more forever…

Half Ounce Communion Cups

About a year ago at this time, I did not exist. But, somehow I made it to my Aunt's church in Boise to be with family after I had just been murdered.  Those puny plastic, single serving communion cups have always bothered me.  Something went awry theologically when churches started using those I think.  Thankfully, that little half ounce communion cup held all I could stomach.  When the time came and we were served, I froze.  And Jesus' prayer melted me and poured out...

How can such a small cup, filled with so little hold so much?

How do you use that sip of juice to stare back at me

and pierce my heart with that question once again?

It’s enough that I see my reflection in your blood so clearly. 

I am fully exposed. 

Isn’t it my place, my responsibility to simply be humble?

To thank you for offering the cup?

To worship you for the gift of grace

I could never find or manufacture on my own?

And yet you ask me before I drink in thanks, if I can even drink it?

If I am willing?  Will I drink at all?

Must I drink it to the dregs

to receive the love and graced promised within?

I don’t even want to look again…

Though I need to know some of my reflection will remain. 

I need that painful anger in my eyes! I want that rage and desire for vindication!

I cannot bear to drink knowing what it calls me to reconcile.

If I drink the cup, if I wash your broken body down with it,

I know I will be left to feel the emptiness...then I must feel.

Then I would see my lonely, empty cup,

the one that is cracked and damaged beyond repair.

I need the dregs Jesus!  To be safe, to hold on, to survive…

Mark…can you drink this cup…Will you?

Finally, I saw in my reflection not only my sorrow but yours again.

It was indeed the deepest darkest dregs of your anger and your pain.

LORD, only you know how one can suffer to drink this cup.

Only you know how to face the true state of things

where everything is painfully connected…

Sorrow and joy, pain and beauty,

the end and a new beginning, even death and life!

I can hardly stand to look into my own eyes here,

for I know once I do I will be undone.

Take the bread and eat it, giving thanks.  And take the cup and drink it with your brothers and sisters, with whom you are united in heart, mind and spirit through Christ.  Give thanks!

So, I eat the bread.  And I drink.  With great fear and miniscule faith, I drink

every last drop 

and in the moment grace shocked my tastebuds, I realize…

This little cup was yours long before it was ever mine.

And you still choose this cup as your own simply because it would be my cup.

I’m so reluctant, yet you have gone so far, so willingly, that you allow me

to be united with you in your suffering, your death, even your resurrection!

My sorrow is still your sorrow!  You suffer with me as I drink.  

I have not been totally abandoned!

You hear my doubt and fear.  My not wanting or knowing how I can bear to go on…

I can drink this cup, Jesus.  I am willing.  I must. 

As much as I wish it to be taken from me,                       

I will drink my cup of grief and follow you.