Good Friday, April 14, 2017

Good Friday Easter Eggs

As I walked through the early-morning Good Friday streets of our neighbourhood, quieted  by the statutory holiday of this holy day, I saw them.  Parents and little children on their way to the Good Friday Easter Egg Hunt at the local garden centre.

I have grumbled about this for years.  

It must have been 15 or even 20 years ago I first felt the shock of turning on the TV on Good Friday morning as I prepared to go to church for the liturgy of the Passion, and on the local channel seeing a reporter standing at some garden centre happily inviting everyone to come on down to the fun -- bring the kids, hunt for some eggs and chocolate bunnies, and maybe pick up the Easter lily you want to take grandma on Sunday.

It's only Good Friday, for goodness sake.  I almost yelled at the TV that you don't get to Easter without going through Good Friday!  They don't get it!  They're doing it wrong!

Every year since I have grumbled the same thing as I drive by the packed parking lot of the garden centre on my way out of Dundas, to the Good Friday service I will be leading at church in Winona, a half-hour's drive away.

And this morning I saw them up close -- walking the same streets as me.  In the course of only a few minutes, three little clutches of parents and small children.  Roused early from bed on a holiday.  Dressed warmly against the chill, but with obvious little touches for the occasion -- a bit of purple and yellow, some bunny ears, polka dots mimicking the eggs they will be hunting.  And everyone carrying some kind of brightly coloured little bag for holding and taking home the candy they will find.

When I saw the first, I felt my usual little grumble -- the sense of upset that they are not doing this holy weekend right.  

When I saw the second, I took a little more notice of the specifics of the apparel and the little candy bags.  And how the children so happily held mom's or dad's hand.  Remembered the contented happiness I used to feel when I would get up early or do something else the least bit sacrificial for the happiness of my young son.

And by the time I saw the third little clutch of parents and children, what I was seeing was a family heading out to enjoy together some of the goodness of life and of the world, taking time and making special effort to enjoy it together.

And isn't that what God wants?

And isn't that what Good Friday in the end is about?  About remembering the part of the story of God that tells us what it is that most makes life good, that keeps the world spinning in a good and life-giving way, that opens the door to good and truly human life in the world over and over again, that is the way to Easter over and over again?

So, what if they go hunting for Easter eggs on Good Friday?  

I'm sure they, like all of us, will have their share of Good Fridays along the way as well -- days of deep loss, sorrow and despair, at other times in their lives.  Life itself will do that to us.  

And that, then, will be the time for someone acquainted with the meaning of Good Friday, to share it with them.  Not as a holy day to observe one day of the year.  But as a life-giving story and a suffering presence to embrace and be embraced by in the course of a lifetime.



 

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Can imperfect practice be better than perfect?

For me, Tree Pose, which comes about three-quarters of the way through my morning yoga routine, is the test.

Yes, I know there is no test.  I know it's a matter of moving through each step of a particular pose in the way that's most fitting and helpful for my body that day, and not of achieving some perfect or even optimal form of posture according to some external or universal standard.  So it's quite alright if every time I do Tree Pose it's different from the time before, and it doesn't matter whether it's nearer or further in form, from that wonderful pose silhouetted against the rising light of the sun in the image above.

And yes, I know that telling you Tree Pose is three-quarters of the way through my morning routine tells you how extremely simple, basic and fundamental my yoga is.  So give me a break, folks.

The reason I call Tree Pose my test, is that it's the first standing-on-one-foot balance pose I attempt in my simple routine.  So it's the first time in the routine with an objective standard of comparison with the day and the days before -- i.e. whether or not I fall over, or can maintain the pose in real serenity for some time.

And today, as on a few other occasions, I was surprised at how unusually well I managed to enter the Tree Pose and maintain it with easy breathing and real serenity, without tipping over or even having to guard against falling.  (Like a tree in the forest, I hope, which no one will hear.)

Anyway, the surprise is that this time, as on other occasions when I experienced this ease, I was returning to my morning practice after having taken a few days off.  I thought I'd be rusty.  Unbalanced.  Out of sync and awkward.

But it was exactly the opposite.  As though having taken a bit of a break, not having worked at it day after day, I was free to return to it with a degree of ease and openness that disciplined diligence somehow did not allow, or got in the way of.

Like at a spiritual transformation group I attend weekly.  I had to miss a couple of weeks because of ministry commitments.  And when I returned, rather than feeling at some distance from the process and a little out of touch, when the meeting began with the bunch of us reading aloud the usual and familiar passages to gather and orient ourselves, I found that I was understanding the readings more deeply than I had before.  Seeing things in them that I hadn't previously.  Finding particular sentences and phrases full of meaning for myself and for my life that I had not understood or felt quite that way before.

Could it be that familiarity really does breed contempt -- even in spiritual matters and spiritual practices?  And that absence makes the heart grow fonder -- or at least, more opened?

That when we do something -- like daily reading and prayer, weekly worship, giving our offering, helping with some mission or ministry project -- over and over without taking a break, that we somehow build a barrier or a callous or some kind of blindness to the deeper and deeper meaning of it? 

And that when we return after time away -- for whatever reason -- we find ourselves drawn into an even deeper, more enriching experience of what it's all about, than we had before?

I'm hesitant, of course, to suggest everyone take a break from whatever spiritual practice you have.  But the reality is, probably none of us is perfect anyway in what we do -- in attendance, commitment or practice.

And ... this may be the more important take-away ... when we're tempted to despair because we've been away or unengaged for a while, and we think there's no point is starting again, may be exactly the time it will mean the most to you to go back to it, and for it to mean more for you and make a bigger, more transformational difference in your life than it ever did before. 

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

My church does stuff like that?

It's taken me a while to process this.

It happened last week at a Pastoral Oversight Committee meeting of Presbytery.  

In the course of our business, one of the ministers on the Committee shared a story of a ministry he was recently called to offer to a local corporation.  

It was an exorcism.  

Of the building in which the business of this corporation was conducted.  And in which increasing numbers of their hundreds of employees were feeling the presence of an abiding  darkness.  A darkness that was manifest in abnormally high numbers of employees falling ill and dying of a variety of diseases over the past few years.  That was felt in a deep and general un-ease among people in the building.  That they increasingly felt as something toxic in the place where they worked.

The minister's church has a connection with this corporation through other work they do in the community.  So when the minister received a call from someone there, he was not surprised.  At first.

The surprise came when he found himself being asked to come and help rid their building of the darkness and the toxin that seemed to be invading and infecting it.

He said he would be glad to, but did the caller know what he was asking.  Yes, the caller said.

He would be glad to, he said, but he needed to know, have you run this past the CEO?  Yes, the caller said, this is the CEO's idea and I'm calling you at his direction.

So then he would be more than glad to, he said, and the arrangements were made for him to be there at an appointed time and day to tour the building, hold a service of worship, praise and prayer for all who wanted to attend -- on company time and in a large common room, and to call on God's light to banish the darkness from that building.  

A majority of the hundreds of employees were there.

As I say, it's taken me about a week to process this information.

The problem -- and the reason it took so long, is that I was beginning with what I know and what I am used to, and was trying to fit this story into that box.  I kept trying to figure out how this fits into the United Church as I know it, how it relates to our usual practices and traditions of outreach, pastoral care, and discernment, and how on earth I could ever offer something like that with what I have been trained and practiced to do.

And then I realized I was starting from the wrong place.  The starting point for real mission is not inside my own -- inside our own, box of tools and the way we are used to using them.  When we start that way, all we end up doing is reproducing what was developed as effective mission by an earlier generation for an earlier time.

The place to start is with what the world around is asking for, needing, and hungry for NOW.  We listen for that, and then we start rummaging in our tool box to see if there is something we can use.  And if we don't have the right tool, we go and get it.  We find it.  And get trained in how to use it.

The minister who shared this story said the two things that blew him away were the clear and strong perception of the employees of that corporation of the reality of spiritual darkness in the building, and their hunger -- deep and desperate hunger, to be free of it and to live and work in the light of God.

I wonder if we are open to, and aware of the real and deep hunger that is felt by people around us today, and that may need tools we are not used to using.  

Or if we are busy just playing with and polishing tools already in our tool-box that were developed by an earlier generation, and wondering why no one is calling us to use them.

Monday, April 3, 2017

There goes the neighbourhood

 

There goes the neighbourhood.  Or a thought something like it went through my mind, as four teenagers -- three guys and a girl, starting squeezing themselves and their backpacks and their I-phones and their no-doubt-soon-to-be-loud conversation into the chairs around a table just three feet from mine at the coffee shop.

I felt sympathy for the guy on the other side of their table from me, who almost got hit in the head by a back-pack as it was swung around and over him on the way to being squeezed between the chair of its owner and the wall.  Really, though, I was just projecting my un-ease onto him, assuming he shared my discomfort at their arrival.

I wonder at what point I became so possessive, proprietary, and defensive of this corner of the coffee shop?

I realize -- in hindsight, of course, that they had to squeeze into the table they were, because as the least accessible and least roomy table in the place it was the only one left ... and because I, just because I had got there earlier, was spread out alone -- just me and my laptop and my daytimer and a notebook or two, over a table meant for four, and I wasn't showing any sign of letting go of the real estate and the comfort I had managed to secure for myself.

I wonder if I might have done anything to make this situation a little better for all concerned?

And ... what actually made me think this was a problem needing to be solved?

Because, as the next hour played out ... the four teenagers were no trouble to me or anyone else.  They just wanted a nice, quiet place to eat their lunches and chat and check a few things on their phones.  

And after they had done that, and left for whatever was next in their day -- probably back to school, neither I nor the coffee shop nor the man on the other side of their table from me were any the worse for wear.  

In fact, I don't even remember noticing them leave.  Which makes me sad now.

And I'm left wondering what on earth and what in my soul made me not like them and welcome them in the first place?

Saturday, April 1, 2017

The Singing Cashier

She was singing.  

Not really singing, I guess.  But more than just humming.  The only word I can think of for it, is lilting.  She was kind of lilting a tune just loudly enough for us to hear it as she checked out our groceries.

We have always thought that our local Metro, even though it's part of a chain, really is a wonderfully warm neighbourhood grocery.  And this was one more confirmation of our impression.

The cashier's cheeriness and warm spirit were obvious as we waited in line.  She showed such easy kindness and patience with the woman ahead of us who was having trouble with the PIN for her debit card, that we could not but be drawn into sharing and showing the same spirit of patient compassion.

Even so, when it came our turn to have our groceries checked, the singing -- sorry, the lilting, caught us by surprise.  After greeting us and making us feel welcome, as the cashier settled into scanning and carefully (one might even say lovingly) packing our items, we heard the lilting begin ... and carry through the whole time she was serving us.

Who sings in public anymore?  

This was not someone with earpods in their own little universe, humming in sync with some tune only they can hear as they walk through the world, separate and isolated in the little techno-bubble of piped-in distraction they create for themselves.  Nor was this someone singing out loud -- maybe even at the top of their lungs, but inside a car with the windows rolled up -- just a bigger and more dangerous moving bubble of separation and isolation from the world around them, lost in the private emotion of whatever they are listening to the rest of us can't hear.  And usually looking a little odd to us, because of it.

No, this wasn't someone essentially cut off from the rest of us by what she chose to pipe into her head.  This was someone who was reaching out to us by sharing the delightfulness of a tune she felt in her heart, that made her feel good, and that she was happy to quietly share with us.

We didn't know the tune.  Didn't recognize it.  Don't remember it.  

But we do remember the effect it had on us.  How it brightened our time in the check-out line.  Reaffirmed our delight in that store and its staff.  And called us without words or pressure to live a little more openly, lightly and humanely ourselves.

Makes me wonder ... in the way we in church go about sharing the song of faith, the tune of grace, the anthem of God's love ... are we like those who walk through the world with earpods in our ears, or who drive through the world with windows rolled up and car radios on, feeding ourselves on the music of faith, and deeply enjoying it (yes!), but just among and for ourselves in our own little moveable bubbles ... or are we like that singing cashier who has a song so deep in her heart that she cannot help but lilt it out, and quietly share it with whoever happens to be in front of her at that moment?

Thursday, March 31, 2017

Feeling the Forgiven-ness?

A neighbour in recovery for more than a decade now recently shared about a sponsee he is meeting with, who is having trouble accepting forgiveness for the years of neglectful and abusive parenting she practiced because of her addiction to alcohol.  She knows and doesn't doubt the words and promise of forgiveness.  But she just doesn't feel it.  She can't yet forgive herself -- or let herself be forgiven.

My neighbour thought that I, being a minister of the the Gospel, might have some advice or wisdom to share about how he could help his sponsee.  When I confessed I had no simple answer or formula, would have to mull it over, and that I myself have struggled a lot with feeling forgiven, he was not shocked.  "I guess what you're telling me, is that you're human, too," he said, with a warm smile, as he got in his car to get on with his business for the day.

Forgiveness happens a lot in our life.  How could we get through the days without it?  Without the day by day acts of grace that others extend us for the hurts we cause?  That we extend to others, that set both us and them free from hurts we have felt at their hands? 

But what about that big feeling of forgiveness?  Being free of the weight of a lifetime of mistakes, bad choices, hurt, failure?  Of hurts caused to others that seem endless in their effect, and that over and over again spark debilitating feelings of guilt and regret?  In other words, are unforgiveable in a lasting sense?

The closest I have come, I think, to feeling the depth and breadth of forgiveness to address that kind of guilt, was about four years ago.  I was at a week-long residential program of training for spiritual direction.  The week involved group meditation, daily body-work (a kind of spiritual dancing!), creative exploration every afternoon of our own spirit in art and drama, massage and play, as well as more traditional guided meditation, prayer and journaling.

And it was in the middle of that week that I found myself led completely out of the blue (or so it seemed) in my personal prayer and journaling time to read Isaiah 40 -- that wonderful hinge chapter in the Book of Isaiah, where the hard and unrelenting message of judgement in First Isaiah (chapters 1-39) turns to the gracious and liberating message of forgiveness and new life in Second Isaiah (chapter 40-55).  It begins with the marvelous words:

 Comfort, O comfort my people,
    says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
    and cry to her
that she has served her term,
    that her penalty is paid,
that she has received from the Lord’s hand
    double for all her sins.

I knew the words almost by heart.  We read them every Advent.  But this time what they were saying hit me like a ton of bricks.  Massive, dark, imprisoning structures of guilt and regret built up over the years around hurts that I have caused others I love, came crashing to the ground.  I have served a long enough sentence?  I have paid the penalty?  I have even suffered twice what I deserved -- at my own hands or God's, and now I am free to go ... go and live my life?

It was more than I could hope for.  For so long it had been more than I could accept.  But at that moment it penetrated all my defences and I felt a joy and freedom that I can neither forget nor deny.

And whenever I find the prison walls going up again, I do what I can to recall that moment when the walls came tumbling down.

What made it happen then, in a way I had not known before?

Was it because of the wholistic activity of that week?  That this was more than just words I was reading and praying over, and more than just private or one-on-one spiritual direction and meditation?  

I was part of a group of fellow-travelers, welcomed and welcoming.  Together we were expressing and exploring our spirits in bodily movement, art and drama.  We were accessing our imaginations and discovering the truth of God in our companionship, in our imaginations, in our memories, and in our bodies. And was that the too-often-neglected way to reach my inner-est spirit and deepest heart?

Protestants don't always practice such wholistic spirituality.  In our worship, for instance, we focus a lot on the read and spoken Word, and on sacraments that we regard as mere signs or symbols rather than as tangible-physical-literal vessels and bearers of the presence of God and Christ.  And in our personal spiritual exercises, again there's a heavy emphasis on reading and writing words, and if we want anything more wholistically physical we often have to go outside and apart from the church -- to find it in yoga classes, art groups, cycling and walking groups, and who knows what else.

Martin Luther, who also struggled with that big, deep-down side of forgiveness, often lamented that in getting rid of the sacrament of confession, penance and absolution, he ended up denying himself and others of a very physical, tangible, bodily way of acting out a spirit of confession and feeling in a very bodily way the gift of forgiveness.

And perhaps there are also other bodily, physical, imaginative ways that we can learn in our church life to express and explore the love and grace of God in our lives.  I have a feeling we would be well served, and the gospel of God just might be made more alive among and within us.