Meditation on John 3:1-17 (2005)

The woman in labor is cold, so cold and they pile blankets on her but it doesn’t help and she’s tired. This labor is hard not like the others, this one’s bad, something’s wrong and the pregnancy was hard and it hurt so much when the baby went breech and they turned it around inside of her. And it hurts now, too, not like the other times and she’s so cold, so cold, and she doesn’t think she can go on because something’s terribly wrong and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts and finally the baby’s here but it’s not over because there’s something wrong with the baby and they’re not telling her they won’t tell her it’s the foot the baby’s foot is twisted and how will she tell her husband but it’s alive and how will she tell his parents it’s a girl but that’s okay there will be other sons, but no, they’re saying, no more babies, and they talk about tying her tubes and even though her husband has to agree to it that will become a wound between them but right now here’s this twisted little baby and how will she tell her parents and how will they tell their other children. 

And too soon it’s six weeks later and the baby is sick and has to be rushed to the hospital and it’s dying this poor little twisted girl is dying and there is nothing that they can do nothing at all on earth and so they do the only thing they can do and the minister comes and he baptizes the child in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and they name her Ann.

I can only try to imagine how overwhelming that ordeal must have been for my parents.  Absolutely desperate, about to lose the last child they would ever have, there was nothing they could do. Every instinct told them, “Save her!” And that is what they did.

Physical birth is messy, at best.  It can result in death or incapacitation.  It can injure mother and baby permanently.  For humans, sadly, it is not even always a welcome event.

Physical birth delivers us into a world where we are suddenly alone.  No longer suspended and dependent, we are forced to breathe for ourselves, to make our needs known, to find our own way. We are severed from our life source.

How different is baptism!  We are taken back, into the water, to the source of life, to the One who knows what we truly need, the One who promises to care for us forever.  We are joined into a body, interdependent with other believers. Physical birth marks the beginning of life that will end in death.  Spiritual rebirth marks the beginning of new and unending life.

In physical birth, we are thrust into a world that will judge us, quantify us, categorize us and stick us on a shelf if we don’t fit in.  Sometimes it even does that in the name of love.  We will grow up and grow old.  We will feel loneliness and fear.  Being born of the flesh often means being dragged down by the world’s condemnation. In baptism, we enter a relationship where we discover we are loved without condition, where we’re encouraged to grow without limit, to once more enjoy intimacy with our life source, and to find peace that passes all understanding.  We meet a parent who delights in us and wants us to delight in Him.  We don’t have to get good grades or bear children or have the right job. 

One of my favorite childhood memories is of drive-in movies.  I’d be in my pajamas and we’d all load into the station wagon for an adventure after dark.  When we returned home, I’d be asleep and my father would gather me in his arms and carry me up to my bed.  Being born from above means being aware of whose child I am, and how very much I am loved.  That love carries me when the world would pull me down and protects me when the world attacks.  I am once more utterly dependent, cradled in the everlasting arms of Almighty God who stoops down from heaven and continues to bear me from above.

In the beginning (Good Friday reflection on Luke 22:39-46)

 Jesus Prays on the Mount of Olives

He came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives; and the disciples followed him. When he reached the place, he said to them, “Pray that you may not come into the time of trial.” Then he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground. When he got up from prayer, he came to the disciples and found them sleeping because of grief, and he said to them, “Why are you sleeping? Get up and pray that you may not come into the time of trial.”

– Luke 22:39-46

In the beginning, there was a garden. And the Lord God created a man of the dust of the earth and placed him in it. And, out of the soil of the garden, the Lord God formed every animal of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the man to see what he would name them. The man and the Lord God worked together in this way. But the man was the only one of his kind, and the Lord God loved the man so much that He created a companion for him out of the man’s own flesh. In the evening, the Lord God walked in the garden, and I imagine the man walking with Him in sweet fellowship.

The man tilled the soil and kept it and was able to eat of the fruit of every tree, including the Tree of Life at the center of the garden, by whose fruit the man could live forever. But of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the Lord God said, the man must not eat.

But the flesh of his flesh was tempted by the serpent, and by the fruit that was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, and the man ate of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. And when the Lord God sought him in the evening breeze, the man hid himself in his grief over what he had done, and he abandoned the sweet communion they had shared.

In choosing to be apart from the Lord God, the first Adam became separated from the Tree of Life, and from the garden, and began an existence of wandering and of producing bread by the sweat of his brow. But he, and all of his descendants, would remember Paradise, and long for that home, and that sweet communion, and they would forever seek the Tree of Life.

Thousands of years later, there is another garden, and another man. He, too, has made a choice, but it is not to abandon fellowship with the Lord God. Instead, he bends the will of his flesh to the will of the Lord. And, although he prays for relief, he offers his willingness in exchange for the willfulness of the first Adam. He tells his friends to pray, too, for he knows that each one will have to make a choice in the trouble ahead, and that their own strength, the strength of their flesh, will not be enough to sustain them.

Earlier in the evening, he offered them bread of the fields, and spoke strange words. He told of his body being broken and offered that they might become one with him, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. spirit of his spirit. But, so soon after, the flesh is weak, and the disciples sleep in their grief, as if hiding in a garden.

But the man is not alone; the Lord God is with him. In the evening breeze, this man walks with God, and this man is God, come down and formed from the dust of the earth of which all things are made. He is with God in the beginning.

There is only one way back to Eden. It is a path that leads to a very different tree, a strange tree made by man. Only God’s choice can create this way back. Only the Lord God can restore Man to everlasting life and sweet fellowship. Only the last Adam’s choice to obey will make a way.

But for now, there is this garden.  Be careful, for there are serpents here. It is beginning.

“Will you lay down your life for me?”

“Will you lay down your life for me?”[i]

Seven years ago, on a Wednesday morning in Lent, I knelt in the front pew of St. James' Episcopal Church in Potomac, Maryland, shaking and weeping. We had just had a midweek Eucharist service. As it happens, our Lenten program that year was “Questions Jesus Asks,” and I had prepared a reflection on the question “Do you want to be made well?” in which I shared my experience of being born with a club foot and suffering molestation as a child.

I had experienced a lot of healing as I’d moved into a deeper relationship with Christ, both through 12-step recovery and spiritual formation here at St. James.’ I had come here with a history of self-loathing that led to many destructive behaviors.  Seven years ago, in 2006, at the age of 49, I still had no college degree because I’d never had the confidence to return to school, and I’d remained with the same company for decades, convinced I was unqualified to do anything else. For nearly half a century, I had allowed life to happen to me, and had never felt like an agent in my own history.

As I knelt in that pew before the pulpit that Wednesday morning seven years ago, I experienced a visceral longing for deeper communion, an ache for Jesus unlike any I’d ever known. Krista K,[ii] came over and asked me if I was okay. I said, “I miss him so much.” (Do you remember this? You thought I was talking about Jim.) I was referring to Jesus. It felt as if we had been joined once, and I wanted to return.

At the same time that I had this deep longing, I had a sort of vision in my mind, not a hallucination, but a very real sense of paths radiating out from me in all directions. I knew that I could choose any path I wanted. And I knew that what God wanted was for me to choose the path directly ahead of me: the one that led over a cliff.

Krista fetched Cindy, and Cindy and I sat in the chapel, talking about the longing, the paths, and the cliff. Beverly B, [iii] who had cleaned up following the Eucharist, left the church, but came back minutes later. She wrapped a prayer shawl around my shoulders, saying, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I need to give this to you.”

Indeed she did. By the time Cindy and I finished our conversation, I had a way forward. It was a major leap of faith. I was going to try to become an Episcopal priest, and the first step in the process was to get my bachelor’s degree. I wanted to dedicate my life to serving God and God’s people, to help others experience the healing love of God that had brought me so far already, and promised now to lead me into a land I did not know. I had no idea how I would afford the tuition or time to study, nor even where I would enroll, but I knew I needed a bachelor’s degree, and I knew I wanted to major in religion. It was all that interested me at that point, despite, or perhaps, because of, the fact that I’d been in business for 30 years.

So off the cliff I stepped.

Three months later, I was an undergrad at GW. I still had no idea how this was going to work out. How would I tell my boss I was no longer going to work for the company I’d been with since I was 19? How would our family handle the loss of income while I was in seminary? I only knew that, for now, I was called to work faithfully toward my BA, and I continued to work fulltime while I did so.

In June of 2007, a year after I resumed studies, I hit my first bump against the cliff I’d stepped off of.  The conversation with my boss became unnecessary when I found him dead in his apartment. Suddenly, shocked and grieving, with the image of Frank’s lifeless body seared in my mind’s eye, I was the boss, and the corporation I had devoted my entire adult life to, as well as part of my teenage years, was to be liquidated and disbanded. While it may seem that Frank’s death solved my problem, I believe the reverse: if Frank was going to die, a good and gracious God had prepared me, at that point where my entire career was coming to a catastrophic end, to have a sense that there was, in fact, a plan for my welfare and not for harm, to give me a future with hope.[iv]

The company work was almost done by the time I graduated in 2009, and I went on unemployment while I looked for my next job in the midst of the Great Recession. I was grateful to have a degree – any degree – since many places would not have considered me without it. Again, I viewed it as providence.

As part of my work toward becoming a priest, I visited a spiritual director regularly. Walking through the Brookland neighborhood near Catholic University, I noticed an intriguing brick building in the midst of frame houses, with an even more intriguing name on it: Center of Concern. “I wonder what they do there?” I asked myself each time, thinking I should screw up the courage to ring the bell. Being unsure of myself, I never did. That is, not until March of 2010, when I went for a job interview there and learned that the work of the Center of Concern was very much in line with what I’d been doing at St. James,’ raising awareness of global poverty issues and encouraging support of the Millennium Development Goals. By the end of April, I was the new Chief Operating Officer at the Center. Things felt very much back on track and I continued the vocational discernment process to become a priest.

The day after I received my first paycheck, though, I was shattered to learn that my marriage of nearly 29 years was ending. Just four years earlier, we’d renewed our vows and, although I knew things were strange and strained, I believed in God and marriage and the power of forgiveness and love, and I thought my husband did, too. In this absolutely surreal, frightening, rug-pulled-out-from-under-my-feet experience, though, I was aware, again, of grace and providence, for God had led me to full-time employment, and my sense of self-worth and financial stability was intact when I entered into the long, painful process of divorce. Throughout it all, I tried to behave in a way that honored God, even as I felt that the process itself was not what He (or I) ever wanted. I was reminded of Thomas Merton’s prayer: “… I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing… I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.”[v] Sadly, Bishop John Chane of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington informed me that, given the trauma of divorce, my discernment process would be suspended for two years. I was heartbroken all over again, and convinced that I knew better than he. Trust me, the bishop was right.

The following May, as the divorce was nearing its final chapter, my mother died. She had been suffering from a variety of ailments, and was 90 years old, but the cancer that claimed her life was diagnosed only weeks before her death. I was very aware that, in the divorce, I would have sought support from her and, in her death, I would have sought support from my husband. Now I had neither, only God and the community of faithful friends and co-workers to pray me through. The spiritual director I’d been seeing for discernment became a counselor as I processed my grief. My mother’s ashes were interred six days after my divorce was final.

“Will you lay down your life for me?”

I stepped off a cliff in 2006, willing to lay down my old life and the familiar shackles of broken self-regard that bound me to my career, but thinking that I knew where I would land. In the ensuing years, I had to lay down much more of the life I’d known. The scenery around me now is a very strange land: I’m not ordained, not even in seminary. The process of becoming a priest has fallen to the wayside, a victim of some of the trauma I’ve experienced. I’ve lost my marriage and my mother, but I’ve gained two granddaughters and innumerable friends. I work for half the salary I made in 2006, but at a job that holds so much more meaning, with people of faith who care about God and the poor. I have resources and a home to dedicate to the service of God and to provide sanctuary to women in crisis. I don’t know if I’m done tumbling through the air and bumping against the cliff, but I do know that God is present, and always has been, even when I couldn’t feel Him.

In her song, “Held,” Natalie Grant sings:

This is what it means to be held

How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life

And you survive

This is what it means to loved and to know

That the promise was when everything fell

We’d be held.[vi]

It is a fearful thing to lay down one’s life and fall into the hands of the living God.[vii]  It is a far more fearful thing to live safely up on a cliff, never trusting that His loving hands will catch you.

---

[i] Jesus answered, “Will you lay down your life for me? Very truly, I tell you, before the cock crows, you will have denied me three times. – John 13:38. All scripture citations are New Revised Standard Version.

[ii] Surname has been abbreviated for privacy.

[iii] Surname has been abbreviated for privacy.

[iv]  For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. - Jeremiah 29:11.

[v] Thomas Merton, “Thoughts in Solitude, “ copyright Abbey of Gethsemani.  The full text of “The Merton Prayer,” as it's come to be known is: MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

[vi] “Held” was written by Christa Wells, and appears on Grant’s 2005 album, “Awaken.”

[vii] It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. – Hebrews 10:31.

Stop and smell the flowers

At the end of September, I attended a weekend silent retreat at Bon Secours Spiritual Center in Marriottsville, MD. In the silence and unhurried pace of the weekend, I found that my grief over the loss of my marriage and the death of my mother caught up with me. I was grateful for the chance to read and nurture my mind, body and spirit... to be gentle with my self.

One book I was reading, "Acts of Faith," is a collection of short stories and chapters from longer works. It includes an excerpt from Francine Prose's "Household Saints" in which a young woman, Theresa, has been institutionalized by her parents because of her religious delusions. On their last visit, Theresa feverishly describes playing pinochle with Ste. Thérèse (also known as "The Little Flower"), Jesus and God.

Following Theresa's death, her father and eventually her neighborhood begin to speculate whether she was, herself, a saint. It was a sad and lovely story. However, as an Episcopalian, I had no frame of reference for Ste. Thérèse, and could only glimpse her through references to roses and her autobiography, "Story of a Soul."

Setting aside "Acts of Faith," I picked up the complimentary copy of "The Word Among Us," a monthly digest of articles and daily office readings that the Sisters of Bon Secours provide for their guests. On the cover, I saw the words, "My Friendship with the Little Flower." Recognizing Providence when it blooms before me, I said a silent thank you to God for the opportunity to learn more and turned to the article by Brenda Kindelan, which opens with, "I didn't choose Ste. Thérèse of Lisieux. She chose me" (57). It continues with the author's experience of encountering the saint during a retreat and how that experience helped move her into deeper relationship with God and her father.

"Lovely," I thought to myself, and turned to the daily readings, bound in the center of the digest. I settled back to appreciate the Catholic office for the day, somewhat unfamiliar to me, and was greeted with the entrance antiphon:

The Lord nurtured and taught her; he guarded her as the apple of his eye. As the eagle spreads its wings to carry its young, he bore her on his sholders. The Lord alone was her leader. (M1)

Weird, I thought. Are we talking about Mary, here? My eyes darted over the page, looking for an explanation. And there it was, at the top of the page: October 1, Feast Day of Ste. Thérèse of the Child Jesus. Surely, not the same Thérèse! Really? I almost laughed out loud at God's sense of humor. I was seized by the desire to share my delight. But who would appreciate this story?

I thought of my boss, who is a Jesuit priest. I got up and headed for my room to email him, knowing I would be breaking silence by doing so, but feeling so energized by God's obvious presence that I had to share it. As I pushed open the door from the stairwell to the floor where my room was, I was overwhelmed by the scent of flowers. I knew from the Kindelan article that it was a sign of the presence of Ste Thérèse, who scattered acts of devotion and self-sacrifice as "Little Flowers." Looking down the hallway for a more reasonable explanation, I saw the yellow cart of the cleaning crew sitting outside a nearby room. But what I smelled was not cleanser. It was floral, but not artificial. More excited than ever, I emailed my boss.

Afterward, still feeling particularly loved by God, I finished reading "Acts of Faith," and headed to my car to exchange it for my other book, James Martin's "The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything." The day was grey; the first real cold of autumn had arrived. As I walked back toward the retreat house I realized that I could not remember the ending of a particular reading in "Acts of Faith" that I had especially liked: an excerpt from Ron Hansen's, "Mariette in Ecstasy."

Like Theresa in Francine Prose's piece, Hansen's Mariette is a young woman whose intimacy with God is misunderstood and viewed with suspicion (and envy) by those around her. Although Mariette is not institutionalized like Theresa, she is thrown out of her convent. I vividly remembered enjoying Hansen's writing, but could not for the life of me remember the ending! Frustrated, I almost turned around to retrieve the book, but the cold, clammy weather made me think better of it. "I can always get to it later," I thought to myself.

Grabbing a cup of cocoa and settling into a comfy chair, I opened the Martin book to where I'd left off on page 48. Within minutes, I was reading:

That image [of a God of Surprises] was amplified when I read the conclusion of one of the great modern spiritual novels, "Mariette in Ecstasy." Ron Hansen, an award-winning writer who is also an ordained Catholic deacon, penned the story of the religious experiences of a young nun in the early 1900s, loosely based on the life of St. Therese of Lisieux, the French Carmelite. At the end of the story, Mariette, who had left the monastery many years before, writes to her former novice director and assures her that God still communicates with her. (49-50)

And then - Providence upon Providence! - Martin quotes verbatim the conclusion of the story I had been unable to recall:

We try to be formed and held and kept by him, but instead he offers us freedom. And now when I try to know his will, his kindness floods me, his great love overwhelms me, and I hear him whisper, Surprise me. (50)

I was overwhelmed: by the warmth of God's love, by the particularity of God's attention to me, by the care that had been taken in arranging the day's bouquet of little flowers. I had needed consolation and a sense that all of my pain was not caused by random cruelty in a meaningless world. What I got was the message, loud and clear: I see you. I know you. I adore you. Not one tear misses my attention, not one cry of anguish goes unheard. You are Mine, and I adore you.

Later, I would challenge the experience, testing its boundaries, and I invite you to do so, too:

Certainly, the editors of "Acts of Faith," Jane Mead and Reid Sherline, may have a fondness for Ste. Thérèse, themselves, which prompted them to include both the Prose and Hansen pieces. Nothing supernatural there. And, certainly, the inclusion of both the article and daily readings about Ste. Thérèse were appropriate for the October issue of "The Word Among Us." It isn't even much of a stretch to say I may have been psychologically primed to smell flowers when I emerged from the stairwell!

What I find challenging is the fact that I just happened to be reading both "Acts of Faith" and "The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything" on the feast day of Ste Thérèse. What I find remarkable is that I happened to read the perfect section of the latter shortly after lamenting that I couldn't remember the conclusion of "Mariette in Ecstasy," as published in the former. What I find miraculous is that all of these events -- the readings, the scent of flowers, the forgetting and the being reminded, all of them -- occurred in the space of about two hours on that specific feast day.

In the end, faith is a choice we make, over and over, to view the world and the events of our lives through the eyes of our hearts. But, at its root, faith is a grace, a gift given by a loving God. Accepting the gift is our decision. But even when faith and prayer seem too hard, when grief and loss are so deep that there are no words, those who love us can carry our faith and prayer until we are ready to pick them up again.

I did not choose Ste Thérèse of Lisieux. I did not even know her and, indeed, may have never heard of her. But God, who knows her and knows me, knew that what I needed most on a grey and chilly first day of October was a lovely bouquet of little flowers grown, selected and arranged especially for me.

Across the threshold

Today, we cross into 2011. January 1 is always filled with so much potential and hope, commitments to ourselves and others (but mostly to ourselves), and a sense that we have the ability to shape our future in ways that belie whatever the year just ended held for us. I continue to travel in unknown territory, having begun 2010 in what I believed to be a viable marriage, and beginning 2011 alone, except for an aged cat. No one to carry me across the threshold of this new year. No one except God, and the friends who carried me through most of 2010.

Last year did hold blessings, of course, most notably a new job and a couple of chances to visit with my granddaughter and children. But the last 3.5 years have been brutal, and I am weary and shell-shocked, much in need of some rest.

There are plenty of reasons to despair, to curl inward and become defensive, or to lash out in anger at the injustice and pain inflicted upon us, allowing no one to hurt us further and affording no one any of our energy, love or kindness. But that way leads to death, it seems to me: death of spirit and the chance to be truly loved at all. It doesn't take much to extend oneself just a little, even in the midst of great pain, to remember that we all carry baggage that no one else can see, and that I don't have a corner on the world's market of misery. Extending myself a little -- to say 'thank you' or to help someone by holding the door -- can make a world of difference in my energy and my sense of self. Suddenly, I go from victim of pain to agent of healing. And maybe that's enough to help someone else across the threshold.

traveling light

I recently drove from Washington to Waco and back - far enough that the oil change I'd had done before I left needed to be redone upon my return. On the way down, my car was packed to the gills with furniture and goods that I was delivering, plus more than enough audio books to keep me entertained along the road. I was extremely conscious of the fact that the furniture, which was the main reason for the trip, probably wasn't worth the time, effort and expense that the trip would cost. Freight exceeded value, in essence. I went nonetheless, because I'd said I would (integrity being 90% of showing up) and because I wanted to visit with the recipients.

As it turned out, the trip had nothing to do with furniture. It had to do with presence, and with being available to pitch in and listen. I stayed an extra two days. Instead of resting for the return trip, I worked harder than I have for a long time.

traveling companions

Several weeks ago, I had the privilege to spend a day in a 10-hour conversation with a friend. We talked more deeply about more vital issues than we ever had before, discovering, in the process, how many shared values we had. I also came to have new appreciation and understanding of my friend's life experiences and needs, as well as goals, desires, beliefs and faith. Despite some analogous experiences, we are very different people.

The choice of traveling companions along life's journey is a serious matter. Parents admonish their children to associate with friends whose values won't lead them into temptation. In high school, I was blessed to fall into the company of a pair of twin sisters whose desire to get good grades rubbed off on me. It was the best peer pressure to which I could have succumbed.

Ecclesiastes tells us:

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up the other; but woe to one who is alone and falls and does not have another to help. Again, if two lie together, they keep warm; but how can one keep warm alone? And though one might prevail against another, two will withstand one. A threefold cord is not quickly broken (Ecc. 4:9-12).

A strong network of people who share your core values is a wonderful blessing. I have friends with whom I share motherly concerns, friends with whom I share professional concerns, and friends with whom I share spiritual concerns. Few people support me in every aspect, simply because they don't have the experience (e.g., they haven't had a career in publications management or they're not a mom). It isn't necessary to have the "perfect" friend -- someone who serves all your needs. You can have multiple marvelous friends who collectively bless you with support and individually bless you with the opportunity to support them.

Whoever they are, and wherever you find them, I highly recommend you engage each friend in at least one deep conversation. Go fishing together. Go for a walk. Or simply sit in a living room and talk about what it means to be mortal.