Pilgrim Notes

Reflections along the way.

Page 2 of 72

Remembering Our Story

December 4, 2018 / / 1 Comment
Image by nerkles (used by permission via Creative Commons)

Christmas lights are popping up in the neighborhood and holiday tunes dance through the stores. It’s time for the yearly gluttony of eating and buying. It’s also time for Advent, a season of repentance, focused on watching and waiting for the coming of the Lord. The call to devotion and the call to consume compete for attention.

It is tempting to bemoan the incongruity, but this juxtaposition of spirit and flesh has been common in every age. Late medieval communities often held the Advent call to times of fasting and prayer alongside the unusual and Christmas rituals of cross-dressing, public drunkenness, gluttony, and the ongoing threat of mobs demanding “figgy pudding” and more from the wealthy residents.

Puritan opposition to Christmas was in part due to the reckless and dangerous behaviors present during the season. They also feared that the various feasts and fasts of the church year could distract from the primary emphasis of each Sunday as Resurrection Day. I value their emphasis on the Resurrection even as I celebrate the rhythms of the year. It simply reminds me of the value of proclaiming and hearing the Gospel each Sunday and feasting at the Lord’s Table.

Keeping the focus on God’s redeeming action has always been a challenge. Popular trends can distract us from observing the rhythms of the church year. It’s easy to feel caught between the demands of work, family and life with the call to worship God in all things. I believe the rhythm of the year can help us as we face this tension. Learning the simple rhythms of the year can help us to grow into a life of devotion over time. We don’t have to escape the culture but learn small ways of turning our hearts toward the Lord.

Ancient Israel felt the tension of surrounding cultures dedicated to land gods. Their harvest festivals included sexual deviancy and other forbidden behaviors. The Lord instructed Israel to turn the harvest seasons into times of remembrance of his grace. During the barley festival, Israel celebrated the Passover feast. During the wheat harvest, Israel celebrated the feast of Pentecost, and during the fruit harvest, Israel celebrated the feast of Booths. Historical events that marked God’s redeeming action in their midst became the focal point of the celebration. While surrounding cultures were celebrating harvest feasts, Israel was remembering the Lord’s action as He redeemed them from Egypt, gave them the Ten Commandments, and led them through the wilderness. These joyful celebrations were a form of festal memory. As the Hebrews rehearsed patterns of trust in God’s faithfulness they were being re-oriented in time and space toward a life of true worship.

Active remembering is not simply thinking or speaking about God’s redeeming action. It includes specific foods, music, movement, and reflection. This physical and spiritual remembering is making the past present. The descendants in the Promised Land could say that they were a slaves in Egypt redeemed by the Lord. In Deuteronomy, the parent is exhorted to train the child in the midst of all the postures of a typical day: standing, seated, lying down, and walking. These daily actions and festal actions were ways of training the memory and the body in the way of the Lord.

I would suggest that the church year is based on this same way of involving the body and the heart in remembering God’s goodness in our midst. In the middle of a world turned away from God, we re-turn to the Lord through the rhythm of daily prayer, weekly worship, and yearly cycles of remembering. The feasts and fasts of the church year are times set aside for remembering the historical action of God in Jesus Christ. As we remember, we bring the range of human emotions and experiences from birth to death into worship. We rehearse in worship, in song, in Scripture, and in story the grief of pain and loss, the hope of God’s faithfulness, and the joy of His surprise coming.

The Door of Advent

November 28, 2018 / / 0 Comments
Image by Jamie McCaffrey (used by permission via Creative Commons)

When I was little, we hung Advent calendars with little doors that opened for each day leading to Christmas. Then one day I stepped through one of those little doors. It was like stepping into a giant house. When I really discovered Advent, I discovered the church year and a way of walking through days and weeks of the year in the stories and songs of my fathers and mothers of the faith.

For over twenty years, I’ve been exploring old hallways, half-forgotten rooms, and pictures and poems that fill this house of memory. In fact, it might be more accurate to speak of a boat instead of a house. For the church year is like sailing around the globe each year. The tale of St. Brendan the Navigator reveals the church year through the pilgrimage of a small group of monks in search of the Holy Isle. During their seven-year journey, they celebrate the feast days on various islands. Each time they stop, they feast, worship, remember and continue their journey. Their time is shaped by the stories of Scripture and the revelation of Jesus Christ.

You might say that when we celebrate the church year, we step through the door of Advent and onto the boat with St. Brendan. I discovered Advent as a solace. As a place to face my own broken places and my own longing for the coming of the Lord. I watched and waited alongside Isaiah, Jeremiah, Zechariah, and the Jews exiled to the dark land of Babylon. Their stories and longing took form in the cries of John the Baptist as he pointed toward the Coming One.

When I gaze at icons and art of the church, John the Baptist is still pointing to the Coming One. “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” The church year opens with a world on the verge of collapse and the judgment of God looming. In the middle of this dark scene, he points us to our glorious Lord who comes to make things right.

Each season of the year points us to stories of the faithful and unfaithful who are all in desperate need of the grace of God. The church year gave me a way to rehearse and revisit the stories of the Old and New Testament as the story of my family, our family.

Instead of always looking for the latest newest take of spiritual life and formation, we may find a joy in discovering and rediscovering some ancient thoughts on the spiritual life and formation through sermons, prayers, and lives of great men and women of faith who walked in the simple rhythms of feast and fast.

Every year, I begin the journey again. Relearning the rhythm, the dance of faith that can sing in the dark, worship in the face of calamity, and celebrate the mostly hidden gifts that overwhelm us every single day of the year. Whether you’ve walked this path your whole life or are just discovering the pattern of the church year, I invite you to walk alongside as we share stories of faith, prayers of longing and seek to keep our eyes watching as we wait for the coming of our Lord.

Remembering 9/11

September 11, 2018 / / 0 Comments

Image by Jörg Schubert

Each year on September 11, I listen to the voices of friends, family, and strangers rehearse their memories of the day we were attacked. The sudden news pouring through television, texts, radio stations, and phones calls, seemed unreal. The skies became silent. Our never-ending movement ended. For a season, we all lived in slow motion. As our nation mourned, the world mourned with us.

The true horror of the event began unfolding. People felt shock, fear, grief, mourning, loss, anger, and confusion. Every time I read people’s stories and listen to tributes or memorials, I am struck by the sense of shattering: a picture of the world crashing down into uncountable pieces like the shards of the twin towers. As we watched and continue to remember the horror of a world crumbling into dust, we see a glimpse of the utter brokenness of humanity.

This event, this memory is yet another echo, another reverberation, another tremor of sin that stretches across the history of the world. The utter sinfulness of sin is the undoing of all things: all joy, all love, all beauty, all peace. In every age, in every culture, in every moment, and in every person, this tremor ripples through all existence. Some people have been so aware of this darkness, this brokenness, they could not bear to leave their rooms. Or simply, they could not bare it, so they didn’t.

The tremors of this brokenness also shook many people in the 14th and 15th centuries, and they began to worship death. We can still find tapestries memorializing the danse macabre (dance of death) as groups paraded across as living skeletons, awaiting their coming repose. The horrors of plague, famine, war, and torture, brutalized much of Europe in ways that seemed random and meaningless. Faith grew cold. Hearts grew weak.

We experience of glimmer of this pain on September 11. When I reflect on that day, I remember sitting in a coffee shop with a group of ministers who were actually having a prayer meeting. Suddenly our phones lit up with non stop texts, and our prayers shifted to lamentations and cries for mercy. Two weeks later I was scheduled to do a retreat on holy fools with my close friends and academic advisors Michael and Darlene. We chose not to cancel but to remember the strange stories of fools from across the ages even as we grappled with our own grief and fear. Russia in particular has celebrated the role of these wandering fools for God whose lives seem out of sync with the rough and tumble life of the world.

When I think of September 11, I also think of the 14th century and other eras in human history when the world seemed to come to an end amidst of the terrors of the day. I also think of the horrors some people face every day of existence.

I think of Ivan Karamazov and his cynicism due partly to the evil that drowns our world each day. Sometimes it feels as though Ivan gains more followers with each passing year and each passing evil. But then I also think of Alexei Karamazov, Ivan’s brother. HIs simple faith and simple response to the world seems naive. He comes to us as a holy fool not quite fitting in the monastery and not quite fitting in the world of men.

In a world where evil seems to abound on the right and the left, we might look for a few more holy fools. Those who’ve abandoned dignity and glory and justification and have discovered the mystery of God’s love that reverberates even more strongly than the rising darkness. This love does not look or operate like evil. It comes across and gentle and weak and on the verge of failure. And yet, it glistens with the light of Christ Himself. His weak and failing love seeps beneath our sorrows, our weaknesses, our failures, and even the tremors of evil shaking the world.

Walking in His love feels a bit like falling. He unsteadies our confidences. He reorients our ears and eyes, so that finally we begin to look and act in ways that seem foolhardy. Like Alexei, we see His light and love where others see only hate and darkness. By his grace, we learn to move in this light of love even when it means failure and possibly even death. Like little children, we continue to walk in this love step by step. Slowly learning to trust. For this love can never, will never be extinguished. It is a love that walks through death and will continue pouring out life into the heart of the world until evil is no more.

Meeting Moses

March 16, 2018 / / 2 Comments

Moses Breaking the Tablets by John Martin (1833)

Lent reminds me of seasons of life that are lived in the desert. There are times in life when we must change, must adjust to unexpected difficulties, struggles in workplace, and loss in health or relations or even in spiritual vitality. The Lord does not abandon us in times of great challenge but is often calling us into a newness of life.

This calling may feel more like desert than oasis. In the desert, distractions magnify under the burning sun. Visions of Egyptian food and Egyptian ways beckon. Old idols sing siren songs. If not for the grace of God, the demons in St. Anthony’s cave would overcome us.

The desert provokes crisis. What I thought was my talent may be stripped away in the struggle. Those successes I hid behind or long desired vanish like a noonday mirage. What is it that I thought I needed to make me who I am? Income? Job? Accolades? Successes? or even Defeats? What happens when I lose those things I think are vital to my identity? What about my dreams or my story? I may have envisioned myself on a particular path, and I may have even told the story of my life in a particular way. Then suddenly I meet God on the path.

Maybe he knocks me on the ground like Saul. Maybe he wrestles me and cripples me like Jacob. Maybe like Jeremiah, he calls me to a place where the world seems to be falling apart. The desert is a place for dying and for being born again.

As I am wrestling with God to preserve some sense of my own importance, Moses appears. I see a fading glimpse of my calling. At first, Moses seems like fire streaming down the mountain.

He knows the desert. Like a dead man walking, he left a world behind and vanished into the wild. Stark living stripped him, unmade him. At the edge of nowhere, the fiery Voice of the Lord drew him up from the dust: recalled to life.

This burning man consumed the powers of Egypt and lead a band of slaves into the Holy Fear. He stands in the fire on the mountain. His people tremble before the Voice that creates and destroys.  Call it the horror of the holy. Standing naked before the face of Love is like facing the flaming sword of Eden.

Moses reminds me that we are called to a blazing fire of love. The Spirit beckons. We face the Lord. He wounds and heals. We hear the Word of Love resounding like rushing waters in the midst of flames.

For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. (Hebrews 4:12).

This call, this wound of love may be as dramatic as a desert journey that leads to the end of one life and the beginning of the another. It may also seem much smaller like the daily renunciations of self importance, self identity, self focus. It may be the little challenges of work and family and life. It may be the long letting go into the hands of God as he forms me into a flame of love.

 

Advent Blues

December 6, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Image by Chris Lim (used by permission via Creative Commons).

The darkness closes in. Sadness, grief, loss, or some unspeakable sense of emptiness paralyzes. Each step feels like walking against the tide, pressing against of wall of nothingness. It seems easier to close the blinds. Turn over in bed. Lay in the dark. Continue reading

Advent – Collapse and Hope

December 4, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Image by Manchester Fire (used by permission via Creative Commons).

Sun and moon turned dark. Stars falling from skies. Smoke and fire in the sky. Everything is quaking.

Welcome to Advent…The beginning of the end of all things.

Advent breaks into our world like a thunderclap or a meteor crashing down from the skies and reverberating across the land. Who can sleep when the world is tumbling into cataclysm?

Advent comes like a crisis, like a wildfire, like an explosion that shatters our comfortable worlds.

The culture is filling the air with songs of holly and jolly, with heart-warming commercials of gifts given and relationships forged afresh.

The Scripture readings at the start of Advent focus on families falling apart, nations battling nations, children rising against parents. The texts look a bit closer to our present reality. In Mark 13, all that is holy has been desecrated and made desolate. The places of refuge are crumbling war zones where security is nowhere to be found. Continue reading

Advent Resources

November 28, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Here are a few Advent meditations that have blessed me. One of the earliest books I read on Advent, was a selection of poems from Ann Weems. Her conversational poems speak to our human longing and struggle to pause before the mystery of God’s coming. Alfred Delp and Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s sermons were written from Nazi prisons and carry the weight of a soul waiting human judgment while looking for the coming of God in Christ. There are some paintings from across the ages that explore the nativity. One quick way to get started is by looking at Nativity on Wikiart (some pictures are not relevant but most are). Continue reading

Advent Invitation

November 28, 2017 / / 0 Comments

We stand at the threshold of a new year: a new cycle of remembrance and reflection. This coming Sunday marks the beginning of the Advent season and the beginning of the church year. For over 20 years, I’ve tried to write occasional meditations during this season of anticipation. For over 1500 years, the church has observed the Advent season as a time of watching and waiting for the coming of the Lord. Each year, I discover something new from this ancient well of church writings, music, art, and prayers.

As we watch and wait together, we learn afresh the meaning, the hope, the arrival of our Lord in all his glory. We learn from those saints who have gone before us, and we learn from one another as we journey together, share stories and watch for His sudden appearing. I invite you to walk with me and others in this season of watchful prayer. May we exhort one another all the more as we see the day approaching.

How do we practice Advent watching and waiting? Continue reading

Simple Thanks

November 23, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Image by Stacy (used by permission via Creative Commons).

This morning I woke up early and decided to start preparing a salad for a family gathering at lunch today. As I sliced the cucumber, a mild aroma refreshed the room like a cool breeze. This simple act reminded me that I am alive and grateful. As I write these words, I am aware of the humor in pausing while cutting a cucumber and lifting up hands in thanks. Simple thanks seems a bit odd in a world of cool cynicism. The overwhelming abundance of our age can blind us to the giftedness of each moment.

I learn and relearn the art of simple thanks from people who have known lack and from times when I suffered loss. Earlier in my life, I had the privilege to serve in a mixed race Pentecostal church among many people who lived at the very edge of survival. I have never been around such joyous, raucous worship. Their joy carried me through a battle of dark depression that threatened to smother me. When I stepped into the services, I felt their delight overwhelm me, and I was jumping and spinning and dancing. I say dancing but I mean tottering. My height and size made me look more like a big drunk bear stumbling around and always on the verge of tipping over.

When I sit with those who have known great suffering, I have been surprised by the simple joy and thanksgiving. Almost twenty years ago, an older man walked into my life as he was entering the twilight of his life. He had lived a hermit life for many years, escaping the pain of his losses from earlier in life. He came to a retreat I hosted on Holy Play and was so excited when we did a finger-painting exercise. At 68 years old, he had never finger-painted. In the years ahead, he entered a second childhood and immersed himself in coloring, music, friendships, and laughter in a way that brought joy to me and all those around us.

I also think of those who have known deep, unshakable suffering like Richard Wurmbrand and Rabia Al Basri. Imprisoned and tortured for his faith under Romanian Communism, Wurmbrand discovered the grace of God at the place where he was weakest and failing. He tells the story of a torturer who started singing. Though in pain, he gave thanks for he had not heard music in years. His descent into the forsaken depths of a dark prison became an entrance into the halls of worship. In the despair of pain and loss, he found the joy of the Lord and love for those who hated him.

Like Wurmbrand, Rabia also knew great pain at the human hands. After her father’s death, she fell into the hands of robbers and was sold as a slave. Years of hardship and suffering gave way to a love for God. This Persian poet and mystic spent her life of suffering and eventual freedom in prayer and thanksgiving. Everywhere she turned, she found the love of God.

Finally, I think of Jane Kenyon. A poet who suffered from depression all her life, Kenyon also gave words to the absolute wonder of being alive. In the darkness of her own pains, she still discovered grace. On this day of giving thanks, may her words inspire afresh that every moment, every breath is gift.

Otherwise

By Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

– Jane Kenyon
from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1996)

The Future is Created through Sacrifice

November 18, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Image by Vinoth Chandar (used by permission via Creative Commons).

Jeremiah sees a vision of hope, a vision of restoration. He sees a time when, “Jerusalem will become a name of joy and praise and pride for all the nations on earth to see; when they hear of all the prosperity that I shall give, they will be seized with fear and trembling at all the prosperity and the peace that I provide for it.” (Je 33:9)

His words bear witness to God’s promise that the people of God will be restored and that the promises of God will be fulfilled. He declares this word of hope while be held captive in the court of the guard. He will soon be brutally thrown down into a well and left for dead. Rescued from the well, he will behold the fall of his beloved homeland and the destruction of Jerusalem. Eventually, he will be driven away from his home and into Egypt where he will die.

Jeremiah’s vision of hope is not for himself. It is given to future generations, to us and to others. He will live through the full brunt of God’s judgment on a faithless nation though he has been God’s servant, declaring the Word of the Lord to the people. Many faithful people, like Jeremiah, laid the foundation for a future world and sacrificed the satisfaction of their lives for a future hope, for a world yet to be born.

As I reflect on Jeremiah’s story, I hear the words from Hebrews, “And all these, though commended through their faith, did not receive what was promised, “since God had provided something better for us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect.” (Heb 11:39–40)

These saints laid down their lives in response to God’s call but also for those who would come after them. They played a role in creating the future. Jesus comes as the perfect sacrifice, whose life poured out death and taken up in resurrection becomes our redemption, our hope, our life. Paul tells us that we should “look not only to our own interests, but also to the interests of others. 5 Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, 6 who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, 7 but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” (Php 2:4–7)

We may not suffer the loss and abandonment of Jeremiah, and yet we learn through him that the future is created through sacrifice. I fear that we live in an age that tends to ignore the past and abandon the future. Even our spiritual reflections often focus on personal goals, personal achievement, and personal fulfillment. We must not live only for self-fulfillment, for our own interests. We also are called to lay down our lives. After the great chapter on saints of faith, the writer of Hebrews calls us to “run with endurance the race that is set before us, 2 looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Heb 12:1–2)

As we follow the Lord, may our lives be poured out for those around us, those behind us, and even those yet to come.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2024 Pilgrim Notes

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑