On Sunrises at 47

DiDi took me to watch the sun come up over the ocean today. It was a present; my birthday is later this week, but the weather is predicted to turn.

The experience reminds me of motherhood.

You wait as the sky begins at black, flat stomach busy only with consumption.

And then the sky tinges gently at the edges, softening, roundness forming from a place you can't see.

The bulge grows larger, a gradual magic that happens before your eyes, apparently without motion.

Your view of the universe changes as you watch. The sky so stable and predictably blue or steel striates suddenly into pink and orange and violet. The world is changed as you watch; everything is colored by this miracle unfolding.

Finally it crowns. Gloriously unique, magnetically miraculous, filling your heart with the wonder of creation and the joy of possibilities.

You watch as it continues to rise, distance increasing. The colors fade as it progresses, as if newness and color are one, both of them worn away by time.

Throughout the day you check on it, this creation you remember as wonderful. You watch it and set your clock by it and live your life by it and are grateful for it. Every hour.

Inevitably, bittersweet, you watch it go away again. A burst of color if conditions are right. A cloudy withdrawal if they are not.

And you stand in the dark, serenaded by stars that sing or drenched by their weeping.

The tears of one, the pain of three

Yesterday's contemplation about the pain of restraining homosexual desires led to another.

I wondered; can God experience pain?

The answer of course is yes, but only in the person of Jesus Christ.

Jesus wasn't fully human and fully divine only while walking the earth. He didn't lose His humanity after His ascension. He remains fully both.

The hypostatic union continues.

This is how and why the Eucharistic celebration, the sacrifice of the Lamb, the transformation of bread and wine into His body and blood is perpetually celebrated.

He is.

It is this humanity that cried at Lazarus' tomb. It is this humanity that cries at all the injustice of the world. And it is this humanity that sorrows over the separation that we have from Him.

Can God feel pain?

Yes. In the person of Christ.

Be still?

God has been showing me how He provides realizations of Himself through other people.

This sounds so tame, when what I mean is so untame.

So wild. So excruciatingly joyful. So wonderfully heartbreaking.

He says to be still and know that I am God. Know that I am God.

Know me. Just as Adam knew Eve.

He sends us people so that we may know them and so come to know Him. Through mess and sweat and tears and blood. Through heart-pounding, pulse-racing, soul-wrenching love.

Through joy and grief, sometimes combined.

Through highs and lows and hurts and restorations.

Through passion, we know Him.

Lord, you are a mystery... It hurts to know you.

Foot washing revisited

Here's an article I wrote a few years ago on what is for me one of the most heart-wrenching services. Should have thought to reference it earlier in the day...

Instilling Humility: Maundy Thursday Foot Washing

Model for Holy Thursday?

As I stood in prayer before the tabernacle last night, my hands on either side of my face, feeling the texture of the carving, I wanted only to be pressed up against Him directly.

My mind went again to the sinful women who came to the house of the leper in order to bathe Jesus' feet with her tears. The Gospels speak of no other person having such intimate contact with Him.

I so identify with this woman, this sinful one, this sensualist. I wonder if her sensuality, like David's, gave her special entree to God's heart. Does He especially love those who incarnate love, albeit rashly?

As I prayed, I wondered.

I wondered if it is possible for we created ones to give God Himself ideas for expressing love. Jesus accepted her lavishing and praised it, then went on to wash the feet of His twelve.

Could she have been the inspiration?

Was she the model He followed?

Sureal-ity

One day in December I cried so much that the skin on my face changed, permanently.

She washed his feet with her tears

(Luke 7:36-50)

Their voices carry through the door; the sound of men in the absence of women.

My heart pounds. Do I dare?

I take a breath and push the door open. The room falls silent as one by one the men realize I'm not a servant bringing food or more wine.

Their expressions tell a story. Some of them know me and scowl their disapproval and surprise. Those who don’t know me look puzzled; my robes and ornaments confuse them. I can’t think about them now, because he is before me.

I cross the room to where he reclines, his eyes smiling a soft and silent welcome. If only I could sit at his side, and bend my face to his lips! But it's impossible, even for one as brazen as me. Instead, I kneel at his feet, reaching out my hands, unfit as they are, and unfasten his sandals, dusty and worn.

Why has no one washed them?

The tears I swallowed begin to flow. They drip onto the feet of my beloved, leaving tracks in the dust. I cry harder, wishing my broken heart could melt and seep from my eyes to wash him. I dare not look at his face, and simply watch as the tears fall, dripping the dirt of the road away.

I unclasp my hair, and it falls clean, shining, and perfumed. I wrap his feet in its length, winding my head closer until my lips touch the top of one beautiful foot. I wipe away the tears and dust with my hair, wishing I could be washed clean as easily.

When his feet are dry, I twist my hair back, and pull the vial from the bag hanging at my waist. When I snap off the top, the expensive scent of weddings and burials reaches him. He smiles again as he watches me, his eyes speaking love and restraint.

It's hard to look away, but the grumbles of men break through and I turn to finish.

The oil is cool in my hand, and I rub my palms together before picking up the first perfect foot. My hands caress him, sliding from the soft curving arch to his road-roughened heel. I want to give him pleasure, to anoint him with my love. My fingers part each pair of toes, sliding slippery between them. Every touch is a concert of passion, every caress a request.

I want to flood him with kisses but that would go too far; it's a miracle I've been allowed this much. I pour more oil instead, and gently lift the second foot, sorrowing that my time with him is so short. Knowing I must go.

The tears flow faster as I force myself to release him. I rise to leave before it is demanded, and lift my eyes to his again. His gaze pierces me with promise.

I move to the door, holding his gaze, knowing that however long my life before that promise is fulfilled will be too long.

His lips move in a farewell but make out no words.

My heart hears him though. He says, “Goodbye, beloved.”

And I leave.

Luke 7:37-50

Now there was a sinful woman in the city who learned that he was at table in the house of the Pharisee. Bringing an alabaster flask of ointment, she stood behind him at his feet weeping and began to bathe his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them, and anointed them with the ointment.

When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this he said to himself, "If this man were a prophet, he would know who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, that she is a sinner."

Jesus said to him in reply, "Simon, I have something to say to you." "Tell me, teacher," he said. "Two people were in debt to a certain creditor; one owed five hundred days' wages and the other owed fifty. Since they were unable to repay the debt, he forgave it for both. Which of them will love him more?" Simon said in reply, "The one, I suppose, whose larger debt was forgiven." He said to him, "You have judged rightly."

Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, "Do you see this woman? When I entered your house, you did not give me water for my feet, but she has bathed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but she has not ceased kissing my feet since the time I entered. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she anointed my feet with ointment. So I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; hence, she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little." He said to her, "Your sins are forgiven." The others at table said to themselves, "Who is this who even forgives sins?" But he said to the woman, "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

How do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

The Iron of My Eyes (by Gregory David Roberts)

The Iron of My Eyes

Oh my beloved,
After dreaming night when I woke
it was a strange and worrying thing
to find you standing
at the morning's dawn-eyed window
silent,
shedding tears,
your face like a flower
the sky has bruised with summer rain.

The last teardrop crossed your lips.
You turned slowly, came into my arms
and sensed my concern,
but your smile and answering kiss
laughed,
ringing clear,
the sound like water
splashing in an oasis well.

It was not suffering, you said,
nor some fear or hurt that made you weep.
The tears that you shed
as you watched me sleeping came from
happiness,
rising sheer,
the joy like thunder
trembling in drought's red river bed.

Love-struck happiness broke your heart
you said,
with such sweet pleasure in the breaking
that your very smile,
radiant with soul-fired changes
transformed,
jewelling tears,
your light like sunrise
gleaming the dew-diamond desert.

It is a mystery to me
how this joy with tearful heartbreak sits,
but if pleasure set your tears free
then break your heart against the iron of my eyes,
woman,
and break it there again,
and again,
as often as you like.
I will pick up all the shattered pieces
one by one,
and press them to my lips,
to seal each precious fragment
with adoration's kiss.

Last night I dreamt of dreams

I had a remarkable dream last night.

In it, I visited a place I thought I had known as a child; a house with some outbuildings in back. I was there with other family members for some reason, perhaps preparing it for sale. I was sad because I didn't see one of the buildings I expected; the one that had been my favorite because it was my grandfather's playground. I had such very fond memories of looking at his collections of treasures.

We went into one of the buildings, and into an inner room, and it turned out to be the very place I had hungered to see. All around on shelf after shelf were his collections of interesting things; mostly groups of related antiques and collectibles, but newer things as well. And in some places there were his inventions in various stages and models.

As I walked through the place I was in tears, crying harder as I discovered more and more things that I remembered from so many years before. My heart felt as if it would break with the joy and gratitude of it.

It seems like the crying and the exploration went on and on and on.

The fascinating part is that I -really did- recognize these things, and it really -was- a reunion for me. However, they did not exist in reality.

There was no inventor grandfather, there was no home with treasure-laden outbuildings. But I -had- experienced them before; in other dreams.

Yet my joy at the reunion with these memories was very real, and very deep.

What a strange gift...

Sarah McLachlan: Fumbling toward Ecstasy (song lyrics)

All the fear has left me now
I'm not frightened anymore
It's my heart that pounds beneath my flesh
It's my mouth that pushes out this breath

And if I shed a tear I won't cage it
I won't fear love
and if I feel a rage I won't deny it
I won't fear love

Companion to our demons
they will dance
and we will play
with chairs
candles
and cloth
making darkness
in the day

It'll be easy
to look in or out
upstream or down
without a thought

And if I shed a tear I won't cage it
I won't fear love
and if I feel a rage I won't deny it
I won't fear love

Peace
in the struggle
to find peace

Comfort
on the way
to comfort

And if I shed a tear I won't cage it
I won't fear love
and if I feel a rage I won't deny it
I won't fear love

I won't fear love

I won't fear love

Frederick Buechner on Breathtaking Truth

From Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale.

"Let the preacher tell the truth. Let him make audible the silence of the news of the world with the sound turned off so that in that silence we can hear the tragic truth of the Gospel, which is that the world where God is absent is a dark and echoing emptiness; and the comic truth of the Gospel, which is that it is into the depths of his absence that God makes himself present in such unlikely ways and to such unlikely people that old Sarah and Abraham and maybe when the time comes even Pilate and Job and Lear and Henry Ward Beecher and you and I laugh till the tears run down our cheeks. And finally let him preach this overwhelming tragedy by comedy, of darkness by light, of the ordinary by the extraordinary, as the tale that is too good not to be true because to dismiss it as untrue is to dismiss along with it that catch of the breath, that beat and lifting of the heart near to or even accompanied by tears, which I believe is the deepest intuition of truth that we have."

On Soul Ties

My priest is exploring the idea of soul ties, particularly those that create bondage. I am vaguely familiar with the charismatic view of this, which seems to simplify such connections down to some sort of spiritual strand that can be snipped, thereby spiritually freeing both individuals. This viewpoint focuses especially on ties between sexual partners which makes sense, given that "the two shall become one body."

I'd guess in most cases our spiritual connection with others is not quite so clear cut. I think about Lewis' description of holy things in Till We Have Faces, which says that they are not thin and clear like water, but thick and dark like blood.

Our God is a God of relationship. In His trinitarian form He exists as a relationship between three. As spiritual beings made in that image, we are eternal creatures which must also exist in relationship.

Some soul connections may indeed be clear and thin like water, needing only a quick spiritual snipping to enable freedom. Other connections are thick and rich, multi-stranded, multi-dimensional. More web than thread, more blood than water.

And eternal.

The role of priest with his parishioners is one of these complex connections. Your priest baptizes you, confirms you, marries you, and absolves you of sin. He opens the gates for God's revelation to flow in through His holy word. If you are lucky, he annoints you as you are dying, and gives you food for the journey. He does all these things while acting in persona Christi; he -is- Christ for you in this time and place.

Most soul-connecting of all, the priest becomes Christ to present His body and blood in consummation of His covenant with you.

If he is also your friend, bonds of shared experience, struggle, intellectual exploration, laughter, tears, and all the rest are added.

I once had a vision of God binding my arms together in front of me by winding a thin gold cord around and around from elbows to wrists. The strands that weave us together with our priests are like that; golden and abundant, shining and decorative, connecting but not enslaving.

Do soul ties exist? I would argue that they do indeed, in many shapes and sizes. We are relational, and relationships are connections. We are both physical and spiritual, both of time and outside of time. Our spiritual connections will endure beyond this sojourn within time. The challenge in most cases is not to sever them, but to ensure that these ties are properly ordered, balanced, and healthy.

PS: As if to confirm my thoughts, the following quote just came through my email:

"Behind every saint stands another saint. -- Friedrich von Hügel"

Poetry: Scent of a Shepherd

Scent of a Shepherd

From the nightmare I wake
in pain and motion.

The world passes by upside down
an undulating sea of blue sky.

My contorted body screams
unused to the position
and broken bones.

My hair swings low
swaying with every step
blocking the sight of his sandaled feet.

His stride is long and even
shoulders miraculously broad;
my weight unequal to the cross.

My arms hang loose as I wonder;
should I hang on?

Does it hurt?

Do his stretching arms
remind him of the wood?

Does he thirst?

Wrapped as a collar round his muscled neck
borne like a yoke neither easy nor light.

Bitter streams of tears flow over my brow.
I should be in the dust before him
wiping his feet with my grief-soaked hair.

Instead, he carries me.

From the precipice he rescues me.
As I lunge for the edge
he draws me back.

To stop my fighting
he breaks my legs.

Despite my cries he lifts me
drapes me
carries me.

.

.

.

I breathe the scent of him
of sheep and wood
of blood and wine
of bread and man
of sun and moon and stars
of eternity
of home.

His cadence soothes.
The sweat of his exertion sweet
as opium; intoxicating.

My sobs relent.

I turn my ear to his chest
full of his scent
and listen to the drumbeat of dawn’s creation
the thrumming of the universe;
God’s heart beating against my cheek.

And I rest.

May 2008

Instilling Humility: Maundy Thursday Foot Washing

Lent is a time when God works on humility, and the Maundy Thursday foot washing service is a powerful Lenten teaching tool.

During TCC’s first Holy Week we held a foot washing service in the forum room at Bethel. We were still new to the liturgy and had not yet settled into the tradition of having priests, deacons, and altar servers acting “in persona Christi” for the foot washing. Instead, parishioners came up and had their feet washed, then stayed to wash the feet of others. I’d planned to participate in that act of service, and was fully intending to when the service began.

But while I waited and watched, the reality of my unworthiness to act in the role of Christ in such an intimate way was overwhelming. Who was I to mimic such a sublimely humble act? It was a struggle to force myself to get up and receive the sacramental action; participating beyond that was not imaginable.

There is something about the foot washing ceremony that is spiritually jarring. In it, transcendence and imminence overlap. Our God, the creator of the universe who stepped into time before presenting himself as the once and always sacrifice to Himself, picks up basin and cloth to wash the dust from our feet. Our feet; those blushingly intimate body parts which we prefer to keep under wraps. Our feet which collect the dirt and sweat and grime of the world.

Each year since that first service, I react the same way. I respond as Peter did, saying “No, you shall never wash my feet!”

I am unworthy even to be the woman crying tears over His feet, drying them with my hair and anointing them with expensive perfume, let alone receiving such attention.

So to think of Him washing my feet?

Each year, I anticipate and dread this wonderful, heart wrenching service. Each year I am overcome with tears. Each year I am profoundly moved.

If you haven’t come to a foot washing service before, please try to come this year. In this humble act God manifests the human character of His love for us, and its breadth. From creation itself, to foot washing—He loves us.

Happy Halloween

I sit in the dimness
Surrounded by jack-o-lanterns and costumes
While the sounds and smells of Autumn revelry fill the air
And Cheshire smiles from made-up faces
Shine through at me.

I sit in the dimness
Enveloped in the black cloak
That I cut
From the cloth of loneliness,
And drink.

I sit in the dimness
Where people pass and greet me
Where men stop to talk
With question marks shining from eyes
That scan up and down like yo-yos.

I sit in the dimness
And wish
That my glass would sprout a label saying “drink me”
And upon drinking
I would shrink
And climb inside
Escaping to Wonderland with a splash.

But rather than being made by me
The tiny splashes, barely heard
Are from my tears falling down
One by one

As I sit in the dimness
And weep.