Why I come here

As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting (Psalm 103:15-17)

Too soon they will be gone. Wild daisies, four feet tall, cover the forest floor beneath the canopy of old oaks 70 feet tall and more.

Filtered light casts rays amid shadows on the forest floor, as the woodchip trail leads deeper into whatever mystery the woods hold for me this day.

Star-bright yellow blossoms celebrate in dappled light, seizing the day, as if they know cooling temperatures signal the end of their praise to the mystery of their Maker.

I come here to see them, already planning other hikes on other trails where I might take in their brethren, shimmering whites and blues across forest glens where my heart leads me less often than is good for my soul. Soon they, too, will pass away.

But I am here now and being here now is what most matters. I come to see and hear and feel and love the love awakened within, for which I praise the One who sings in forest flowers.

Strewn across the forest floor, the golden profusion accompanies my steps, stretching around the next bend and the next and the next, green and gilt melding together in a wash of impressionist delight.

Each blossom a saint of God, praising the Love who called them out of nothingness to light my way home into the Love for which I long.

White oaks and basswoods soar above like giants of holy faith. Spreading their arms, sheltering the life of all that flowers, fades and passes into yesterday, they strain toward the Mystery who has haunted my heart since I was a boy, wondering: what is this ache within me?

Out here, I know. It is not for the flowers and trees, but for the love they awaken that is not of my own making, but which is the other self I am, the self beyond ego and striving, the self who wants only to love, to know love, to be love, to be one with the utterly Nameless One who is Love.

The mystery of our lives is ‘Christ in you, the hope of glory,’ St. Paul (or one of his followers) once wrote. Out here, I know this Christ not as someone to believe in but as the Love beyond myself who is pleased to inhabit my mortal flesh, moving me to want nothing but more of the same.

So, I continue on, my boots scuffing the woodchip trail, a blessed pilgrimage away from all that clicks and beeps and shouts and flickers from digital screens.

Each step is a sacrament, a taste of the Everlasting Love who sings to me in the flowers, shelters me under the oaks and unveils the divine face in the merciful compassion of Jesus, my brother, who bids me to come here and abide with him.

A cruel and radiant beauty

We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He who does not love abides in death. (1 John 3:14)

I should be grateful, but I’m not much good at being thankful for pain and worry. I could say circumstances produced the hollow chill in my heart that refuses remedy. But that’s not true.

The malady is deeper, elemental. Love.

You never know how much you love someone until something happens that threatens to upend their life, their future, their safety, their happiness. Then, you discover the cruel and radiant beauty smoldering in the inmost chamber of your heart.

In that holy burning, you feel what it is to be alive, filled with an undeniable love long seeded in the soil of your soul, now grown so great that you no longer possess it. It possesses you. You … or some significant part of you … has become love.

Why would we want it any other way? Who are we if not the loves we love, the loves that carry us beyond ourselves to ache and work and worry and give our hearts away, there to discover that this is life, the only kind of life worthy of the name.

I most admire those, like Jesus, who loved … and loved to their end, fully, completely, so that at the end there was no more left to give, or so it seemed. I’ve known more than my share of this, the truest of all beauties.

I pray to find my place among such souls, knowing that my weak heart has a long way to go, if ever to shine with the radiance of the love that embraces pain with gratitude for the beauty of loving.

But here I am, walking love’s stony path, like so many others in so many places, praying and feeling helpless to soothe the soul and grant safe harbor to another heart as precious to me as my own.

This is the way the school of love works—a hidden, excruciatingly slow process of microscopic movement out of slavery to self and into love’s radiant light. The moment we risk loving anyone we enter a curriculum laced with the lilt of laughter and the anxiety of hoping that all will be well, fully aware that there are no guarantees.

Except love, of course. For in the cruel and radiant beauty of loving, we abide in the Love who draws us from death to life, perhaps especially when the days are hard and the nights are long.

Light savers

We declare to you what we have seen and heard so that you also may have fellowship with us; and truly our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. We are writing these things so that our joy may be complete. (1 John 1:3-4)

The air has been heavy, threatening rain, every morning this week. Lush little branches with many-fingered leaves sprout in the sultry air on the locust limbs arching over the sidewalk. Feathery ferns, tender as baby-flesh, they coat the dark arms with the dewy fresh growth of Eden, creeping up to the fork where a dove repairs her nest after recent storms.

She flies across the street, picking twigs and wood chips from the neighbor’s mulch for her rehab project. Weaving them into her domicile, she flies off for more, repeating the process for as long as I care to watch from my perch on the balcony.

Watching is what I’m here for, whispers a silent voice within, stirring a thought: It’s what we are all here for.

We are here to watch and see and listen, to touch and testify to whatever light, life and beauty we see.

Only so, do we become truly human. Only this satisfies the Love who lives at our core, the Love who is our true self, children, as we all are, of the Love who first smiled on Eden.

Sharing what we have seen and heard breaks the ancient spell of selfishness that separates us from each other and hollows out the joy which God intends for us.

God is light, First John writes, the light in all that is light, which is to say the love in all that is love. The light and love whom God is … appears in every life, touches every heart, seeking to wake every sleeping soul to feel and know the Loving Mystery by which and for which we are created.

We are … or can be … light savers for each other, gathering up the moments, holding them to our hearts and sharing the light that touches our lives. For what we have seen and heard, what we have touched and hold dear, is our gift, no, God’s holy gift, to be shared with hearts close to us and perhaps strangers on our way, all of whom are no less needy that ourselves.

For the fulfillment of our humanity is not known in splendid isolation or the sweetness of morning reflection, holy as that is. Our soul’s delight is the joy that engulfs our hearts when the light who shines on our lives is shared.

All that is light draws us toward the Loving Mystery who is from the beginning and who shines most fully in the gracious face of Jesus, the Son of this Holy Mystery, whose unfailing love is the fullness of our joy.

Beyond the needles

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  (Matthew 11:28)

I didn’t feel the needle when the phlebotomist slipped it into my right arm. She likely knew exactly when to ask a question to distract me from watching too closely. Or maybe she is simply deft from long practice.

She filled two vials with my blood before I knew what was happening. What was happening, however, went far beyond the needles. In fact, it is still happening. I am haunted by her voice.

‘I’m terrible,’ she said at one point during our three minutes together. ‘I’ve got to get back to my Bible reading.’ She shook her head and repeated her judgment, ‘I’m terrible.’

Whoever this person is—and whatever her name, since I didn’t catch it—she is a million miles from terrible, which, caught off guard, I assured her, fumbling over my words.

“You’re not terrible,” I said. ‘That’s only one way to commune with God. There’s prayer, being in nature, talking with friends.’ My voice trailed off, failing to find words to say what I felt but couldn’t get out.

‘Yes,’ she responded, cutting through my awkwardness. ‘I talk to him.’

Catching my eye, we nodded, and within seconds I was out of her chair as a dozen others waited for their turn.

Half way across the parking lot, when my brain finally kicked in (five minutes late, like always), the words for which I stumbled finally appeared in my heart. ‘You’re not terrible,’ I wanted to say. ‘You are beloved. There has never been a day of your life when God has not delighted in you.’

How I wish I had those words at the tip of my tongue, ready to speak in that moment. How different our lives would be if we were ready in all times and places to offer this, the heart of God’s love, amid our bitter, cynical times when the Holy Name of God is blasphemed to justify hatred, division and cruelty.

I cannot know how she would have responded. But I would have loved for her to have heard that one word, ‘beloved,’ hoping that it would fall like a seed in her heart and grow.

For your heart, O God, surely hungers for her to know you have cherished her since before the dawn of time. And I, Lord, want you to tell her that the other voice, the one that says,’ You’re terrible,’ is a damn liar. For your love is the core truth of our existence.

Maybe then, she can read her Bible not as a spiritual obligation to be performed (and to feel guilty about when she doesn’t do it), but as an opportunity to listen to the Voice of Love inviting her to come home and rest.

I need to go back to the clinic next month and have more blood drawn. I hope she is working that day. I’d like to hear how she’s doing. And there’s something I’d like to say.

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  (Matthew 11:28)

I didn’t feel the needle when the phlebotomist slipped it into my right arm. She likely knew exactly when to ask a question to distract me from watching too closely. Or maybe she is simply deft from long practice.

She filled two vials with my blood before I knew what was happening. What was happening, however, went far beyond the needles. In fact, it is still happening. I am haunted by her voice.

‘I’m terrible,’ she said at one point during our three minutes together. ‘I’ve got to get back to my Bible reading.’ She shook her head and repeated her judgment, ‘I’m terrible.’

Whoever this person is—and whatever her name, since I didn’t catch it—she is a million miles from terrible, which, caught off guard, I assured her, fumbling over my words.

“You’re not terrible,” I said. ‘That’s only one way to commune with God. There’s prayer, being in nature, talking with friends.’ My voice trailed off, failing to find words to say what I felt but couldn’t get out.

‘Yes,’ she responded, cutting through my awkwardness. ‘I talk to him.’

Catching my eye, we nodded, and within seconds I was out of her chair as a dozen others waited for their turn.

Half way across the parking lot, when my brain finally kicked in (five minutes late, like always), the words for which I stumbled finally appeared in my heart. ‘You’re not terrible,’ I wanted to say. ‘You are beloved. There has never been a day of your life when God has not delighted in you.’

How I wish I had those words at the tip of my tongue, ready to speak in that moment. How different our lives would be if we were ready in all times and places to offer this, the heart of God’s love, amid our bitter, cynical times when the Holy Name of God is blasphemed to justify hatred, division and cruelty.

I cannot know how she would have responded. But I would have loved for her to have heard that one word, ‘beloved,’ hoping that it would fall like a seed in her heart and grow.

For your heart, O God, surely hungers for her to know you have cherished her since before the dawn of time. And I, Lord, want you to tell her that the other voice, the one that says,’ You’re terrible,’ is a damn liar. For your love is the core truth of our existence.

Maybe then, she can read her Bible not as a spiritual obligation to be performed (and to feel guilty about when she doesn’t do it), but as an opportunity to listen to the Voice of Love inviting her to come home and rest.

I need to go back to the clinic next month and have more blood drawn. I hope she is working that day. I’d like to hear how she’s doing. And there’s something I’d like to say.

I heard it from the finches

He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son. (Colossians 1:13)

Early mornings were cooler this week. It was still humid, but lower temps summoned me to the balcony on the east side of the house to sip coffee and listen to the birds.

I usually try to call the cardinals, imitating their whistle. Sometimes they reply, although I sense confusion in their response.

There is no confusion among the finches, however. Red-crested house finches flutter madly around their home in the big spruce that brushes the side of the house, protecting their domain.

Nearby, goldfinches pierce the morning air, furiously pumping their wings. They rise then stop, pump then stop, pump then stop, pump then glide, over and over again. Their flight scallops the air in repetitive arcs, gracefully up and down, up and down, whizzing by until one lights on a frail, bare branch pointing skyward atop the maple near the corner.

With nary a catch of breath, like kindergarteners released for recess, they burst from their perch, racing and chasing each other above the grass-green expanse. Feather-light, unburdened with no thought of the morrow, they preach a Sunday sermon, demonstrating the joy for which we are made.

I pray to be as free as they. I seldom am, but watching them … I think I see what God has in mind for us.

Surely, Jesus had such as these in mind when he told us to look at the birds and let go of our obsession with ourselves. Just watch, he seemed to say. The Love who loves you will have its way; just give it some time. But that’s most of our problem. We want things our way.

It’s hard to let go and let Love have its inscrutable way with us. And it’s even harder these days when the Love Who Is appears so powerless. ‘The power of darkness’ poisons our politics as masked men maraud our streets, hunting prey, mocking the mercy and decency I once thought was irrevocably encoded in the DNA of our nation.

Examples of official cruelty and jingoism are too obvious to mention. More troubling are the millions who cheer it, willfully blind to the humanity of those crushed in the juggernaut of federally-sanctioned hatred.

Cheer it or condemn it, we all wake into the same world each morning, or do we?

So many appear to wake into a world where might makes right, a zero-sum world where one must always be on the defensive, where the most important value is power, being greater, better, stronger and able to enforce your will. In this callous world, the lives and struggles of others don’t much matter, especially if they are ‘different.’

This reality is all-too-much with us, but out here, looking at the birds, I feel the presence of quite another reality. Their sermon transports me into a world where the light of beauty and mercy has shattered the power of darkness, a world where I can breathe the featherlight sweetness of morning, drawing in the grace of an Immortal Love who dances and plays and charms my heart.

Out here, I know: I don’t live under the power of darkness. Transferred into the kingdom of the Beloved, I dwell in a world of beauty and mercy where every life is precious and holy.

And I … am personally invited … to come out and play.

The shining

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John 1:14)

There is no shortage of witnesses. Thousands testify to the shining. I come across their voices almost every week. Just yesterday, I found this:

‘Some people make you feel better about living. Some people you meet and you feel this little life in your heart, this Ah, because there’s something in them that’s brighter or lighter, something beautiful or better than you, and here’s the magic; instead of feeling worse, instead of feeling why am I so ordinary?, … you feel glad. In a weird way you feel better because before this you hadn’t realized or you’d forgotten human beings could shine so.’ (History of the Rain, Niall Williams, 128)

A smile rose from an uncontrollable something within as I read these words. Faces appeared, too, including a few I had met but once or twice. Remembrance also released a question. Where have I heard this before?

Was it Thomas Merton? Standing on the corner of Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, Kentucky, he was suddenly overwhelmed with love as he watched the people around him going about their business. They have no idea, he wrote. ‘They are all walking around shining like the sun.’

But maybe Merton was borrowing from St. Irenaeus. ‘The glory of God is a human being fully alive,’ he wrote, 1800 years ago. I wonder, who was he thinking about when he wrote that? Somebody shiny, I suspect.

But this vision of glory is not reserved for saints and mystics. It also comes to those of no import, like me, as I watch the faces of people returning to their seats, after receiving Holy Communion.

They pass by me in the aisle, one after another, making no particular impression, when for no apparent reason, in the alchemy of the Spirit, a single face stuns me: A young girl, hands folded in front of her, a white scrunchy around her head, pulling together a long fall of black hair, a river of waves cascading nearly to her waist. Smiling, her face alight, this is a loved child who knows she belongs.

 

And with this, Irenaeus and Merton are sitting there beside me, wearing smug, ‘I told you so’ expressions, insufferably pleased with themselves, but not nearly as pleased as I am to witness one more face in a lifetime of faces that make me glad to be alive in a place where faith and love and beauty can strike you when you least expect. They can even make you forgive and infinitely forgettable sermon that doesn’t matter a whit, now that you’ve seen the shining.

‘The glory you have given me, I have given them,’ Jesus prayed, speaking of his disciples as he prepared to leave them. His giving didn’t end with them, as all who have seen the shining can attest.

Glory may not always shimmer, but it breaks out and sheds its light in lives of grace and truth that make you glad to be alive, wherever and whenever you are awake enough to see them.

For me, this gratitude quickly gives way to longing and prayer. ‘Might I shine, too, my Friend, just a little? knowing that Jesus doesn’t have all that much to work with when it comes to me.

But the prayer has already been answered. For in his light, we see light and become the light we see.

Eat this bread

 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” (John 21:15)

My Jesus, how shall I hear your words? ‘Feed my lambs,’ you say. Is this an invitation, a command, a demand? And what is the tone and timbre of your voice? Gentle and quiet? Firm and full of resolve? Do I hear beseeching, hoping or an authoritative insistence that this must be done?

I suppose how we hear those words or any words you speak says a great deal about how we see you … or how we want and need you to be for us.

So, forgive me, if I am merely projecting my need, but I don’t think that I am. For, how can anyone hear your words and not know that you ache for the ache within us, hungry for our hunger to feed on bread that satisfies?

Maybe that’s why there are so many stories about you eating and drinking in the Bible. There was nothing more typical of you than sitting around a table with friends and disciples and even opponents, talking, teaching and sharing food.

Whatever was on the table was almost incidental to the bread you offered, which was you, yourself, what was in your heart, the loving intimacy between you and the Mystery you called the Father, radiating from your presence.

People felt it when they were near you, which is why they came to you with their wounds and hurts and fears, and why they followed you.

You were their bread … and mine. I listen and hear your heart in these three little words, ‘feed my lambs.’ You want all our hungry hearts to feel and know what is in you.

Knowing the Love who abides in you stirs your Spirit in the secret room of our hearts, who rises and flows out, emanating from within to fill the heart and still the ancient ache which longs for the bread of life, you are.

At this time of life, I am less clear about how I can feed your sheep with the bread of your life, which so long has been my food and drink. My role is less clear, and the world roundabout has convinced itself it can satisfy the soul’s ancient hunger … or avoid it … by staying busy with one distraction or another. But our societies’ underlying angers and anxieties tell us what we fear to admit.

Beset by my own angers and anxieties, I look into your eyes Jesus and listen to the tenderness of your question to Peter … and to me. I have an answer. Yes, I do love you. I think I always have, from my youngest days, only I didn’t know how much I needed you then.

That didn’t matter. You found ways to feed me as you do now. Thank you for that. Thank you very much. Help me along, if you would, and I’ll try to share what you have so generously given.