hearing is believing

I'd been told they were there. Indeed, I'd even been told exactly where to look. Take the boardwalk trail to the right, into the woods, and follow it around to the back. That was the best place to find them. And this, in its beautifully stark bareness, was the best time of year to try to get a peek. At least two had been spotted together on more than one occasion, I'd heard. I was hopeful that perhaps with a brief prayer of favor from above, I would catch at least a glimpse

And so it was that I drug my whiney, ill-tempered family out on a cold, damp, gray February afternoon to the very back of Innis Woods Metropark in my excited search for pileated woodpeckers. Ignoring their protests and complaints, I plunged forward into the forest with all three of them in tow, my eyes scanning the tops of deadwood trees, my ears pealed for the familiar cry or the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat that would give them away. I was certain we would see something. Or at least I was hopeful.

Pileated woodpeckers (think Woody the Woodpecker from an age of kindler, gentler television), for those who are not familiar, are the largest of the North American head-banging, wood-pecking family. Over a foot and a half tall on average, with a wingspan of over two feet, this is not the average downy that comes to rest on your backyard feeder. Not by a long shot.

They differ from the downy, and many other smaller varieties as well, in the fact that they are a bit more reclusive in nature. While the average hiker might see several downys or red-heads or red-bellies on a marginally attentive walk through the woods, it's not often you see one of these really huge, really funny-looking, really cool birds. In fact, I've only seen them once in my 40 years (an event which greatly amused Tom's Aunt Rhoda on one of our trips to the beach, who could not figure out what on EARTH I was so excited about!), hence my anticipation once I learned of their easily observed presence nearby.

We searched for about an hour, making our way slowly and deliberately around the half-mile loop, but in the end it was to no avail. While we saw several other varieties and sizes flitting about and banging their heads, Woody eluded us, all but for his distinct call and his thunderous tapping. Hunger and spitting rain overruled my desire for a second time around the trail, and we headed home having heard but not seen what I'd gone out in search of.

As we stood in the back of the woods, hands cold and binoculars fogging over, scanning the treetops in the direction of the insistent tapping, it occurred to me the metaphorical nature of this quest. Much of this past year has been spent pursuing, looking for, that which I had heard of and could hear in the distance but could not see for myself. Now here I stood, literally looking for that which I could hear and had heard of, but remained unable to see it, despite my patience and best efforts. The irony was not lost on me. I began to question just what it was, exactly, I was supposed to see here.

Normally, this event would have left me disappointed, as many events do—particularly those that do not turn out according to my expectations. (Which would be, of course, most events, given my tendency to expect too much…) But in that quiet space, punctuated by their percussive interludes, I attempted within my heart to try on a different response for size.

The reality was the pileated woodpeckers were there. Of that, there was no doubt. I could hear them clearly, and I could distinguish their calls from all the others. The evidence of their presence was apparent. I could hear it. Just as I at times hear evidence of God, even when I don't catch a glimpse of it. I could choose to be disappointed that I did not see them (or Him), or I could choose to be content with knowing their presence was there and we heard it, and with knowing that if I am persistent, perhaps one day I will be rewarded with a glimpse.

It is hard sometimes to reconcile a belief system that maintains we "live by faith but not by sight" with a Savior who placed so much emphasis on seeing, both physically and spiritually. I have struggled in guilt for 40 years over my desire to see, to experience, that which I hear and hear of, fearing this was evidence my faith was lacking. In the end, I've concluded I don't think it's wrong to want to see, but more importantly I've concluded I can't devalue the hearing simply because it is not sight, nor can I say that His presence isn't there simply because I can only hear but not see. It is a perspective I can make fit, at least for today.

In the end, I did not see what I came in search of, but I did find it. Perhaps this shift is significant. Perhaps I can learn to value that hearing is experiencing. And perhaps, if I am persistent, I will come, in time, to experience fully the measure of all the fullness of God, and my faith and my sight will be one and the same.

working the soil

(wrote this the last morning of my retreat as i watched robert, my new parish farmer friend, prepare the ground for planting. it is both metaphorical and literal. you may interpret it whichever way you please...)

Clay is not the
best soil within
which
to plant seeds.
Dense and unyielding to the
touch of mere hands,
it resists all
advances, rebuffs all
attempts to turn and
till.
And yet, the gardener toils on--
the back-breaking work of
redemption, worked
clod by heavy
clod.
Overturning that which is
on the surface (revealing
how shallow are
its roots),
the earth is laid bare--barren
and
broken before all--
vulnerable and
exposed.
Reverently and tenderly, the
gardener persists, nurturing this
valuable plot of
potential--
mattock in hand, patient and
undaunted.
There is much to be done--
much that is missing, much to
be reintroduced in this
restorative work.
He applies the refuse of our
lives to the
surface, working it into the
soil, trusting it will provide what
is needed. Trusting that--
in time-- the ground will soften
to his touch and
receive the tiny vessels of
life he is eager to
deposit.
Trusting that--
in time-- all will be
redeemed and the
soil in his
care will
bear
fruit.

matins

Almighty and Eternal God,
So draw my heart to you,
So guide my mind,
So fill my imagination,
So control my will
That I may be completely devoted to you.
Then use me as you will:
Use me always for your glory
And the welfare of your people.
This I ask through Christ. Amen.


May this be realized in me today, Lord, as I work to bring the first portion of this process to completion. Amen, and amen!!!

the midday office

Direct me, O Lord, in all my doings with your most gracious favor, and further me with your continual help; that in all my work begun, continued, and ended in you, I may glorify your holy name...

I have written six chapters, three and a half of them in the last two days, and yet I still sit down to my computer every time with the fear that I will not be able to write.

Come, Lord, come! Chapter seven awaits!

morning prayer

Breakfast behind me, I return to my room, nervous and uncertain. I place my hands upon the keys—feel the wind though the window, hear the birds, the dogs, the motorcycles, sense the expectation in the air, in my body, in my spirit—and I wait.

Lord God, meet me here. In my quiet, in my typing, in my thinking, in my not-being-able-to-think. I invite—I implore—you to come.

believe

Of all the Christmas movies we've collected over the years, I would have to say the one that impacts me the most is the one I least expected. The obvious inspirational choice would be The Nativity Story. The obvious tear-jerker would be The Little Match Girl. Our favorite comedy is still, even after all these years, A Christmas Story. And for an all-around feel good movie, White Christmas, staring my beloved Bing Crosby, is my all-time favorite, hands-down.

We bought The Polar Express because Buddy had a thing for trains. Period. That was my only interest in the movie, and that minimal interest was only by proxy. I didn't see it in the theater, because Buddy was too little to go, and, as already mentioned, I wasn't really that into it. The hubby and Bub went alone. The following year it appeared in Buddy's stocking, and the first year they watched it I wasn't even at home. I don't remember when I finally saw it for the first time, nor do I remember my initial response. But I eventually grew to find enjoyment in the movie, and in even more time, great insight. As in, this year it smacked me upside the head. Hard.

The Polar Express chronicles 8 or 9 year old Hero Boy's angst and adventure filled Christmas Eve. Hero Boy, having been raised in a "believing home," is experiencing, on this fateful night of all nights, his first major crisis of faith. Anxiety clouds his once-innocent face, for now, for the first time, there is Doubt. And Doubt, as we all know, is a Fearful Thing.

Hero Boy wants to believe. Desperately. You can see it on his face. It is evidenced in his running to catch the train, in his conversations with the creepy apparition he continues to encounter, in his frantic effort to make it to the square before midnight. Hero Boy needs for this to be true. But he is desperately afraid it is not.

He is afraid it is not true because Confusion has entered the picture, introduced by older, more "mature" boys, eager to destroy youthful dreams for a good laugh. Confusion introduced him to Suspicion, Suspicion brought his twin brother, Doubt along, and the rest, as they say, is history. Innocence is lost, Faith is shattered, Shame soon follows, like a tag-along younger sibling, eager to be included with the Big Boys. Hero Boy is, as we might say, a hot mess.

Once aboard, Hero Boy's shame grows as he encounters other children. There is the poor boy who almost doesn't make the train—Christmas has never come to his house before. What reason would he have to believe? His doubt is legitimate. He waits until the very, very last minute, as the train is leaving his home, to attempt to come aboard. While his doubt is warranted, his hope wins out. Hero Boy, recognizing Hope, pulls the emergency brake and the child is able to come on board. Hero Boy remains perplexed. Hope and Doubt battle it out internally. Will Hope secure the victory for Faith? Or will Doubt take him down, scoring another win for Unbelief?

Next he encounters a whiny-voiced bespectacled boy who annoys Hero Boy with his endless questions and even more endless answers. Hero Boy appears frustrated to not be able to answer with certainty, a fact that does not go unnoticed by his nasally counterpart. The more he presses, the more Hero Boy's shame grows. He knows what he's been taught. He knows the "right answers." Why can't he answer these questions? And if he can't answer the questions, does he even deserve to be here?

Then there is the movie's heroine—a beautiful, serene African-American girl with a wise and peaceful manner. When tested, time and time again, her faith does not diminish, but instead, it grows. Hero Boy beholds her with quiet wonder and a little bit of awe. He appears to not quite be sure what to make of her, yet obviously admires her, and, in the end, grows to trust her, and her judgment, as well. But until then, she makes him uneasy and uncertain about himself. Were her own certainty not growing throughout their adventure, this could have proven fatal to them both. Fortunately for each, she continues to press toward Faith, leading the way, should he choose to follow.

These four children find themselves, eventually, at the North Pole, though not where they are supposed to be. A harried attempt ensues to find the Square and make it there by midnight. Hero Boy's anxiety is at near-fever pitch. Not only is he worried what he'll find (or not find) when he gets there, he's now worried he won't even get there. Doubt and Confusion have brought along their friend Chaos, and the children barely make it to the square in time.

While one would think that finding oneself not only in the Square, surrounded by elves, but in Santa's sleigh itself (in The Bag no less) would begin to ease Hero Boy's doubts. But Doubt tends to have a tenacious hold, and it is not letting go. As the clock nears midnight, the crowd whips into a near-frenzy. "You better watch out…" The reindeer begin to pull at their harnesses. "You better not cry…" Hero Boy's eyes are wild with fear. "You better not pout…" Have you ever heard such a beautiful sound? the heroine asks of the bells on the reindeer's harnesses. Hero Boy looks at her, incredulous. Hear the bells? "I'm tellin' you why…" A bell comes lose from the reindeer's harnesses, rolling across the square and landing at his feet. It makes no sound. "Santa Claus is comin' to town!!!"

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and the crowd goes WILD. Hero Boy is frantic. Even in a crowd of elves, he cannot see. He jumps and leaps and springs, darting in and out of the crowd, looking for a spot between heads from which to catch a glimpse of that which once seen will bring Believing. He is crazed. All around him, people believe what he cannot. People see what he cannot. People hear what he cannot. You can see in his eyes that he just might become acquainted with Hysteria that night—he is that close.

He brings the bell to his ear again. No sound. He stares at it for an instant, then glances back through the crowd to the bobbing red hat that draws near. Near tears and breathing heavily, the crisis is fully visible on his face. But Hope hasn't left him, now whispering in his ear above the din. He hears her, and he obeys. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his profession: I believe... I believe... I believe.

He opens his eyes, beholding the bell with anxious anticipation, and he raises it slowly to his ear and shakes it.

The bell rings.

The rest of the story is irrelevant to me, save the lessons each child learns, neatly punched on their tickets for each to consider. (You'll have to watch the movie to discover them—I can't give away everything, after all.) For me, the scene in the square is not only the climax, but the resolution. Hero Boy has seen (and heard) and believed. Crisis over. Faith restored. Ah, but how does that pithy little saying go? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed...

This scene epitomizes, expressed in a way I could never articulate, my own very personal struggle with faith. I know what I've been taught. I know what I believe to be true at the core of my being. But time and time again, I find myself surrounded by excited, bell-hearing believers, and I stand there, shaking the bell, chanting "I believe," and time and time again, I hear nothing.

I would love to be one of the blessed. I would love to simply believe, without the blessing-stealing benefit of sight. I would love to "know that I know that I know" about God's love. Not for you—oh no, I believe it for you. You, after all, hear the bell. No, for me alone, in my twisted little neuroses, is the bell silent.

For Hero Boy, Hope prevails and Faith wins. Saying it becomes meaning it becomes believing it becomes hearing it. In real life, it doesn't always happen that easily. Part of my ramblings this year will be my attempt to make friends again with Hope, having given up on her sincere but ineffective entreaties over the past several years. While the fundamentals of my faith are all there, there is much missing in its personal application and experience. Hope is my first step. I take it tentatively, bell in hand (or in pocket—the one without the hole), and brace myself for the ride.

All aboard—the train doesn't wait forever, after all. Got a schedule to keep. Midnight is around the corner…

a smattering of haiku

I came across several finished but not shared poems as I sorted through my scraps of inspiration this weekend. Thought I'd share a few:

i cannot control
that which should be con-
trollable to me

*****
banging head on wall
blood covering my forehead
the wall does not move

*****
red-stained rag in hand
you speak to me mystery—
“my grace is enough”

*****
two glasses iced tea
and an iced café mocha
make one sleepless night

*****
touch my fingertips
to the sun-speckled surface…
oh, to go deeper

*****
waves lap my heart’s shore
awakening the senses,
bringing refreshing

*****
tired, longing for
divine initiation—
come and move in me

*****
anger and mercy
do not mix where i come from—
i cannot trust you

*****
brush-strokes uneven,
painted into a corner—
no where else to go

*****
low-lying black clouds
limit visibility
obscuring my view

*****
listen as silence
whispers to my heart—all else
clamors to be heard

what's in a name?

I first met Much Afraid in my early twenties, introduced by a mutual friend who adored Hind's Feet on High Places and, as usual, determinedly wanted me to share in her delight. The more she persisted, as was her nature, the more I resisted, as was mine. Perhaps it was the dated cover image, perhaps it was just a subconscious attempt to say to her "I am not as like you as you'd like me to be," but, for whatever the reason, I just wasn't interested.

I don't know why I picked up the book years later, nor do I know when. All I know is that the timing was right and the story was even more so. How this author knew me so intimately, I'll never know. But there is was--the inner workings of my heart--played out in allegorical form for all to read. I have never related so strongly to a story before, nor have I since.

Hind's Feet on High Places tells the story of little Much Afraid, a crippled and disfigured young woman who lives in the Valley of Fear with all of her Fearing Family relatives. Much Afraid loves the shepherd who comes and tends his flocks there, and as he befriends her, he begins to tell her of the High Places upon which he roams. She longs to accompany him to these High Places, but is certain her disability will prevent her from ever being able to do so. Finally, however, in a moment of desperation, as her relatives attempt to force her to wed her cousin Craven Fear, she goes away with the Shepherd and accepts his promise that he will make her feet like the feet of the deer.

The story is an allegory of the spiritual journey many of us embark upon when we set off to follow Christ and become, in our feeble and lame attempts, more like him. Her journey could not have possibly been any more relateable to me. Given Sorrow and Suffering as her companions, she heads off on her way, only to discover that the path leads her AWAY from the mountains, not toward them. This is but the first of her detours as she is pursued by her Fearing relatives who are determined to bring her back, lest their darling son Pride be wounded. Deserts, desolate beaches, sheer rock cliffs, and fog-enveloped forests are but some of the things she must endure as she learns Acceptance with Joy and Bearing the Cost. They are lessons hard learned, but unlike me, who would still be standing at the very first crossroads stomping my feet, she does, indeed, learn them.

Much Afraid makes it to the High Places, though the journey is not what she at all expected. But Fear cannot abide with Perfect Love, and so she must be given a new name to mark her tranformation. The Shepherd changes the names of her travel companions into Joy and Peace--the companions she had wished for all along. And upon our little Much Afraid he bestows the title Grace and Glory, and she is so overcome she cannot speak.

For years I prayed that God would transform me from Much Afraid into Grace and Glory. It was the cry of my heart for nearly a decade. And then I got pregnant.

As I began to search for a name for my firstborn, I scoured every name book I could find. Finally, one day, the thought dawned on me that I should look up my own. I flipped through the pages, headed for the L's. There it was: Lorie. I did a double take.

Lorie: Literally Crowned With Laurels; Victorious, Glorious Victory. Hmmm... Very interesting.

I moved on to my middle name, flipping back to the A's. Finding Anne, I gasped.

Anne: Grace.

Grace. Glorious Victory. Grace and Glory. How was this possible? How did my parents, seeking merely to add a unique spelling twist to a popular name of that period, name me EXACTLY what I would pray for later in life? But the story gets even more interesting, thanks to my friend Kim.

Sometime in my early growing up, I decided I did not like the name Lorie. I can't remember why. I just didn't. And so I announced this to my mother, decrying her choice and lamenting Why did you name me that? "That's fine," she responded with an impish grin. "We'll just call you Gertrude instead."

And so she did. Gertie stuck, and was my nickname for nearly twenty years. Fortunately, I have a good sense of humor, and even more fortunately, I actually liked it. To this day, I will still sometimes sign cards to my mother with this moniker, and have even made it a part of my current email address. Which is why Kim knew this additional namesake, and, I'm assuming, why, when reading a recent post in which I lament not being able to live up to my name, she must have looked it up.

It is no secret I have lived much of my life feeling defeated. It is also no secret that I long for this to change. I long to stand, both here and in eternity, with the crown of laurels upon my head and know that I have seen the victory over all that has bound me. Victorious over my fear and anxiety. Victorious over my lifelong fight with depression. Victorious over my struggle with my weight. Victorious over my struggles with food. Victorious over the chronic pain. Victorious over selfishness and pride. Victorious over marital depreciation. Victorious over the voices in my head that tell me I can't, I shouldn't, I won't. But how? How does one who has lived as Much Afraid find this victory? It is amazing to me how my mother has aptly named me not once, but twice.

Gertrude, Kim informs me, means Beloved Warrior.

When I read her comment, I laughed out loud at the God who put my name upon my mother's heart over 38 years ago, knowing I would pray years later for such a name and countenance. And I laughed even louder at the wonder of a God who named me yet again, years later through this same woman, for me to experience, today, in a moment of need, Him pressing yet another reminder of how he sees me onto my war-weary heart.

So you must excuse me, as I must be off to climb a mountian. Renewed in strength, I will take the hands of my companions and trudge forward. After all, the High Places await...

the women's retreat: a haiku

fully clothed, we came
expectant yet uncertain--
longing for your touch

ten in a circle
hearts bared in the dark of night
unzipped and undone

freedom followed tears
joy came with the morning light...
we left, buck-naked

more martha hiaku

still struggling to find/make time to write, but i will figure it out. managed to write these during my quiet time last night:

can't sit still

sitting at your feet
doesn't come naturally--
can't we walk instead?


kp duty

i putz around in
the kitchen while you are there,
patiently waiting

duties, desires--
all my own, warring within...
i've not chosen well

up to my elbows
in my own mess, i beg thee:
teach me the "one thing"

yielding

(subtitled: Did I Step In Something?)

"The first thing I must be willing to admit when I begin to examine what controls and dominates me is that I am the one responsible for having yielded myself to whatever it may be... There is no power within the human soul itself that is capable of breaking the bondage of the nature created by yielding... No release or escape from it will ever come from any human power, but only through the power of redemption. You must yield yourself in utter humiliation to the only One who can break the dominating power in your life... It is easy to sing 'He will break every fetter,' while at the same time living a life of obvious slavery to yourself. But yielding to Jesus will break every kind of slavery in any person's life."

Excerpted from My Utmost For His Highest, March 14

it's all in my head

I’ve been sick so often since my youngest child was born that I’m beginning to have to grasp at straws in order to look for the bright side of this situation. My latest attempt involves likening my spiritual life to a sinus infection. In it’s most basic form, the theology goes something like this: I’ve got so much gunk in my head, I can’t think straight. Therefore, I feel like crap. It ain’t Augustine, but it works for me at the moment.

The Word indicates often that the thought life is the root of much of our trouble. That being the case, I seem to have developed a rather insidious strain that is particularly resistant to antibiotics, and it is wrecking havoc with my health. I no sooner clear up the symptoms than another infection rears its ugly head and I am down again. I worry—about my weight, about my finances, about my children, about my relationship with God. The germ enters my system and before I know it fear, discontent, and entitlement are racing full-blown through my bloodstream. I am sick.

I want to get better. But I am powerless. There was an old commercial for some food product that urged us to Eat all you want, we’ll make more! I’m convinced whatever creates snot in our heads works for the same product label. Blow all you want, we’ll make more! I take my thoughts captive as often as I blow my nose, discarded Kleenex and thought-particles all over the nightstand and floor, but my head is still full of both. No amount of striving brings change without a healing agent at work in my head.

Saline rinses, one person tells me. Oil of oregano capsules, says another. Echinacea, vitamin C, zinc lozenges, Airborne, mushrooms— I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. Bible reading plans, journaling, memorization, fasting, prayer—I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. I’ve got to try harder, I tell myself. The answer is out there somewhere, preferably in a conveniently-packaged pill form—that is the promise, is it not? Take this, you’ll feel better. But I’m not feeling better, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Finally at the end of myself and my medicine chest, I invite the Holy Spirit to do what only He can—to heal my weary head. I implore Him to clear out all that is not of Him and restore right thinking, clear breathing, proper functioning, and overall health. Bring healing where my best efforts have failed. Enable me to breathe again. I’m tired of sitting on the couch with a box of Kleenex—I want to get on with my life and stop blowing my nose. I am ready, Lord. It’s time to clear my head.

fulfilled

He had told them. He really had. All of it. He had been quite clear, in his somewhat obscure kind of way. The misunderstandings. The mistreatment. The beating. The crucifixion. The death. The resurrection. He had told them all, but they hadn’t believed.

Few, if any, truly understood this man from Nazareth. Few, if any, grasped his mission in the days before its fulfillment. They saw him as they wanted to see him. A king. A leader. A revolutionary. They looked to him to set them free from the oppression of Rome. He appeared to have failed. But they had forgotten what he told them.

Now they were alone. Grieving. Confused. In fear for their lives. He was gone, and with him all their hopes and dreams. What would they do now? Shock. Disbelief. Denial. It was not supposed to happen this way.

Or was it? The words he had spoken were washed from their memories—a watershed of tears brought on by the events of the last few days. Promises seemingly unfulfilled swirled in rapid whirlpools within their minds, threatening to sweep away belief and drag it under. They had trusted and believed, but in what? In him, or in what they thought of him? He had told them—did they not hear, or did they simply not believe?

In rare moments of honesty I recognize I am no different from these fragile-minded fools—hiding away in my self-pity, grieving in my forgetfulness the loss of an ill-conceived dream while behind heavily-guarded stones heaven turns hell on its heels. Quick to doubt, quick to fear, quick to flee. Which of us do I describe? For like them, I forget—in the dark of suffering’s night—what I have been told.

And like his first followers, I, too, stand bewildered where a boulder should be, dumbfounded by the emptiness of the tomb. I feel Mary’s confusion and fear, Peter’s skepticism and anticipation. I hear in Thomas’ voice my own, saying, "Unless I see … I will not believe it." And I feel my own cheeks flush when Christ appears, responding, “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

He told them. He told us all. Pages of promises and prophecies—fulfilled in our sight—and yet some of us still do not believe until our eyes have beheld and our flesh has felt and our feeble minds have formulated the necessary evidence. We misunderstand and we misinterpret and we make Christ into what we want him to be—then panic when all does not go as we think it should, fleeing in fear and disbelief as if we’ve never heard the Word of God.

But there is a blessing that comes from believing that extends beyond our circumstances. Life conquers death. Hope conquers despair. Joy conquers fear. Belief conquers doubt. As it is written, so it comes to pass. Promises and prophecies—fulfilled.

The tomb is empty—he stands now before us with nail-pierced hands. The divine “I told you so.” The question is, will we believe?

John 20: 24-29

martha and mary, installment three

(See Installment One here, and Installment Two here)

In exasperation, she blurted out what she assumed to be obvious— “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The plea in her voice was unmistakable—surely he would help her. Surely would jump to his feet and make things right. Surely he would appreciate all that she had done. But he didn’t move. She stared at him bug-eyed, breathless from her outburst, and tried desperately to read the look in his eyes.

“Martha,” he began. “Oh, Martha…”

The tone in his voice stung with its sweetness. She had not expected sweetness—she had expected anger. Indignation. She had expected rebuke. But the look in his eyes—what the look revealed caused her to draw in a startled breath and grasp the doorframe behind her. It was not anger. It was not indignation. It was pity. Pity. She was thoroughly confused before he even began to address her.

“My dear Martha,” he answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.” Things began moving in slow motion, his words coming in slow motion, her thoughts forming in slow motion. Only one thing is needed? “Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” Mary had chosen what is better? What?!?!

It was inexplicable to Martha how the blood could drain from one’s head at the same time one’s face flushed with heat as if on fire. In front of our guests… oh, Lord… how could he? He paused for a moment, as if waiting for her response. Martha remained frozen, mortified, the red of her neck deepening to near purple. She looked down, then back up again, as if hoping they had all disappeared. Her sister regarded her, puzzled and hurt, and she could not even look at the others for fear of their familiar scorn. “I’m sorry, my Lord. Please excuse the interruption.” She backed away through the steadying doorframe, looking up just long enough to catch the sadness of his expression as he lingered on her face before turning back to the others.

She turned and fled to the kitchen—once her confining cell, now her refuge. Tears, a betrayal of her pride, came like a torrent and she smeared away their presence in Pride’s defense. Lazarus came and stood, tentatively, in the doorway, a worried look out of place on his young, peaceful face. I do not need your help—be gone, she hurled, wounding him in her self-pitying fit.

Storm clouds gathered in her mind—huge, threatening skies bore down upon her countenance. You are worried and upset about many things. Flash! Kaboom! Mary has chosen what is better. Flash! Mary has chosen what is better. Kaboom! Mary has chosen what is better. KABOOM!!! She was drenched in the downpour of emotion, tossed about by high winds of confusion threatening to uproot her.

She had expected a rebuke, and it had come—but to rebuke HER? What had she done wrong? How was that fair? She was only doing what needed to be done! How were they to eat, hungry as they certainly were from their travels, if she chose to saddle up next to Mary and listen to him go on and on about things that made no sense to her? The least will be the greatest? Has she not been the least? She deserved some help! She deserved some appreciation! Some acknowledgement! And he REBUKED her!?!?

She began heaving dishes out from the oven, slamming them down on the table—hot and steaming, she and they alike. Only one thing is needed…you are upset and worried about many things…only one thing is needed. What on earth did he mean by that? Of course she was worried! She had a household to maintain and no family to help when times were tight and the land unyeilding. She had property to protect, with neighbors encroaching upon her boarders daily, pressing in, taking more that did not belong to them, and she, helpless to do anything about it. And there were certainly no suitors—not after her parents died and her uncles absconded her dowry, Mary’s as well. There was nothing. No one. No one else was going to take care of them. Of course she was worried!

And, truth be told, she was angry! Angry over broken engagements, deathbed swindling, pitying townsfolk with their superior, married attitudes. Angry for the burden she bore as a child of fifteen, some twenty or more years ago—still bears, daily, to this very day, with not an ounce of help or appreciation from anyone. Angry with the Lord for taking her parents. Angry with her uncles for taking their inheritance. Angry with her betrothed for taking her heart and reputation. Yes, she was worried and upset about a great many things. A great many, indeed! Who could blame her?

How could he blame her?

(To be continued)

martha and mary, installment two

…she was shrewd in the marketplace, skilled with the ledgers, gifted in the kitchen, and favored by the land. But in the end this earned her not respect but disdain from both men and women alike. Now that the Teacher was here, however—now that would all change.

But not if I don’t get some help in here, Martha fumed, her cheeks flushed from both irritation and exertion. She did not begrudge her siblings the responsibility she bore for them—indeed, she bore it with a certain air of martyred pride. She knew she was competent—no, more than competent—she did more than three women and she handled the burden placed upon her as if it had been made to fit. But a burden made-to-fit was a burden nonetheless, and there were days when the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm her, which vexed her to no end. And when Mary pulled stunts like this, well, the burden became a chaffing aggravation and Martha rubbed with bitterness and resentment.

Looking down at her flour-covered garments, Martha indulged the self-pity rising up within her. Surely the teacher must notice how she leaves the work to me. Surely he will say something. It is not right for her to sit there doing nothing while I slave away in here! Surely he will rebuke her. The thought buoyed Martha’s spirits for a moment, but as time went on it became clear no such rebuke was coming, and her anger began to boil over, making a further mess of the kitchen. He didn’t seem to care, either! No one seemed to care that she was taking care of everything while everyone else lounged at his feet, listening to his senseless stories that mystified her and caused her to shake her graying head with confusion.

What good were stories? What good did they do them? Did they pay their taxes? Did they put food on the table? No! They merely stirred up dreams and visions in the hearts of her siblings, rendering them more useless than before, increasing Martha’s burden and frustration. Stories, indeed! She had a family to provide for—she had no time for such foolishness. After all, if she didn’t take care of matters, who would? The town had not offered any help—sure, they pitched in for a few months after her parents’ deaths, a few of them for even a year or more—but where were they now? Even the cousins had disappeared, only coming around when they needed something, as if there was anything to spare. No, there was no time for sitting at the Master’s feet… not when there was work to be done. And for Martha, there was always work to be done.

Ouch! Martha looked down at her finger, blood mingling with the juice of the vegetables she’d been slicing. Her eyes stung with tears that she wiped away as quickly as they came. That’s it! She slammed the knife down on the table, gathering up her skirts and dusting off what flour had not sunk into the cloth of her garment. Hair askew and face aglow with anger, Martha marched into the room where the Teacher sat, Mary at his feet, just as she had predicted. He looked up at her with surprise as she stood there, breathlessly, waiting for him to speak, to offer help, to apologize for the thoughtlessness of her sister. He cocked his head to the side, questioning her with his eyes, not certain what she wanted from him.

In exasperation, she blurted out what she assumed to be obvious— “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The plea in her voice was unmistakable—surely he would help her. Surely would jump to his feet and make things right. Surely he would appreciate all that she had done. But he didn’t move. She stared at him bug-eyed, breathless from her outburst, and tried desperately to read the look in his eyes.

“Martha,” he began. “Oh, Martha…”

(to be continued)

martha and mary

Part one of a piece inspired by my women’s group discussion on the same topic…

The clay vessel landed with a hard thud on the wooden surface, leaving yet another dent in the well-worn tabletop. Where is my sister? Martha’s agitation had gotten the best of her over half an hour ago, and the table was not the only inanimate object suffering for it. She slammed another bowl down as she hastily continued her preparations, not entirely caring who heard her banging about. Why doesn’t she come help me? They had guests to look after—important guests—and, as usual, her sister was conspicuously absent from the kitchen.

She wiped the sweat from her permanently-furrowed brow, leaving behind a trail of flour quickly hidden by the loose locks of hair continually escaping from behind her ears. Does she not know who we entertain? Hosting the Rabbi would bring honor to their marriage-less home and redeem them if only a mite in the eyes of their fellow villagers. It was imperative that all be perfect—they must be pleasing to the Master. Of all days, couldn’t she at least help me today?

Martha knew exactly where she’d find her sister, had she even the time to go looking for her. Far more interested in the exchange of ideas than in the management of the home, Mary would undoubtedly be with the men. Never mind that it was inappropriate—that it wasn’t her place to sit among the scholars at the foot of the teacher—no, Mary was not bothered with notions of propriety in the slightest, in fact, she barely even seemed to notice. But Martha noticed. She noticed a great deal.

It is true that Martha resented the lack of help. But even more than that, truth be told, she resented the attention the men paid to her sister, treating Mary as if she were an equal. Did Martha not run their household as efficiently and effectively as any man and woman combined? Did she not provide well for herself and her siblings? She was shrewd in the marketplace, skilled with the ledgers, gifted in the kitchen, and favored by the land. But in the end this earned her not respect but disdain from both men and women alike. Now that the Teacher was here, however—now that would all change…

(to be continued)

advent

Throughout my life it has been my good fortune to experience the story of Jesus with every turning of every year.  The number of the years of my unfolding age is also the number of times I’ve traveled with my Lord from his birth to his death to his triumphant rising again.

And because the story has been more than told to me; because it has surrounded me like a weather; because it comprehends me as a house does its inhabitants or a mother does her child, the life of Christ has shaped mine.  My very being has been molded in him.

And because my response to this story has been more than an act of mind, more than study and scrutiny; because the story invites my entering in and my personal participation; because I have experienced the life of Christ with deeper intensity than I have my own daily affairs, the Gospel story now interprets for me the world’s story.  It is through the Gospel narrative, as through a window or a template, that I see all things, that I relate to them and come to know them.

In every sense of the phrase: I find myself in Jesus.

As I enter his story, I enter him.  As his life embraces mine, he embraces me, and I am his.

Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Preparing for Jesus: Meditations on the Coming of Christ, Advent, Christmas, and the Kingdom

unto us a child is born (isaiah 9:2-7)

Sweat begins to form on her forehead,
her breath coming faster and faster,
her heart beating faster and faster,
her pain coming faster and faster.
Young and inexperienced,
weary and frightened,
alone and ill-prepared—
she shudders as
labor begins.

…there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress…

Hands strengthened from his trade now
ache from her grip as she
wrestles with her discomfort,
wrestles with her apprehension,
wrestles with her body.

…you have increased their joy, they rejoice before you…

Waves of pain overcome her—
waves of fear threatening to undo her as she
now knows that of which
every mother has a terrible tale.

…..of the increase of his peace there will be no end…

There is no rest now—
no catching her breath,
no pulling herself together
as the child descends through her lower regions,
leaving her womb,
his head pressing forth into the night air.

…on those living in the land of the shadow, a light has dawned…

Her irrepressible cries echo in the darkness,
anguish and agony shadowing her young,
delicate face—
followed by the wail of the newborn, piercing the dark night.

…shattering the yoke that burdens them…

Trembling and spent,
she gingerly reaches for the tiny child—
putting her parched lips to his blood-stained head—
and with fatigue and love in her voice
she tenderly whispers his name.

…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…

Relief comes to the young mother—
her exhaustion given over to sleep,
her distress given over to peace,
her pain given over to joy—
and she smiles a soft smile as
she cradles
her son
in her arms.

…For unto us a child is born…

living beyond myself

“This is the true joy of life: being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature rather than a feverish and selfish little clot of grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”
George Bernard Shaw

A fresh wind is blowing through my home. Maybe it is the breeze, finally allowed in through windows opened wide after weeks of stifling heat and humidity, causing the curtains to dance with their new-found freedom. Maybe it is the smell of green and the symphony of crickets drifting through that cause my heart to stir from its slumber—to yawn wide-mouthed with an expansive stretch and consider, for the first time since I don’t know when, getting up and getting dressed. I am awakened by the current. Stirred. Refreshed, even. Maybe it is a cool front moving through.

Maybe it is something more.

There is a peace that both stirs and settles—a passionate peace as Eugene Peterson refers to in The Message. It is new to me. Is this what contentment feels like? I must confess I have not been very intimate with contentment. Not yet. But I have introduced myself, and I hope he may stay with me sometime soon. “Nothing will steal your contentment like self-absorption.[1]” Perhaps that is why he and I are not better acquainted.

“Debilitating self-interest” I have unfortunately known much more intimately. At his bidding, I have thrown myself on the floor of life kicking and screaming to get my own way. I have believed that it was, indeed, all about me. I have disengaged from life when life would not devote itself to making me happy. I have bought full-price the lie that my faith entitles me to a get-out-of-suffering-free card. I have complained and whined and pouted and moped and, quite frankly, put my two-year-old to shame.

Yet somehow, things are shifting. In a world of MORE, I am finally moving toward less. Spending less. Eating less. Wanting less. Complaining less. More of you and less of me we sing sometimes in our worship. It is happening in my life.

Stirred, yet settled. I know enough to know this is not of my doing. Just as certainly as I cannot make the breeze blow through my window, I am incapable of such change on my own. God works within me with an all-surpassing power to will and to act according to his good purpose. (2 Cor 4:7, Phil 2:13) There is a greater power at work here. And for once, it is okay to want more.

A fresh wind is blowing through my home. The Holy Spirit has blown the windows open wide, coursing full-blown through my life—giving purpose where I am purposeless and giving power where I am powerless. Changing my heart. Using me up. Enabling me to live beyond myself.

A new front is, indeed, coming through.

[1] Beth Moore, Living Beyond Yourself, Introductory Audio Session, 2004

wanting more...

Don't love the world's ways. Don't love the world's goods. Love of the world squeezes out love for the Father. Practically everything that goes on in the world--wanting your own way, wanting everything for yourself, wanting to appear important--has nothing to do with the Father. It just isolates you from him. The world and all its wanting, wanting, wanting is on the way out--but whoever does what God wants is set for eternity.
I John 2: 15-17 The Message


Lord, help me to want what YOU want me to want…
My cry is for more of YOU…


Why is everyone hungry for more? “More, more,” they say.
“More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day’s end I’m ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.
Psalm 4, The Message