Holy Week: What We Learn from Looking into the Dark

March 30th, 2010 | 5 Comments

It’s Holy Week, a time in the liturgical year that draws Christians into and through great darkness. But there is plenty of darkness in the world—why do we need to invite more? I don’t relish the thought of entering into the stories of betrayal and fear, of manipulation by people in power and humanity’s willingness to extinguish a light. It would be easier to take if that had all changed now, but we know it isn’t so. Even knowing that this story has a good ending, it’s not an easy one to engage with.

I approach this week thinking, “not again.” Why is this, of all weeks, the one labeled “holy?” It’s a week filled with unholy actions as well as holy moments, like all of life. Why is its suffering and desolation what we choose to lift up?

Nonetheless, it comes ‘round every year. And like any observance that occurs with that regularity, it brings a chance to look at a familiar ritual from the slightly different perspective that another year of living brings.

This year, I’m noticing that the story shows how quickly things turn around: from celebration and adoration to arrest and death; from horror at the crucifixion of a beloved teacher to wonder at the empty tomb. The first Easter morning wasn’t yet a triumph, but it brought hope wrapped in mystery. What the disciples thought was over was made open-ended. Despair was replaced with questions that led them to a new place.

In this week of reversals we celebrate the consistent thread running through all of them. Jesus knew who he was and what he was about, regardless of how the world around him shifted. Reality wasn’t determined by the crowd’s response, good or bad, but by his certain connection with God.

He knew his time was limited and he knew what was important. When the world was growing dark he washed his disciples’ feet and shared a meal in a way that remains in our memory today.

Holy Week shows us that everything in the world comes to an end. But we can endure it, knowing that life moves beyond the endings we can see, and that darkness does not have the final word.

Do you find light in this week of darkness? What do you do with Holy Week?

Comments (5) | Finding Courage,Soul Tending Tags: , , , , ,

The Kaleidoscope of Divine Names

March 23rd, 2010 | 2 Comments

Names for God: Part 3 of a Series

The dozens of names used for God in the bible include beautiful and imaginative ones, evidence of long history and deep relationship with the Holy One beyond names. Each name for God stretches to articulate a particular experience of the sacred: beautiful, bright hope in Morning Star, the source and end of all in Alpha and Omega, the object of longing in Desire of All Nations, ever-renewing strength and refreshment in a Fountain, the steady certainty of a Rock, just to name a few. It’s interesting to scan such lists as the biblical names for God here, and names for the different aspects of the trinity here.

Jesus names his relationship with the source of life, strength, and guidance by referring to the divine as Father, suggesting a closer and more intimate relationship than the traditional Lord. He is also naming a divine relationship when he refers to himself as the vine and his followers as the branches.

The names we use are necessarily metaphorical—suggestions for ways of thinking of God based on something we’ve experienced of God and of the world. Maybe it is tender love, or transforming power; it could be a light in the dark, or a stone rolled away; it might be a new way of seeing our circumstances, or a sense of connection to another person. We say God is love, strength, vision, light, renewal, unity—all describe God, none is the final word.

Any name or metaphor reflects a single flash of perspective—one bit of colored light in the kaleidoscope of names, one of myriad possibilities for describing an experience or relationship with God. None is complete, so any name used exclusively becomes false. If God is always Almighty, then we may miss the still, small voice. If God is always He, then our sense of God is not only limited to masculine traits and roles, but to human ones. If the divine is just another being, much like another person only magnified, we may not be prepared to encounter other expressions of the holy.

Learning to use a variety of names for God has enriched my faith. My spiritual life grew deeper when I began to think of God in new ways, with new names. Allowing my understanding of God to grow has helped me to grow.

May the faithful ever continue to conceive new names for the divine, and may those names be accepted into living, growing communities of faith.

Are there names for God that you resist? What names are most resonant for you?

You might also be interested in:

Part 1: Post Cards from the Divine

Part 2: Naming the Ineffable

Comments (2) | Prayer,Soul Tending Tags: , , ,

Naming the Ineffable

March 20th, 2010 | 3 Comments

Names for God: Part 2 of a Series

Woven into the fabric of Hebrew tradition is the wise teaching that the name of God is never to be uttered. The powerful and mysterious name, given in the story of Moses’ encounter with God in the form of a burning bush, is usually translated “I Am What I Am.” It’s the designation of something more than we can grasp, not to be treated lightly. A reader of the Hebrew substitutes adonai, or “the Lord,” when reading scripture aloud.

Any other name denotes an individual we can know, someone with particular characteristics and habits, whose existence necessarily means limitations, a being among other beings. But this name is different, one that we cannot wield with understanding, a name beyond names.

I’m drawn to that mystery, but if God is beyond what can be named, it’s hard to know where to begin. How can I even think about, much less have a relationship with, the unfathomable source of life?

A sense of divine presence is somewhere to start, or the longing to experience it. The Psalms speak to that kind of knowing: As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. We can’t claim the stream, or apprehend its course; but we know our need for it and the experience of being refreshed by its waters.

And we have not only our own individual experience to draw on, but that of countless generations who have gone before. Many left their mark on the world’s faith traditions. When we find a line of liturgy or scripture or interpretation that resonates, we have a guide who helps us prepare for our own experience of the divine. We have gifts of poetry, art, and music that can open our hearts and point the way. The earth itself speaks eloquently of divine beauty, renewal, and creativity.

The unutterable name of God is spelled out everywhere, if only we can learn to read.

I’d love to hear about your experience. What stirs in you a sense of divine presence, or longing? Is it something you seek out in the rituals and routines of your life, or something that takes you by surprise?

You might also be interested in:

Part 1: Post Cards from the Divine

Part 3: The Kaleidoscope of Divine Names

Comments (3) | Paying Attention,Soul Tending Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Post Cards from the Divine

March 16th, 2010 | 2 Comments

Names for God: Part 1 of a Series

I had seen reproductions of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings long before visiting the d’Orsay in Paris, so I expected that viewing his work would be an encounter with something familiar. It never occurred to me that the originals might hold so much more than those reproductions could show.

It left me completely unprepared for the experience I stumbled into. I was stunned by the vibrancy, riveted by the color. The skies he painted came at me like a physical force.

Maybe it was having recently enjoyed the saturated blues of Mediterranean evenings; maybe it was the mindset of a traveler taking in everything new. I don’t know what opened me to the power of Van Gogh’s canvasses, I only know that I have never experienced color the way I did standing before his paintings. I have never had a sky brought to life and emblazoned on my mind in the same way. For twenty or thirty minutes I couldn’t take in anything else. I was left with an image, or more specifically a color, that overtook everything. That blue.

I bought post cards before leaving the museum—replicas of some of the paintings I had seen. They were pale imitations; the colors were wrong, the depth flattened out, the life drained. The reproductions were just reminders of what I had seen, nothing like standing in front of the real thing. But nonetheless I’m glad for the mementos. Years later, the post cards help me remember the experience of taking in the works of art and being moved by them.

I framed one of the Van Gogh cards and placed it on my desk. I love the image, the color, the conveyance of light, the sense of shelter. It gives me pleasure. I enjoy the framed post card, but it only hints at the power of the original. It doesn’t begin to reveal the divine inspiration Van Gogh conveyed on canvas. And I suspect that even his amazing painting would have fallen short of fully capturing the inspiration he felt, as works of art tend to do.

The words we use to talk about God are a lot like that framed post card. Our names for God are accessible, we can make them part of our lives, they hold meaning and beauty. We fit them into frames on our desks—in readings and hymns, conversation, worship and prayers. But we miss out when we confuse those names with the real thing. We cut ourselves off from the experience of the divine when we think that the little image in the frame is the object of our longing or the expression of our desire.

We need names for God, yet any name for God is a placeholder, a reminder of what will not fit in the frame, what cannot be named.

Is “God” a name that suggests the ineffable for you? What name are you drawn to using?

You might also be interested in:

Part 2: Naming the Ineffable

Part 3: The Kaleidoscope of Divine Names

Comments (2) | Creativity,Paying Attention,Soul Tending Tags: , , , ,

A Church of Unknowing

March 6th, 2010 | 2 Comments

I’ve just finished reading Karen Armstrong’s The Case for God (Knopf, 2009). It’s a big book to wade through, but the clarity and grace of her writing make it a pleasure. Even more, her ideas stimulate my own thinking. I won’t try to do a review or a summation, but here is one aspect that resonates with me.

One of the gifts of The Case for God is that Armstrong articulates clearly how the modern Western mind came to equate truth with certainty, knowledge with logic and definitions, and credibility with science. Even more, she shows how this way of thinking resulted in a notion of God disconnected from the heart of religious longing.

Rather than allowing language and logic to carry us to their limit, then point us toward the mystery that cannot be named or known, we settled for a list of God-traits. Our idea of God defined a being, with specific attributes, sitting at the next-higher level of creation. In Armstrong’s words:

The process that should have led to a stunned appreciation of an “otherness” beyond the competence of language ended prematurely. The result is that many of us have been left stranded with an incoherent concept of God. We learned about God at about the same time as we were told about Santa Clause. But while our understanding of the Santa Claus phenomenon evolved and matured, our theology remained somewhat infantile.

We need an understanding of God that holds up to our experience, and allows us to build a life around our faith. Armstrong points to the work of Gianni Vattimo and John D. Caputo as thinkers who embrace a way of seeing God that can speak to our time. She mentions in her notes a collection containing works by both of them, After the Death of God, edited by Jeffrey W. Robbins. I haven’t read it, but I’d like to.

This is how Armstrong describes Caputo’s view of our experience of God, and the unknowing that is “truth without knowledge”:

So how does Caputo see God? Following Derrida, he would describe God as the desire beyond desire. Of its very nature, desire is located in the space between what exists and what does not; it addresses all that we are and are not, everything we know and what we do not know. The question is not “Does God exist?” any more than “Does desire exist?” The question is rather “What do we desire?” Augustine understood this when he asked, “What do I love when I love my God?” and failed to find an answer.

An encounter with such mystery leaves us open, without certainty, thrillingly alive and humbled with awe. It points us to a reality that transcends our ordinary experience, calls us to be awake, and encourages us to seek ways of living out the ineffable truth that we are given.

Is it possible to live out this kind of truth in community? Can a church be built on faith that professes uncertainty and not knowing?

Comments (2) | Books I'm Reading,Paying Attention,Soul Tending Tags: , , , , ,

Opening and Closing Rituals

March 1st, 2010 | 6 Comments

With the closing ceremony of the Olympics complete, we’re now released from the 2010 games. We take the stories with us, but it’s time to move on.  A closing ritual helps us go forward when something good is over. The games are declared closed, but the ceremony also points toward the next host city, and the gathering four years distant.

The pair of opening and closing ceremonies marks a container for the experience, elevating the events they frame. We need a moment at the beginning to say, “Let the games begin.” It helps us see the undertaking as part of something larger. We need closure at the end, a way to hold together the diverse events in a unified experience, making them part of us before we let them go.

Our lives hold many small rituals for beginnings and endings: lighting the Christmas tree, the last night of vacation, baseball’s opening pitch, a minister’s benediction, housewarmings, graduations, groundbreakings, memorials. We set those times apart because we know they’re important. At the same time, we are reminded they’re important because we set them apart.

Even our simple routines at the day’s opening and closing matter. These rituals reassure us as we gather strength in the morning. In the evening, looking back on our efforts for better or worse, they help us put the day to rest. Sunrise and sunset, though they rarely delineate our waking and sleeping, nonetheless offer a relevant ceremony. They form a vessel that contains our lives—a day—to lift up for a blessing, or healing, in grief or gratitude.

A day has meaning. It’s what a life is made of. So I’m considering ways to mark the day’s opening and closing with a small, sustainable, and meaningful ritual.

Does it work to make one up or does it need to evolve naturally? How does a ritual become meaningful?

Comments (6) | Soul Tending Tags: , , , , ,

The Need for Retreat

February 26th, 2010 | 2 Comments

I’ve been working with other members of The KaBooM Writing Collective this week, planning a one-day writing retreat that happens tomorrow. It’s exciting to work with the possibilities that a day can hold, and I look forward to what will happen during those hours.

Retreats of any length are all too rare. A week or month is the classic model, and good to aspire to. But it’s not easy, and often not possible, to check out for so long. Shorter retreats are more accessible, though finding even a single hour out of the day’s course can be a challenge. An entire day is a pretty big deal for most of us, and I appreciate those writers willing to set that time aside.

Claiming any time at all requires attention and commitment. Even the intention to retreat is evidence of a change we’re already making.

Once we do that, a retreat unfolds differently from everyday hours. It’s a time entered hopefully, with openness to surprise; it’s lived out expectantly, but without an agenda. Retreat is a time we prepare for, but without planning what will transpire. It’s a time of asking a question and waiting for the response; allowing something new to happen and paying attention to the movement of the spirit.

We need to enter that mindset often to keep our spiritual and creative life nourished. Prayers and practices in everyday life help. But looking back I see important growth, in both my spiritual and artistic life, from the renewal that comes from retreat. Time taken off from “being productive” ends up generating the most productivity of all.

So I see the day as full of possibilities. We’ll enter our writing through the doorway of the senses, bringing life to words by being centered in the body. We’ll ground ourselves in a particular moment through focus on the physical, sensory experience of being alive. The context of a day of retreat adds another element as well: a chance to connect to the spirit that breathes life into our lives and our work.

The question I’m asking is, What new opening will the day bring?

Comments (2) | Creativity,Soul Tending Tags: , , ,

The Message in a Misquote

February 18th, 2010 | Click to Comment

I learned from reading at Sacred Miscellany that the popular wisdom rendered as “Music has charms to soothe the savage beast” is actually a misquote of the original, and more interesting, “Musick has Charms to sooth the savage Breast,” from a play by William Congreve.

We learn to fight the beasts “out there,” scarcely acknowledging the struggles taking place within our psyches. No wonder we’ve misread the line. Yet, as Paul knew, the demons within our own breast are always present, and deprive us of peace with far more consistency than the snarling enemies out in the world.

Our culture’s outer directedness has altered the line, but we pass along the misquote because we’ve experienced the truth of the original. Music does have the power to calm and comfort us. It offers courage and inspiration. Music can touch us profoundly in a way that nothing else can. Even if we’ve never faced down a tiger using a stereo speaker, we believe it will soothe the savage beast because we know it has soothed us.

George Winston’s December CD is one I return to again and again for its power to soothe through the clarity and tranquility of his piano. What soothes your savage breast?

Comments (0) | Soul Tending Tags: , ,

The Practice that Yields Spring

February 16th, 2010 | 2 Comments

Winter seems endless about now. Even as the days grow longer, the snow piles deeper. With no discernable effect on the temperature, the returning light seems powerless over the season.

Yet exactly the right things are happening to bring life to a frozen landscape, even if the wintry scene appears unfazed. The earth continues its cyclical journey, progressing through the incremental changes that carry us into spring and the miracle of a new season.

But if spring were dependent on human motivation, it might be a different story.

If I committed to a vision and faithfully took a small step toward it every single day, I would want to see something happen. If I had begun a practice at the winter solstice, I would want to see some evidence of change by now. I would suspect I was wasting my time unless I could see some tangible result. Without that, I would probably be tempted to quit.

And then how would spring ever arrive?

I’m asking myself what small steps I need to be taking now. What does springtime look like for you, and what kind of steps might carry you towards it?

Comments (2) | Soul Tending Tags: , , , ,

Small, Gentle Ideas for Observing Lent

February 11th, 2010 | 3 Comments

The forty days of Lent, a time of spiritual preparation leading up to Easter, begins next week on Ash Wednesday. So I’m considering a discipline to take up for the next few weeks, though I have to admit that the word “discipline” feels pretty oppressive right now.

Back when I observed Lent by giving up something, such as desserts, I was glad for the reprieve on Sundays—they aren’t counted in the forty days of fasting. One of the best results was that Sunday became particularly joyful. Maybe that’s reason enough to go the route of sacrifice.

But I approach the Lenten season differently now. I see it as a time for study, or service, or entering into a new spiritual practice.

There are many great ideas for Lenten practices available. John Arnold’s ideas for Lent at The Practical Disciple is a good place to start. I especially like his innovative approach of carrying out forty bags of excess stuff in forty days, literally making room for the movement of the spirit in our lives.

But this year, I need a tiny idea. I’m not sure I’m up to anything more. A new project or a new practice simply feels too daunting.

Reading a psalm a day is one possibility. I could keep my bible on the table and read while I have coffee in the morning. It’s simple, not intimidating, and the psalms are rich in imagery, language, and spirit.

Another possibility is a practice I’ve recently encountered in several different places. If you’ve ever heard about a wonderful book from three different friends in the same week, or encountered a new idea that immediately come up in another context, you’ll understand why metta has my attention.

It comes from the Buddhist tradition, and is translated into English as lovingkindness. It’s a simple meditation, connected to the breath.

Breathing in, I cherish myself.

Breathing out, I cherish all beings.

Its practitioners find that metta cultivates acceptance, openness, connection, and charity—lovingkindness. Mary Jaksch at Goodlife Zen teaches about this practice in her post, “Can We Learn to Be Happy?” Jan Lundy at Awake is Good offers encouragement for using this meditation in her Day 25 Meditation Challenge: “Why I Do Metta.”

It can be used at the beginning of prayer or meditation, or while waiting for the tea to brew, the light to change, or the elevator to arrive.

This year, I’m looking for something to slip unobtrusively into my life, as some people carry a pocket cross. How are you thinking of observing Lent?

Comments (3) | Soul Tending Tags: , , ,
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