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.

Good Friends from the Garden

 “…Then the Lord God said,

‘It is not good for the adam to be alone like this;

I will make for it an equal partner who will rescue this one from loneliness.’

So, from the clay of the ground,

God shaped every animal of the land and every bird of the air,

and brought them to the adam to see what it would call them;

And whatever the adam called every living creature, that was its name. 

So, the adam gave names to all the animals,

and the flying creatures of the sky, and to all the wild creatures of the field, 

but the adam could not find another being like itself,

there was no power the Lord God thought suitable for the adam

It still was not good, not complete. 

So, the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon this one

Who still stood alone in the garden…”

(Genesis 2:18-21 paraphrased)

This has to be one of the most overlooked scenes in the drama of the Creation stories!  At least when kid’s hear the stories, you can almost see their imaginations bursting out of their little bodies.  You can see the garden getting crowded in their eyes while all sorts of fury friends join the party.  As this human wanders the garden, animals are brought in and each one get’s its own special name.  It’s like the most enchanting petting zoo ever!  I love the old Creation stories from the Hebrew Bible.  But, somehow the full version of this little part of the story often get’s left out.  When I was younger, someone failed to let my imagination run as far as God intended.  So, I’ll make up for it now. 

The writer, director and main character all in one unfold the drama like a potter at play with his clay, “The Lord God formed the adam from the adamah and breathed into it the breath of life; then the adam became a living being.” (2:7)  This living creature was different from all the other living things in the garden. It was filled and animated by the same Spirit that hovered over the primordial chaos from before.  But this one from the dust, even with the source of life itself in it, was alone.  The project of Creation approaches its climax in this one, but humanity and all of Creation is incomplete until the clearest reflection of the image of God is seen in two standing face to face…together.  God, who is communal love, knows the work of creation must continue until there are two.  They were to be male and female, both created in the image of God, each held together so intimately they could not help but celebrate with the One who brought them to one another.  Yet, before the house lights came on and everything that is in the heavens and on the earth erupts with wonder and praise, there was a serious snag in the process.

The story seems to show God in great distress when it’s clear that for the first time in the whole creative process, something is “not good.”  So, in some moment of creative panic or purpose, God makes all the animals and brings them to this almost human hoping it would find the companion God intended all along. 

What was this?  Did God run out of colors to use in this great cosmic painting? Was God seriously improvising, fashioning one animal after the next trial and error style?  These creatures were among those the adam would care for and have dominion over.  What game was God playing here?  Surely, no suitable partner could be found among these.  This is more than a snag in the story. This seems like a Creation experiment fail on God’s part!  I mean how many tries does it take God to get it right?

Evidently even God needs second chances. Or maybe God knows true love requires such a great search on our part that it must ultimately be sustained and fulfilled by God’s boundless grace in presenting us with an other so similarly unique no one else and nothing else could compare.  I find new peace as I trust God is still at work creating in a process that once seemed to end in failure.

Still, my imagination leads me to wonder if this lesser told portion of the story should really be interpreted as failure. Perhaps, the real end was fulfilled through this part of the drama.  We were meant to find ourselves in a multidimensional relationship with our planet and all the living things that are a part of it, just as we are in relationship to God, ourselves and others.    In the story that plays in my imagination, this part of the creation experiment awakens us to the great joy and responsibility seen in our deep relationship to other creatures. 

Meet Cleo, my eleven month old dog.  I’ve had other dogs before and I miss them dearly, but Cleo has been a delight.  Cleo’s a Vizsla (vee-sh-la).  Among other qualities, they’re known for their unending energy, loyalty and drive to hunt along side their companions.  Cleo is no exception.  When I found Cleo, I knew she’d stretch me with her desire for action and need for purpose in life.  Yet, I could not have imagined how close she and I would become this early in life. 

When she turned five months old, I discovered Cleo had osteosarcoma, or bone cancer.  The news came like one more cheap shot blow from life.  Given how incredibly rare it is for a puppy to have this cancer, I couldn’t help but wonder if everything I touched in life would be destroyed.  I chose the no treatment route and decided we’d try to make the most of her six month life expectancy while she was still strong. 

Meet Cleo, my eleven month old cancer dog.  It’s amazing how even less sophisticated animals seem to find a way to survive.  Today, you’d hardly be able to tell she’s been diagnosed with cancer.  She hasn’t lost a step yet. I’ve learned so much in my relationship with her.  I’m sure other pet owners can relate, but I think God loves to love us through friends like Cleo. 

For the most part, Cleo lives in the moment.  While I struggle and worry over the past or future, Cleo reminds me my best energy is spent in discovering what the present could be like.  When I’ve been tempted to lay down in the most hopeless realities of life, she has a way of lying down with me, but is quick to search for a new and worthy reason to get up and move.  When I’ve grown weary on the trail, Cleo sprints ahead like life depends on it; yet only far enough to where she can still hear or see me.  It’s not long before she runs back to pull me forward as if I must see what’s ahead.  Along side Cleo, strangers on the trail become friends and you learn to trust the pack as family.  All the while, Cleo’s learning to follow as I learn to lead more intently.

I can hear some say, “Well Mark, this sounds nice; cute really. But you realize, you’re just finding symbols and insight into life from an animal that is so much simpler, primal and driven by instinct compared to another human being.”  Hear me say, “Exactly! Isn’t it beautiful?”  I don’t pretend my relationship with my pet is anything near what I experience in community with other people.  And as much as I love Cleo, I’m sure I will still not know the love imagined in the Creation stories until I’m surprised with one whom God will celebrate in saying, “This is very good.”  In the meantime, however, I’m profoundly thankful for the contagious energy and adventurous spirit I share with one of those animals I imagine was brought into the garden to join the community. 

Time Travel Orientation (Part 2)

I like walks.  Walks to nowhere are nice, but I especially enjoy walks to places.  I might actually like places more than walks.  So many of my walks have successfully carried me away from something to someplace where I could sort through some things.  I particularly like places that allow me to escape from things so I don’t have to worry about the walk back to the things.  When I’m feeling courageous enough, however, I will travel back to the places I used to walk away from in order to invite the possibility of seeing the old place become like new. 

Whenever we’re fortunate enough to find or return to someplace like that, we might be met with the gift of new potential.  We may be faced with possibility for both our perception of the memorable space and perhaps the space itself to be preserved or transformed.

One of my favorite walks was to my old high school football field in Notus, Idaho.  After loosing it in an argument with my parents one night or reaching some stressful point of no return, I would take the half mile trip to wander around the field in the dark and pray.  My routine visits had this way of assuring me I would find some hope in my current or past situation. But truthfully, the majority of my trips to the field weren’t about dealing with life’s problems. Most of the time I would walk or jog the field, getting intimate with all the areas where I would elude the defenders in my next game and make the game winning the touch down.  I visualized the routes I’d run, the catches I’d make and the memorable plays that would go down in school history as the greatest.  If I could rehearse the moves and visualize my success in advance I would be able to handle any challenge ahead.  This place somehow enabled me to look backward and forward.  Yet, I’m pretty sure I just looked like a lunatic out there, sprinting around in the middle of the night, spinning, jumping, winning imaginary games with my invisible teammates.  I’m so embarrassed just thinking about this now!

Though I usually can’t locate it in the moment, I’ve always held a clear expectation that my sight will be the most fulfilling source of refreshment on life’s journey.  “If only I could reach the top and behold the vastness of the summit, look out and see no end to the sea…then I will find order in my chaos; I will finally see my past pain under a new light.  Then, I might be given the same peace that’s been made visible to me.”  I suppose I’ve depended on my sight for so long, I’ve secretly come to consider it my primary way of interpreting the past and leaning into the future.  Yet, it is usually the fog, the necessity of realizing the limits of my senses, that the Spirit uses to speak on my walks.  It’s usually my chosen way of perceiving the world that blurs my vision.  My plan by which I will treat my old wounds ends up being the obstacle. 

I wonder if the greatest limits to our senses were our own expectations? 

What if the assumptions or expectations providing order in our journey are the very things limiting the senses we need in order to make our way through the storms of suffering?  What if it was true: “Faith is being sure about what we’re hoping for, while still being certain that we can’t see it really happening.” 

One of my favorite authors talks about traveling back in time to find healing from past hurts with a familiar experience.  We wake up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water but must walk through the pitch black house first.  Our eyes are open, straining to make out shapes and shades that could indicate we’re heading in the right direction.  Our hands go up and out ahead of us like extensions of our eyes. We know the way because we’ve traveled it before.  Yet, we’re surprised in the worst possible way when we stub our toe on the table we swear someone must have moved into the path on purpose!  Then, just as we reach the end of the black minefield, we bash our funny bone on a corner that appeared out of no where! Even if we get our drink of water, we conclude it was so not worth the pain.

Still, on the walk back or the next time we find ourselves facing the dark in order to get to a future, we can slowly become aware of where some of the painful memories, comments, rejections and reasons for us to quit are located. We will not be able to bear looking at them all at once, nor could we as they aren’t made entirely visible to us.  In fact, rather than wishing or waiting for all the lights to come on or to see anything at all, we must submit to the reality that there are other means of finding our way. 

But, God knows, walking into darkness doesn’t exactly feel like a productive use of time. I mean God knows, even though one can learn from the past and enter it long enough to trust there’s a future beyond it, if he sticks around in the dark for too long it could end badly.  After listening to some friends tell about moments from their week, my heart ached as I was reminded once again we are not always in control of our time traveling. 

At the most random, inappropriate times, Grief can suddenly transport us back into the hell or bliss of a particular memory.  Something relatively mundane or meaningless somehow has power to send us back to a place so great or horrible we can barely stand it.  Without notice we can be rushed to a panoramic display of memories and experiences all at once; and we are forced to watch it all go down and feel more than we can handle in a lifetime.  Here, Grief is no friend guiding you gently back and forth in time.  There is no Ghost of Christmas standing nearby as a faint companion, offering answers to our questions.  Rewind, fast forward, slow, pause and play are nothing but cruel jokes.  In this time travel, we feel completely alone.  The only thing we’re oriented to is our own scream: “I want off! Get me off of this thing! I’m gonna loose it—stop it—LET ME OFF!”

It’s difficult to know what to say in response to that type of time travel.  There’s no anecdotal advice or formula to stop or avoid the process.  The serious lack of control over it is real.  I can only confess, while this dizzying travel is part of the process, it has not been permanent for me.  Their relationship is a bit ambiguous, but I think Grief has a friend who was out there spinning in time with me.  I’m not sure how, but today I feel known by Him.  She’s never taken anything away, but sustained me through it all.

In all likelihood we will stub our toes on the same things time and time again.  The pain may be no less intense each time.  If you’re anything like me, there may be nothing causing you to stumble and you’ll still manage to trip over yourself.  But, whenever the other’s trespass comes to mind, whenever the pain or numbness sets in at the thought of what’s gone, we are faced with an opportunity.  No one or thing can take it away from us as it presents itself in both pain and pleasure, in sorrow and joy.  The opportunity emerges as we allow our other senses to inform us of where the causes of suffering exist.  It’s found not in our efforts to eliminate the cause but in our search for what potential for life the cause secretly carries behind it.  The next time we approach the once delightful or pain-filled reminder, or it surprises us with it’s appearance, it may be no less frightening or dreadful.  However, we can become familiar enough with the space that we can stand to pass old things on our way without stumbling…as much.  Then, with whatever miniscule bit of faith we can claim, as blind and irrational as it is, we can eventually sense the opportunity and the possibility it births. 

My walks have come with unanticipated and unpleasant realizations.  I’ve been surprised as they’ve taken me to more mysterious places than vistas with crystal clear answers.  So, there’s probably no coincidence nearly all my newfound reasons for life and a future have come as I face my limits for what they are.  In ways I least expect it, the Spirit is gracing me enough to reach places where I stop expecting things from life and start accepting new responsibility to it.  Today, my hope is to find others to walk with along the way.