What follows is an important and powerful story from the journal of a young friend of mine. Something to Ruminate upon. . . .
Today is my first anniversary. Exactly a year ago I packed up my belongings from my partner's apartment in Tel Aviv with the help of Lauryn and Richard. Rich had come out from Jerusalem with empty bags for me to fill. Lauryn had her own luggage already full, this being her long-awaited trip to see me in the place I'd fallen in obsession with years ago. Hunched over under the weight of backpacks we wheeled our leaden suitcases down a kilometre of uneven sidewalk to the bus station. We threw everything in the hold, found our seats as the bus heaved forward, and then we sat there, uncomfortably passive, for the slow rush-hour journey through the hills back to Jerusalem. I'd left a long note on the table explaining to my partner the need for my immediate and permanent departure. My friends and I had packed up every trace of me and cleaned and tidied the space I would never return to except in panicked dreams and nauseating recollections. On the bus Rich made friends with twin girls who had the time of their life playing hide-and-seek with bits of stale cracker. Still enclosed in my own inner world, I wept, terrified. But from time to time I felt a glimmering wave of sensation in my intercostal muscles that presaged the elation in which I would nearly drown in weeks to come, when the significance of this choice sank in. But in that moment I was racked with guilt. I thought only of how I could have done things differently to hurt my partner less as I ended it. I found no better alternatives throughout all that self-flagellation but the guilt persisted anyway. I knew that he was pathologically manipulative and controlling and that his love wasn't love, that he wanted a possession, not a partner, and had gaslit me into the kind he wanted. He never would have said so, but it was written in everything he did, the letters increasingly bold as the weeks wore on. Back in Jerusalem, back among my friends who never knew him, gradually I named his love "abuse." Thanks to the divine presence of Lauryn, I'd already named our last night together "assault." I will never forget the look on her face the morning after when I told my unfiltered chronicle of that event. It is hard to say the word. It sticks in my mouth. I don't want to aggrandize my pain enough to make me a proper victim. It feels disrespectful and effacing to those who really suffer, so much more than I ever did, and have for years. I don't want to further drown out those who suffer in silence and solitude. I am privileged that even in my sometime isolation in a country that is not my own, I had community. The ranks of the less privileged seem limitless. But perpetrators get free rein when we fail to name those "lesser" evils, those less ripened fruits of the same poisonous tree we call misogyny. I want to rip it from the ground however I can. So I call it that. I choose my nouns, I practice them, I wear them: my not-so-easy As. Although I'm unfettered and elated, until I left the country half a year later I was also constantly afraid that he would find me and kill me. A week after I left him I ran into him on the street as I was grabbing a bite. I held my ground, both physically and rhetorically; I managed to speak my mind without sending him over the edge. A lifetime of womanly socialization making a balanced cocktail with my feminism. Despite the metaphorical liquid courage, I shook the whole time. I realized afterward that my body had been telling me to run. After he left, the Ethiopian bus boy came over to me. "Everything okay, my sister?" The choice to leave was divinely aided. I had Lauryn. I had Rich. I had bus fare. I am lucky. It's the first time that, when given the choice between being happy with myself or being miserable for the sake of a man, I chose myself. Growing up in the religious environment I did, I learned to believe that any action or thought on my own behalf was one of selfishness. I could advocate for anyone but myself. Anyone could be a person but me. It's thoughts like this that helped me accept abuse. I welcomed the outside control. It's familiar. It's safe, even when it's violent. I learned to try to ease my partner's violent emotions the way I'd always done for the emotionally volatile around me. I ignored the fact that it never really worked. The person I am now is not who I was in that relationship. More importantly, it's not who I was before it, either. Over the years I have chosen many times not to kill myself, but this felt like the first time that I had decided--really, truly, independently decided--to live. With distance I saw how close I'd been to giving up my life to please someone else. It would have been no Jesus act. My crucifixion would have emancipated exactly no one. The grace of the actual Crucifixion is that despite all the shit that humanity's tight-fisted, defensive selfishness has unleashed in the world since the dawn of sentience, I can know that I as a human being am still loved by God and capable of good. That the core of me is lovely. For too many years women have been overtly and covertly taught that to honour God we must deferentially honour men, no matter how they treat us in return. But we are the image of God, too; I will honour myself. Self-love is a choice I make every day. I am the spouse I choose to love; this is my only guaranteed lifelong human relationship, no matter how many cherished friends I've had since infancy. I make my heart and mind the planting-ground for self-acceptance and awareness, and from that I hope to grow. Even at the lowest points in this year of union with myself, I have never felt more at home in my own skin. And I've never felt more powerful and creative and compassionate. Self-care is about more than bubble baths; self-love is not the same as self-indulgence. The powerful reality of these things is counter-cultural and anti-capitalist and anti-misogynist. It is literally revolutionary. It shouldn't need to be so, but it is. This year has been my revolution. I set boundaries for myself and the people I let near me. I moved toward forgiveness. I faced fear after fear. I spoke my mind. I stayed quiet when I had nothing to say. I came home and accepted that that was a good thing. I allowed myself to be adored for what I am. I let myself adore the people in my life. Sometimes I was also a dick (sorry). But I was me, and I was happy about it. For the most part I was alone--at least in the way that our society chooses to acknowledge--and I was broke, but I was whole and lacked nothing. This is an imperfect and unfinished glimpse of a thought; like me, it will keep evolving--but I am complete. Happy anniversary, Hannah.
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A popular worship song has been singing to me for days. Particularly, the words saying, "What a powerful name it is!"
It's not just the name, as if it is a magic incantation. It is the Risen Christ who bears the name. Philippians 2:10-11 reminds us that the day is coming when "at the name of Jesus every knee will bow and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father." But before then, now−even now, In the powerful name of Jesus and by the blood of the Lamb we can be released from the Enemy's lies we have believed for too long. In the powerful name of Jesus we can be free from the fears that have kept us living small. In the powerful name of Jesus we can be liberated from the confusion and doubt that have kept us from living in truth. In the powerful name of Jesus we can have the crushing weight of guilt and shame of past sin and rebellion lifted from our souls. It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Freedom for today in all the spheres of our lives and relationships. All this is in the powerful name of Jesus because Jesus is alive and he rules and reigns at the right hand of the Father. It's true. Hallelujah! Today is Good Friday. Today, Jesus walked the Via Dolorosa ─ "the way of sorrow" ─ to Calvary's hill. There, he placed himself on the cross of sorrow and shame ─ for my sake.
It is not too far fetched to say that on this day, I was granted a divine and sacred "marriage license." And, Easter Sunday is my Wedding Day! I've been married to my beloved David for almost 36 years. We were married in mid-July in Chicago. He chose me to be his wife many years ago and he has been a loving and faithful spouse, friend, and life companion to me every day hence. Long before David chose me, however, Jesus chose me. On the first Good Friday, Jesus loved me to the end. He showed his love by walking the path to the Cross. And there, He gave all because of his love for me. Prior to the Cross, the Lover and the beloved could not share intimacy of love because of the barrier between us. The apostle Paul calls it "the dividing wall of hostility" because the sinner is helpless to approach the Sinless. Paul writes: You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. . . . But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.[i] In the death of Jesus, the sinner was given her marriage license to become the bride. The rehearsal dinner took place in the upper room of Maundy Thursday where Jesus washed the disciples' feet and gave them the sacrament of his body and his blood to "eat in remembrance." Good Friday made way for the two to become one. The legal contract between the two is now complete. The apostle Peter tells us that Jesus "himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; “by his wounds you have been healed.” For “you were like sheep going astray,” but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls.[ii] Whatever your earthly status, whether you are single or married, young or old, divorced or remarried, man or woman, because of the cross of Jesus, you are united with Him. The death of Christ is the eternal marriage license for all who name Christ Jesus Lord. The wedding day of Easter Sunday is coming soon. The resurrection is the wedding of the forgiven sinner and the Savior; we are united with Christ ─ I am IN Him and He is IN me. In the death and resurrection of Christ the Lord, and in the sinner's repentance and relinquishment of control and independence, the two can become one. Therefore, nothing, absolutely nothing, can separate us from the Lover and from the love of God in Christ. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.[iii] Today, I celebrate that "I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine."[iv] I rejoice in your belovedness, too! May you drink deeply of his love for you on this Good Friday! Thanks be to God! [i] Rom 5:6-8 [ii] 1Peter 2:18-25 [iii] Rom 8:31-39 [iv] Song of Solomon 6:3a Have you heard people pray asking God to "show up" in a time of need?
Or, after a difficult circumstance, have you heard someone express gratitude and surprise that God "showed up" in a big way? I think we have it wrong. God doesn't show up. According to scripture, God is with us always, never leaves or forsakes us, knows our need before we ask, and desires to give good gifts to his children. If we believe we need to beg God to be present of if we're surprised when we become aware of his loving action, I propose that we may believe some not-quite-true things about God. Perhaps these sound familiar:
As we prepare for worship together, we don't need to ask God to come to his people or to fill the sanctuary with his Presence. He is already present; we are the ones who are absent. We come scattered, frazzled, distracted. A call to worship is not, "Come, Spirit, fill this place." But, "Spirit, we have come. Collect our distracted minds and hearts that we might be present to You who is already present to us." Our personal prayer is not "Show up in my need, Lord." But, "Thank you that you are present to me even when I am distracted and afraid. You know my need for healing and rescue. Help me to turn toward you to receive from your already outstretched hands that which you desire to give me." The healing movement is not an external one: "Come, Lord Jesus, Come." Rather, the healing is an internal awareness and surrender to the One who is already present and is enabling my awareness and my surrender: "Here's my heart, Oh Lord." Some may feel that this is simply semantics. Asking God to come and show up when we are the absent ones is not a big deal. These are just the words we've given to the beginning of corporate worship or private prayer. However, I believe it is more than semantics. Out of the heart, the mouth speaks. What we say is a window to what we believe. Consider: Do you believe that God─Father, Son and Spirit─ is present to his children? Is He present to you? If so, turn toward Him and receive His good gifts. It's the last day before the onset of Lent. As such, and as I'm living at home again, I'm eschewing pancakes and other pre-fast treats and instead returning to a less tasty but nonetheless rich tradition from my childhood: burning dried palm branches to make ashes that will be smudged on the foreheads of the pious during tomorrow's Ash Wednesday service.
The smell of the burning palm leaves takes me back to a smoky resource room at Westside Alliance Church in Regina, Saskatchewan, where I heard Mum say, "That smells like my youth!" by which she of course meant marijuana. A year or two later, when I was thirteen, I burned them again in that same room with my lifelong best friend as part of our baptism preparation classes. As I was being dunked into the community of Christ that Easter, while under the water in that comically huge baptismal tank I heard my other best friend (a new friend at the time), call out, "You go, girl!" and I thought how lucky I was to be surrounded by such great women--from those best friends, to my baptism sponsor who spoke in support of me, to the pastor who did the dunking--who saw through my shyness and insecurity and the obnoxiousness that spewed out of me when I tried to break free of those limitations and instead saw who I really was and could be, people who, despite all our differences, only ever spoke to me in love as an equal. A dozen years later I spent my first of what would be three Lents in Jerusalem (and am tempted to say that the melancholy of the season is nowhere more inescapably magnetic). In those years I took multiple trips to the Quarantal Monastery near Jericho, which commemorates Christ's temptation in the wilderness after his baptism--the biblical story that's the source of the Lenten tradition. I twice walked up the Mount of Olives to join in the Palm Sunday procession, from which we collect the branches to burn into smudgeable ashes. I got ash-smudged in the Holy City and spent time in contemplation in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where Christ was most likely crucified and buried. But never throughout all of this did I escape my significantly more mundane history. Never did I write over the memories that gave me my original Lenten self. Speaking of which, this pre-Ash Wednesday smell of burning is always also the smell of campfires, which to me is the unfailing trigger for memories of Katepwa Baptist Kamp, a setting that taught me many spiritual lessons but none of them about Lent exactly (however, some of them about guilt and shame, and many of them about abstinence). I learned my first real lessons about mortality and grief there; KBK gave me the first person I lost, and my first of many experiences of grieving someone whom I felt I didn't really deserve to grieve--in this case a person I barely knew but whose kindness to me in a desperate moment had been my saving grace, an intervention, my much-needed picture of a truly human Jesus. With the griefs of different kinds that have followed in the many years since then, I've come to see the beauty that can grow in the space of loss, but this doesn't make grief itself any easier to bear when it appears. Mortality is a tough pill to swallow even for those who anticipate heaven; earthly life is still finite, and heaven is still the unknown. For me this last year was, in many ways, a year of loss and hurt and failure. I feel a bit silly naming all the things that left me feeling that way, but the attendant griefs persisted no matter how outwardly silly the circumstances. And yet, each unwelcome change for which I've grieved has eventually yielded gifts I never could have anticipated. And in more than one case a loss proved itself to be a rescue in disguise. In Christian tradition Ash Wednesday has been an occasion for us to face our mortality, "for dust we are and to dust we shall return." But even this phrase that speaks to our insignificance, our fleeting lives, and the humbleness of our state of being should remind us simultaneously of our connection to the Divine, for it was the divine hand that shaped that dust to form us, and the divine breath that filled our new lungs with life rather than scattering our seemingly worthless ashy dust into nothingness. What is human will become dust, but so also will the dust be reborn into something that dust cannot imagine. So here we are. Welcome to Lent. Hannah Ayer is a writer and editor based in Calgary, Canada. At the moment, she’s finishing the thesis for her MA in Middle Eastern Cultures and Religions from Jerusalem University College, focusing on an identity reclamation movement taking place within the Aramean (Syriac) Christian minority in Israel. In her copious spare time she sings in the choir at the Anglican cathedral in Calgary and indulges her undying love of all things comedy. Having grown up alongside Nancy’s youngest daughter, she has always treasured Nancy Buschart as one of the motherly influences in her life. When Herod realized he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious . . . .
Matthew 2:16 Herod was in control and his control was real. He held life-and-death power over the people in his kingdom. He was willing to manipulate, deceive and kill to achieve his agenda, and when frustrated by the Magi he brought devastation to the families in Bethlehem. The coming of an infant-King and his Kingdom was a matter of record. “Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever” [Is 9:7]. The Magi’s news of a natal star meant the rivalry had begun, so Herod postured and connived. But, Herod had it right. The birth of this Messiah-baby was going to change his life forever . . . and he was spitting mad. The motivation for such an exertion of control may well have been a misguided “good of the kingdom” or, more likely, “the good of Herod”. But motivation gone sour may mean that “fear” is the core motivator. Fear of loss of property or loss of position, security or station. Centuries later, we continue to wrestle with the implications of the Christ child’s birth and his reign and rule over the Kingdom he established including our daily, hourly lives. We need to pay attention to our own frustration and anger, our own desire for control, and our exposed fear of failed illusions of security. The truth: the Messiah came because of our finitude. Hopeless and lost in our desperate need of a Savior, the baby came. We can’t save ourselves; we can’t clean ourselves up. No matter how desperately we try, we return again and again to being “prone to wander” from “the One we love”. Without Christ, we cannot approach the throne of grace to receive mercy. The Messiah whose coming frustrated the powerful Herod is our only hope for experiencing sweet fellowship with the Father and abundant life that Christ came to provide here and now and eternally to come. Our citizenship in Christ’s eternal kingdom is won through the infant-King. In our finitude, Christ’s infinite love expands to encompass our fears and to rescue us, doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves. And although modern-day Herod’s continue to rage and devastate, we may surrender to the greater King who has no rivals and to his Kingdom that will never end. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. The life of faith always requires movement from one allegiance to another.
"The next day John was there again with two of his disciples. When he saw Jesus passing by, he said, "Look the Lamb of God!" When the two disciples heard him say this, they followed Jesus." John 1:35-37 Jesus' disciples, then and now, have to make choices every day. We must choose who we follow and we must choose what we pursue. Countless loyalties and allegiances are available to us and are continual temptations to our commitment to Christ. We can choose to follow the powerful, the beautiful, the radical, the popular, . . . We can choose to pursue money, power, possessions, success, prestige, control, beauty, pleasure, approval, self-promotion. Fear is a great motivator of our choices. Fear invites us to try to "eliminate" risk by choosing certainty, safety and security. Human beings’ history of bad choices is long and sad. God is speaking: Do you not see what they are doing in the towns of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem? The children gather wood, the fathers light the fire, and the women knead the dough and make cakes of bread for the Queen of Heaven [the Babylonian goddess Ishtar]. They pour out drink offerings to other gods to provoke me to anger. But am I the one they are provoking?, declares the Lord. Are they not rather harming themselves, to their own shame? Jeremiah 7:17-19 Henri Nouwen wrote, "The movement from illusion to prayer is hard to make since it leads us from false certainties to true uncertainties, from an easy support system to a risky surrender, and from the many 'safe' gods to the God whose love has no limits." From Reaching Out Lord, by your Spirit and because of your love which has no limit, help us to fix our eyes on you and to be faithful to our allegiance to you on the soul’s journey? "Everyone, at some time and in some areas, is a follower, and it is just as important to be discriminating in choosing whom to follow as it is to prepare to lead." From Servant Leadership by Robert K. Greenleaf 2Corinthians 2:15-17
We are "the fragrance of God, the aroma of Christ to God among those who are perishing and those who are being saved." What do you smell like? Our aroma gives us away. Like walking in the house and smelling fresh baked bread, or beef brisket, or richly seasoned Italian sauce, the truth that these have been baked, roasted, or simmered is all taken in the moment we step foot in the door. Mouth-watering, hunger-raging, "When do we eat?"! What is the fragrance of God that emits from us? The Message calls it an "exquisite fragrance" and a "sweet scent rising to God." It is Christ In Us. It is the aroma of Christ Jesus Himself. It is the aroma of life redeemed and released. It is peace that makes no sense at all except by God-mercy, God-grace and God-love extended and received. Terrible aroma is also a quick give away. Opening the garage garbage can tells me there are dirty diapers or rancid foods within. What would it take for the aroma emanating from me to be rancid? A bitter, unforgiving spirit? A greedy, stingy, self-serving heart? Pent up anger and self-righteousness? A critical, judgmental spirit? Disordered loves and attachments? Arrogance and independence? These produce a rancid aroma that repels relational connection and intimacy with God and with others. Room freshener Febreeze sprayed over a nasty pile of garbage may cover up the truth for a time. But what produces death in our souls will eventually be exposed and known for what it is. The good news−by God's grace and mercy toward us, the love and sacrifice of Christ and the indwelling Spirit of God produce the sweetest aroma imaginable. Like fresh baked cookies, it is an aroma that draws others in. It is an invitation to come, taste and see the goodness of God. Lord Jesus, I want to exude the sweet aroma of your life and love. Search me and know me. See what evil and rancid way is in me. Remove, Redeem, Reconcile me. Do what you will so that I may be evermore a wooing and fragrant invitation to others to come and receive you and your life lived out in them. Amen I’ve heard them called “ear worms.” Those songs that get stuck in your head. One line that loops over and over until you want to scream. There is a billboard in terminal B at DIA that did me in the last time I traveled. A picture of a man, Mr. Robinson, with the quote, “And here’s to you, Mr. Robinson.” I spent the next day and a half singing the Simon & Garfunkel lyrics.
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know. Oh, oh, oh. God bless you, please Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray, Hey, hey, hey “Heaven holds a place for those who pray.” At some point during that day and a half, I began to connect the dots. Ear worms can be prayer. And, when one is in a posture of spiritual receptivity and intentional listening, ear worms can be a spiritual discipline. One perspective of prayer is that we are invited to join the eternal conversation already in progress. The communication among the Father, Son and Spirit has always been happening. In Christ, we are invited to enter into the communion that is already occurring in the heavenly places. The eternal conversation is also happening within believers. Prayer is often considered something we “do.” I believe it is something we “receive.” By day the Lord directs his love, At night his song is with me-- A prayer to the God of my life. Ps 42:8 Lord, sing your song in my subconscious until my distracted mind and heart wakens to your music. Then, courage Lord. Courage to hear and courage to respond. . . . Amen Ruminations from my Journal for: January 6, 2009
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to reap; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 This morning, I turned my chair around to face the painting that hangs behind it. The Cycle of Life, a hand-painted lithograph by Canadian artist Donna Kriekle. An apple tree branch is woven into a wreath that gradually and naturally moves through the seasons. It tells me this: life flows from one season to the next. Winter gives way to Spring, Spring to Summer, Summer to Autumn, Autumn to Winter, Winter to Spring. . . What time is it today? Yesterday, I spotted the first emergence of my earliest tulips! Already, January fifth, Spring is pressuring Winter to let go of its grip. Yesterday, too, my eighty-three year old mother surrendered another part of her life to an end that is pressing us all. Her body is letting go. Is this, then, a time to weep or a time to laugh? A time to mourn or a time to dance? Could it be both? You, Lord, created time and existed before time. In your love and wisdom, you orchestrate events and lives, births and deaths, to accomplish your will in salvation history. The birth of John – prepared the way. The birth of Jesus, Emmanuel – brought God to us. The death of Herod – brought the end of oppression and exile. The death of John – brought Jesus’ ministry into focus. The death of Jesus – brought salvation and reconciliation to all he created. My tulips are emerging into Spring. My mom is dying into eternal life. Today is a time to weep and a time to laugh. As we mourn, she is preparing to dance! January 2, 2017 Postscript: My mother died just a month after this journal entry. Eight years, already?? Wow! Time flies! But the question remains: "What time is it now--in my life? and in yours? A little weeping, a little laughter, and always a heart full of worship. Amen |
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