Splinter

Faith change is like a splinter

I hold it there

Foreign body

Knowing it would take something like tweezers

I don't have handy

to free it but knowing it was partly a gift for the journey

I'm careful how I walk

Careful what I carry for a season

Then it's gone

I forget it was ever there

I walk without a care

Like Paul and his splinter.

Beauty Unaware

Finding something or someone unaware of their own beauty is rare these days. Everyone has the tools at hand and it is difficult to be unaffected by the proliferation of image makers.

Occasionally you can some across a little thrift store that does not realise it is hosting precious antiques. We have two thrift stores in our town. One is open only twice a week and the prices are so low - you can find a treasure for next to nothing. The other one is run by a very savvy owner. He knows the worth of his things. No surprises - no good finds. Everything is priced according to the expected value.

This little restaurant in the centre of Schwyz seems totally unaware of its beauty. It is timeless and quaint. It offered us more than a ‘Kafe Complet’. it offered up an authenticity that caught us unaware. It hugged us and then held us close for our 60 minute breakfast stop.

As I grow older I am looking for the hidden beauty. The stone unturned. The surprising place or person. It’s fun. It’s the adventure.


The Big Me trounces on The Other

Strange how, as we have desperately tried to tear down stereotypes and prejudices over the past decades, it has resulted in the reverse - increased labelling and boxing up of our identity cues. 

Our newly normalized signature lines professing preferred him/her/they only serve to categorize more precisely. The cult of individualism is messing up the work of removing prejudices. What happened to our fight to be known as just ‘human’ - all made equal and in the image of God? That 'Big Me' vibe says it's all about my rights and makes itself more important than our work towards blending with The Other.

We are pushed into boxes- Click Here to Choose your Identity kits AVAILABLE NOW. 

Identity, instead of being a definable space with definable value, is far more malleable. We change - that is the beauty of life. I am a mother, a grandmother, a woman, a Jesus follower - that is complex - my identity is complex and mixed up. I'm an ant when I'm seated in an arena at a football game, yet I can claim Queen Bee status on my wedding day. Identity and agency change. There are multiple iterations of me. Ignoring this makes us wooden, unreal, disconnected and brittle. We become unable to swing and change. But the Big Me in reality finds it hard to give away agency and allow another to shine or even offer up a seat on the bus. It's my right, and I paid for it! We are so hungry for significance - we steal it from others. 

Rights are a totally complicated beast. Always have been and always will. 

For example, I can both feel compassion for the woman who is forced to search for an abortion clinic outside her state (her body/her right) as well as be present and comfort those arguing that we should side with the preservation of life inside the womb (the rights of the unborn). 

I can watch the gaudy pride parade for the 3-min news segment and have complex feelings. Do the drag queens represent the gay community I know and love here in my city? Not really. Is the parade an important tool for the movement? Yes. My prediction is that its cache is running out. Needs a refresh.

Refuse the Mental ghetto.

Don't listen only to those voices in your lane. Swerve. Plow into oncoming ideas. Say no to the increasingly dangerous and divided world. If we take sides and deny the tension, it is not helpful; we are being carried back to dualism.  

Stay connected. Stay thoughtful and informed. Reconnect with your senses. Your soul. Your God. 

But now, for the time being, you are merely wandering with your five senses, which, without your usual self-absorptions, are uncannily alive…..I reenter the woods and rivers with a moment-by-moment sense of the glories of creation, of the natural world as a living fabric of existence, so that I'm both young again, but also seventy thousand years old.

                                                                                           Jim Harrison, poet

Think for yourself - use your senses.

Hold me up

I was listening to the story of Moses this morning. I saw humanity as a Moses-type. We are sometimes reluctant heroes in the life story - occasionally strong in leadership, often realistic and offtimes fragile because of that same realism. At one point in the story, Moses is totally done - can’t go on. Those closest to him - Aaron and Hur - hold up his arms and give him strength. Not strangers but family and people that know and love him. Creating communities of Aarons and Hurs sounds like a vision. 

“When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset.”
— Exodus 17:12



God Kin

I walked past a man-boy today. I looked. I could have been his mother. We looked alike, but he didn't know me. Our eyes locked. I saw his pain. You know God walks amongst us every day. He looks something like us. We are made in His image. We lock eyes. No recognition. Sometimes only reminding us of pain and loss. Our future Beloved. Perhaps. Possibilities.

Hope's friend ----- memory

 

Walter Brueggemann says hope is often grounded in memory. I remember the strange joy I felt amidst my cancer journey. I hoped for a return to what I knew of life – a hope grounded in memory. I wanted my old life back. Research on disaster victims has documented the tremendous sense of hope as they formulate plans and actively work to return to something they know. Rebecca Solnit[1] is a writer prying into the 'hidden, transformative histories inside and after events we chronicle as disasters.' We are forced to find hope in times of uncertainty. Just as the practice of yoga hones in on our breath lest we forget, so do times of stress remind us to hope lest we perish. We can forget to hope, and crisis can re-activate hope.

In an almost playful way, in times of uncertainty and crisis, we breed a particular sort of hope – this 'do or die' sport of the mind happens when we can't imagine any sucky, romantic future . So we must replace it with a hope rooted in memory or past experience.

Advent calls us to hold our breath in anticipation - as we have in the FIFA World Cup penalty shootouts, the recent Nasa landing, waiting upon results of a scan or simply awaiting forecasted snow. Being a grown-up doesn't mean that you don't feel breathless but that your story informs you, i.e. you will breathe again.

I wonder at the harm done by the Hallmark storybooking of Advent. Fifteen sleeps until Christmas. The carols. The Santas. The elves on the shelves. Many can't identify with a 'home for the holiday' hologram. Brueggemann's comments make me curious. How much of our Advent vibe is founded in memory?

I am struggling to find a rhythm this Advent. I had tea with a friend who was so enjoying the season and her special devotions and spiritual practices. I felt rather lame. My church traditions have not pushed the Advent calendar. Nothing has caught my eye or my passion. In fact, because I spent many years in a non-Advent practicing spiritual community, I suffer with a blocked Advent artery. The implementation of a  prosperity-style gospel offered a manufactured hope when all else failed. I didn't have to pull on my memory parachute but merely recite a bible verse like 'all things work together for good….' and you know the trick. As I rewrite my hope thesis, Mr.Brueggemann has given me something upon which to dwell. Being a theological simpleton, this might be enough to kick-start my Advent engine.

The amazing thing about our communities of faith, evident in our common life, is that memory produces hope in the same way that amnesia produces despair. Ponder that: memory produces hope. We Jews and Christians are people who recall the defining memories and miracles of their lives. We hope in and trust the God who has done these past miracles, and we dare to affirm that the God who has done past acts of transformation and generosity will do future acts of transformation and generosity. By a profound, elemental, and unshakable trust, Jews affirm that the deep loss of Jerusalem did not disrupt God's power and resolve in the world. By a profound, elemental and unshakable faith, Christians affirm that the deep loss in the death of Jesus did not disrupt God's power and resolve in the world. And that is the key issue in hope. If our embrace of God's past is thin, we may imagine that God is now defeated. If our embrace of God's past is thick and palpable, we will continue to trust in that same God.

                             Suffering Produces Hope Walter Brueggemann[2]

And so, I scour my memory bank for the gems of hope. Maybe the times that I felt the incarnational rousings and yet thought were just 'throwaways' – a conversation on the bus, a night babysitting somewhere or an ordinary meal with friends.. Even a particular movie scene can create a hope memory. All have a role in forming memory to register hope. We have a colossal catalogue of stories and events that comprise our library of hope. Get on with your remembering this Advent!

 



[1] https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jul/15/rebecca-solnit-hope-in-the-dark-new-essay-embrace-unknown

[2] Walter Brueggemann Edited text of a paper presented in Baltimore, MD on April 2, 1998, on the occasion of the Dr. A. Vanlier Hunter, Jr. Memorial Lecture, sponsored by the Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies.

 

The Spin of Success

The cult of success leeches into everything .... our souls, spiritual practices, family, relationships, bank balance, hopes, dreams, and desires .... it's a bastard to avoid. It kicks the tires of humility and kindness, causing us to second-guess ourselves. When you think you are done striving, it appears around the corner dressed up like Jim Carey in The Mask and teases you again.
Biblically and logically, the church should be the place of immunity. A shalom. A respite from trying to get it all right and move forwards. A space dedicated to helping put water on the fire of our greedy gut and image-motivated tendencies  —— encouraging us to leave our LinkedIn profile and achievements at the door. We are all one here.

The obvious spiritual antidote is creating cultures inviting us to 'Come as you are.' Communities that major in 'God loves you just as you are' messaging fitting perfectly with the gospel. Jesus came to ring out loud and clear like an exuberant Salvation Army kettle swinger outside Walmart. 'I've come to tell you to quit the treadmill of trying. Come to me just as you are. You are great, just as you are.

God loves you like a woman who wants to be a mother more than anything else. He loves you like the moment she sets eyes on her child for the first time. He loves you like that ... and over and over again.

We give so much airtime to applying makeup to look more attractive to God. If you do this, believe that, or pray into this, then life in the spiritual cosmos will be sweet. The pastors tend to look successful. The worship leaders look successful and often choose songs urging us to be better in some way.
I know we need guidance. We need teaching. But how often do we forget to say the main thing? God loves you right now.

My church heyday was a Vineyard time, complete with a John Wimber vibe. We belted out that Michael W Smith song over and over, More Power More Love. I loved that song. More Power, More Love. More of You in my life.
Today I want to whisper the 'P' word and just cry more love, more love, more love, more love .....show us how to love.

ATM

Walking by

ATM of grace

Offering beauty for imperfections

And advice

Acknowledging that knowledge only leads to mental obesity

Maybe we think of ourselves as fatter than we actually are - or more pea-brained

Dumber and dumber in a world of too much to know

So

All this is tightening

I feel my face as if I'm blind

Experience freshly

My lines, my stupid moves

I see light looking at me thru the glass

Smiling at my present beauty

Beauty now

Thanks

Knitter Critter

I can’t stop thinking about a comment my brother-in-law made to his wife. I heard it indirectly from said wife.  

“He doesn’t want me to knit. He says it would make me look old. Like a granny.” She laughed.

Blah! Right? Classic gaslight.  

Meanwhile, I have taken up the sport of knitting. Me, a proud badge-wearing grandmother! Does my bum look big with this ball of wool? Do these knitting needles match my lipstick?  

Who cares.

 I’m majoring in sock disciplines, preferring a magic circle needle and following a toe-down pattern. Can you see what I did right there? I’m using the yarn lingo like a pro.  

Knitting is a notch in my limited art belt and a welcome therapeutic tool. The rhythmic purl knit knit knit purl calms me and has both fringe and cringe benefits. I have lived relatively short on hobbies, so I hope knitting is a keeper.

 Speaking of carry-on, who knew you could breeze through airport security with the little trackers snuggly tucked in your backpack? A symbol of reason in these chaotic times. 

 As much as I might crap on the previously mentioned misogynistic knitting observation, I do carry my own activity prejudices. I wouldn’t be caught dead golfing because that’s for boring privileged people. I won’t scrapbook because that is for losers. You won’t see me joining the Gouache 101 lessons at my local community centre – too dull. And, heads up, no one surprise me with a birthday Groupon for a pottery workshop,….. about as stimulating as watching the crockpot lid fog up.  

 Oh, and more men are seeing the benefits of taking up the yarn. Hmmm….what to buy my brother-in-law for Christmas….?

An Invitation to Kindness

Forgive the mess, for "love will cover a multitude of sins."





I found shelter under the awning of a small Ramen place on Robson. On my way to work and almost at the pier when the podcast overwhelmed me. Rather like a sudden thunderstorm, it demanded shelter from the rising emotions and a few moments for it to pass. A most beautiful mess was being unravelled through my ear pods. I needed a few minutes to wait for the emotions and tears to dissolve.

Ironically it was Sunday morning – a wintery pandemic holy day in Vancouver. The interviewer was looking deep into the eyes of Tammy Faye – the overly adorned eyes of this evangelical madame. I heard someone talk about her with kindness for the first time ever. I was enthralled. This character, this larger-than-life Christian personality, was full of heart? Go on. Tell me more.

The podcast featured an interview that aired in 1985 during the early days of AIDS. In November of that year, Tammy interviewed a pastor who had just been given six months to live. A homosexual pastor. While the haters were raging and finger-pointing around her, she proved brave and kind. I stopped and wept as I heard snippets of the interview. I had mocked her for years and criticized her TV evangelism show where she shared the stage with husband, Jim Bakker.

 It was both confusing and wonderful to find a moment to love Tammy. My tears were for her and were laced with my own shame for being one of the haters. Her kindness in that interview is palpable.

Kindness prints the invitations, enabling more people to sit at the table with Jesus.

Kindness has a primary role in softening our prejudices. If love covers a multitude of sins, then kindness is the paintbrush in love's hand. Kindness often saves a seat for compromise and, in doing so, ushers in the power of love leading us gently towards a more profound understanding, despite all things not being perfect.




 Podcast: Things Fell Apart by Jon Ronson BBC 4 https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0011sf7

Q and A

 I have found great solace in the past few years, knowing that others are asking the same questions. I spent many years in a space where the currency of community was trading in answers. The community was built with bricks, all resembling each other and coming out of the same kiln. Now I very much enjoy being part of a team of rugged stonemasons- rather than bricklayers. We collect interesting rocks and spend our time trying to make them fit.

Time to Groan

I've got a high pain tolerance. Probably because I don't expect much, or at least I pretend I don't - so I beat pain in a sort of bullshitty sort of way.

I first experienced childbirth in a very pristine, clinical Swiss hospital in Zurich. Lots of white linen and stainless steel products.

In the adjacent birthing suite was a yeller. Who knows her life experience or her dilation measurements, but she was making some serious noise. The wailing became increasingly alarming.

For a first-timer, it was utterly terrifying. Is that what awaited me?  During the 5-part birthing prep sessions with midwife Vreni, I don't remember being warned of the possibility of overhearing screams through thin walls. The raging decibels of the delivery was in stark contrast to the soft, nurturing tones offered by my team. A chunky Brazilian nurse assured me, "Don't you worry. She's Italian. They do that.” All of a sudden, the room next door was quiet. I didn't get to hear the predictable 'oohs' and 'aahs' post-birth.

 During my 3-day hospital stay, I walked the corridors at all hours comforting my new boy, and I wondered where she was – which one of these women had the guts to voice her pain so freely. I never did get to meet the screamer or her baby, sharing a birthdate with my firstborn.

I gave birth quietly. Stoically. That's my way. That's how I've been taught. I'm not free enough to howl. Not free enough to be wild. To kick and to fight and never back down.

Now seems like a good time to never back down. To make lines in the sand and stand firm.

So many are voiceless not by choice but by nature of their life narrative and birth. Children, babies, immigrants, the poor and uneducated – and, in my case, the privileged who never needed to yell.

'We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.' says the writer of Romans.

Now is my time to groan. Or at least to encourage this growing wail. This universal lament. Let the whole world cry. Let something fresh be birthed.

Never Back Down. There, I said it. I'm joining creation.