Sometimes it just hits me, how much God loves me, how amazing is the gift of salvation. There are moments of grasping comprehension when the joy of it, the thrill of it, sinks in and knocks my inner self off her feet. I do take it for granted most hours of most days. I can’t seem to help it. In some ways it is a good sign, for the taking for granted hasn’t resulted in negligence. I am not leaving the gift by the wayside just because I’m not conciously thinking about carrying it with me. Rather, I’ve settled into the regular pursuit of Heaven, nestled into that lifestyle so that I am at home in it. Occasionally though, I am startled by something – it’s never the same thing twice. A story I’m reading, a song I’m hearing, a smile in someone’s eyes, a glimpse of love between two persons, a horizon of water and sunshine, a flash of hopefulness, or a dozen other things; something occurs in that instant and the awe overwhelms all other matters on my mind and burdens on my heart. For one powerful moment, there is nothing else. Nothing, except the life changing awareness of the gift of my Savior’s love. Saved. Saved. I am always capable of forsaking the gift, of choosing to leave it behind by my sin, and yet it is there. It is offered. It is paid for by His blood and presented to me by His hand. Those are the instances of happiness, when I know without doubt that I belong to Him and whatever else comes, it cannot mean more than His possession of my heart, mind and will. It is that which I must remember even if I forget all else.
Category: Faith
A Corresponding Perception
On Saturday morning, I took my bicycle to the state trail for a little ride. A round trip of about 16 miles later, I had sore bum, a good sweat and a wish that I’d had my camera along for just one particular moment. There was a white heron perched atop one of several dead and hopelessly regal birch trees protruding from the soft, surface of shoulder-tall grass. It was gorgeous; everything about the scene made me want to capture it and share it with another human being. As I finished my ride, I considered how much I love to take photographs. So much more than the arranged, “everyone pause in what they’re doing and look at the camera” pictures that are taken at every gathering or event, I enjoy capturing the candid – candid conversations, candid children, candid action, and candid nature.
The latter is my favorite. All the beauties of the natural world, be they big or small, brief or lasting, are candid. They are not performing for me and my camera; they are not being beautiful for me. They simply are beautiful. When I take the time to think it through, I realize that the instances of beauty in this world can both humble and gratify me. That is, it is up to me to notice them because if I don’t, that doesn’t mean a thing to them. They aren’t under my control and won’t wait around for my attention. The rushing water will still pour over that cliff into the river below when I’m not looking. The sun will set in a pillow of pink, yellow and orange clouds on the horizon whether I notice it or not. The white heron will sit on top of the stripped birch tree even if my eyes don’t wander in its direction. I am powerless in the face of all the beauty in this world. Pardoxical, then, is the reality that God created this world’s beauty for our sake. He desires that we enjoy His displays of color and life. I think He delights in our delight, whether it come with a hike through the woods, an excursion on the lake, a sunset watched from our front porches or any other of the innumerable ways He has shown His artistry in this world.
“For all men who were ignorant of God were foolish by nature; and they were unable from the good things that are seen to know Him who exists, nor did they recognize the craftsman while paying heed to His works; but they supposed that either fire or wind or swift air, or the circle of the stars, or turbulent water, or the luminaries of heaven were the gods that rule the world. If through delight in the beauty of these things men assumed them to be gods, let them know how much better than these is their Lord, for the author of beauty created them. And if men were amazed at their power and working, let them perceive from them how much more powerful is He who formed them. For from the greatness and beauty of created things comes a corresponding perception of their Creator.” (Wisdom 13:1-5)
That’s what it comes down to: I am a fool if I don’t see Him in this beauty. If the scenes I capture on my camera don’t stir up gratitude to Him, don’t incline my heart toward Him, or don’t resonate with the irremovable longing I have (every person has) for Heaven; if all this is disregarded and the beauty is appreciated as if it exists independent from its Author, I dishonor God and sell myself short of the hope of eternal, perfected beauty awaiting me away from this world.
So I have decided to begin a little project: the Corresponding Perception Project. I plan to carry my camera with me at all times. It’s presence, and a commitment to being willing to use it in any setting and situation, will be the catalyst causing me to notice many more instances of beauty than I normally do. Ideally, the beauty I become aware of will go beyond the most obvious to include the subtler, quieter displays the Author of truth, beauty and life has provided.
Listening and Lacking
“It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song. You can’t believe it; you were always singing along. It was so easy and the words so sweet. You can’t remember; you try to feel the beat.” I’m listening to the new Regina Spektor album, “Far,” and I’m loving this tune.
I repeatedly slip down that slippery slope of feeling sorry for myself. Not enough time to write; short on energy to clean the house; no free evening to tackle the yard work; still unpublished; still single. So go the thoughts, twisting my spirit into a taut braid of impatience and disappointment. This ditch of negativity isn’t where I’d like to be but sometimes the temptation to dwell there is stronger than my will to stay above ground. Thing is, my mind has been racked in the last two days with reminders of how protected I am from any real reason to pity myself. I think of my friend’s mother suffering through another round of debilitating cancer treatments. Or my aunt who just found out she has to have a hip replaced. Or my sister who has lived in perpetual and intense pain for the last 2 years. I think of them and realize how utterly selfish it is to spend so many moments thinking about myself and the way I wish my life would go, rather than praying for them and countless others.
The past several years have chipped away at my pride, leaving it scarred and defensive. It’s hard to pray when you’re tired of the answers God keeps giving. I guess that’s in keeping with the nature of humility though, isn’t it – to keep going back to the only One who can satisfy no matter how badly you wish you could tailor that satisfaction; to know, without doubt, that you must go back to Him again today or today will fall apart.
Without Worry
After writing an email encouraging a friend not to worry over a situation, I was thinking over what it means to not worry. My mind immediately goes to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter six: Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat (or drink), or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they? Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span? Why are you anxious about clothes? Learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them. If God so clothes the grass of the field, which grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith? So do not worry and say, ‘What are we to eat?’ or ‘What are we to drink?’ or ‘What are we to wear?’ All these things the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom (of God) and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil. (vv. 25-34)
Don’t you love that sort of backhanded reassurance at the close of the passage? Every time I read it, I think maybe Jesus didn’t need to add that to his otherwise highly uplifting words. Taken negatively, it is sort of this last ditch effort to convince us we shouldn’t worry about tomorrow. “If the truth that God provides and is faithful and generous doesn’t keep you from worrying, well, then, just focus on the fact that there is enough problems today to keep you well occupied without adding in everthing that might be wrong with tomorrow.” Probably not what Jesus wanted to convey to the listening crowd on the hill that day. So I will take a second look… “Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.” What it causes me to keep in mind is that there are, in fact, plenty of things to worry about. It is not that Jesus is telling us there are no reasons to worry, no problems, dilemmas or hardships. No, I would never dare to say that there is nothing to worry about. Instead, I come to a two-fold, rather uplifting conclusion. Firstly, worry over tomorrow or any future day’s problems is utterly pointless. It is only today that I can do something about, not tomorrow. Secondly, while we can acknowledge the “sufficient” causes for worry in a day’s time, Jesus has given us every reason to choose not to worry. Did He not just say that God knows of everything we need, and that He will provide for us far beyond the ways He provides for the rest of His creation? It may seem like a fine line, but there’s actually a sizeable difference between trying to convince yourself that you have nothing to worry about versus choosing not to worry about any of it. Like so many aspects of the Christian life, living without worry is a matter of choosing truth, choosing hope, choosing faith.
I love this Winston Churchill quotation: “When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened.” A very freeing realization, if taken positively, is that I do not know what tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year will bring. I don’t know. It’s a humbling truth about being human, but awfully wonderful too… assuming I have faith in the great God in heaven who does know all that will and won’t happen. Surrendering worries, be they valid concerns or imagined problems, into God’s hands is the most logical action a person can take. It doesn’t mean ignoring what needs to be done, or neglecting to take care of ourselves or make reasonable preparations for the future. No, surrender is not synonymous with inaction. It is choosing to entrust to God everything that might tempt you to worry; it is living and moving within the guiding, protective care of God’s faithfulness and wisdom; it is being honest with yourself about what you can do, what you can’t do, what God calls you to do, and what God calls you to let Him do.
Listening to the Apostles
I feel like blogging but I don’t feel much like thinking. The light above my desk is particularly bothersome today. It seems brighter than usual, glaring off my screen and making me wish I could close my eyes… or at least wear a dorky visor cap.
Over the weekend, I decided to begin reading the catholic letters of the New Testament. I’ve read them all before, but in pieces and for various reasons, never straight through and with a single mindset for all seven of them. The ones I’m referring to are the Letter of St. James, the Letter of St. Jude, the 2 Letters of St. Peter, and the 3 Letters of St. John. They’ve come to be known as the catholic letters, as in, written for the universal church (the word catholic means universal), as a way to distinguish them from St. Paul’s letters and the Letter to the Hebrews which are written to more specific groups or individuals. This term is not intended to separate them as Catholic vs Protestant. St. Paul was Catholic, folks. All Christians were Catholic during the time of the New Testament writings and for centuries upon centuries afterward.
The nature of my faith and life in the Church as apostolic has been on my mind. Every time I recite the Creed, I declare that I believe in an apostolic Church. The heritage of the Church, with its ordained bishops and priests able to trace themselves back to the original Apostles, and its teachings arising from the earliest days of the Christianity and never departing from the teachings of Christ and the Apostles (developing in understanding, yes, but departing, no), this heritage is immensely important and wonderful. There is such security in it; security in truth. So I greatly value the apostolic Church, but do I recognize the need for my own faith, the way I understand it and live it, to be apostolic as well? This question reaches me from two angles. One is that I am to be rooted in the apostolic teachings, never weakening or compromising the fullness of truth for my own convenience, but taking full advantage of the deposit of faith that was entrusted to the Church by Christ and passed down faithfully over generations by the Apostles and their successors. Two, I mustn’t forget that to be an apostle one must be sent out on a mission. The switch between disciple and apostle came when the men were commissioned by Jesus to go into the world and preach the Gospel and build up the Church. They are no longer only followers of Christ but also emissaries of His teachings and life. The Church is apostolic in both of these ways (faith & mission), and the Church is made up of its members. The members must be apostolic in both ways too. I must be apostolic.
So as all this inhabits my thoughts and challenges my heart, I figure a good place to start is with the catholic letters. What did the apostles want to say to the Church in those first decades of Christianity? That same Church is the one of which I am a member, the one that provides me with the Sacraments and the fullness of truth, so I would gain much by listening to those first ministers of the Sacraments and teachers of the truth.
In This Way The Love of God Was Revealed
This morning, I read this great reflection by Father Thomas Rosica on the nature of the Trinity as a divine community. A snippet toward the beginning sums up the author’s intent in drawing our attention to that nature: “If our faith is based in this Trinitarian mystery that is fundamentally a mystery of community, then all of our earthly efforts and activities must work toward building up the human community that is a reflection of God’s rich, Trinitarian life.”
As a lifelong Catholic, I’ve heard much talk of human dignity, of every man and woman’s unique possession of the image of God within themselves. This great dignity constitutes a call to reflect God, to be formed more perfectly into His image by the thoughts we have, the words we speak, the actions we take. This individual imaging of divinity is of inestimable importance if a person is to every grasp the meaning and purpose of life. It cannot be emphasized enough. What I cannot claim to have heard a lot about is the manner in which the human community is called and is able to image the community of Persons of the Trinity. Every family, every church community, every small group Bible study, every ministry group, every intimate community of friends; the list is unending as we are a people who functions in the setting of community. Like each person possesses the dignity of being made in God’s image and the potential of reflecting Him in the world, so every community of human persons possesses dignity and potential of reflecting the Trinity. I still remember this dawning on me as a brand new understanding of the purpose of family when it was explained to me in my Marriage & Family course at Franciscan U. This call to be an image of the Trinity has become my primary weapon against the fears that would hold me back from giving myself as a spouse and a parent someday.
The author of the article makes a significant point when he explains that the language of the Trinity, that is, the manner in which we understand this great mystery, is relational. “For God, as for us, created in God’s image, relationship and community are primary. God can no more be defined by what God does than we can. God is a Being, not a Doing, just as we are human beings, not human doings. This is a point of theology, but also, with all good theology, a practical point.” In fact, this point is not only practical but also fundamental. It is fundamental to the Christian understanding of the dignity and worth of each human life, measured not in what that life is able to do or contribute or accomplish but rather in the glorious fact of that life being another instance of God’s image and likeness existing in this world. God’s image and likeness! That is what we are. What we do and say is our means for communicating that image and likeness in the world, but it is not who we are as human beings.
What I am trying to come around to is that the individual is made in the image of a community, for God is a community of divine persons, and therefore the individual cannot live up to his or her dignity without living in relationship. As such each talent, strength and ability possessed by an individual is not possessed for their sole benefit. No, it is for the community; for the family. Whether that family is your own by blood or by marriage, or that family is your closest friends or your church community, the answer to your individual call to be God’s image in this world is played out in relationship with others. Holding yourself back from such relationships is a two edged blade, cutting into your individual strength of faith and into the community’s. You deprive yourself of experiencing the reflection of the Trinity, and you deprive others of your contributions to that reflection.
I return to the earlier quotation: “all of our earthly efforts and activities must work toward building up the human community that is a reflection of God’s rich, Trinitarian life.” Sounds like something straight from St. Paul or St. John, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s why I’m loving it so much. I read those words and the natural instinct (‘natural’ insofar as our nature is fallen) to look out for myself pushes itself to the surface. Am I simply to spend myself entirely for others? Have I not also learned the value of an intimate one on one relationship with God? Have I not felt the strain of being too involved, too busy with my faith community? Ah, yes, valid objections. Valid, but signs of immaturity. Mature faith understands how the one on one intmacy with the Lord does contribute to the building up of the family of God. Mature faith trusts that if I pour myself out for others in the name of Christ, there will be others pouring themselves out for me in the name of Christ. Mature faith causes me to love without worry over the vulnerability of loving, to serve without the aim of gaining praise, to pray never only for myself.
One of my absolute favorite movie lines is from “Diary of a Mad Black Woman”. In a convincing speech, Orlando explains to Helen how he knew he was in love with her: “Helen, if I’m away from you for more than an hour, I can’t stop thinking about you. I carry you in my spirit. I pray for you more than I pray for myself.” It is not just the romantic in me who loves that speech (and its repetition when Helen finally realizes she loves, and is free to love, Orlando), it is also the Catholic in me. Orlando’s love, when it has been purified by the tests placed upon it and the patient compassion he has had to practice toward Helen, is not about him but about her. It is the case with every person who learns to love how God loves. God exists in a constant, uninterrupted relationship of perfect love: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The Father eternally begets the Son in an outpouring of love; the Son eternally offers Himself back to the Father in love; the Holy Spirit is eternally begotten of the Father and the Son by the communication of their love for each other. All of this is contained in that mystery of faith, the Trinity; and all of this is reflected in human love. It is reflected in both our need for relationships and communities rooted in love and our capability of loving. I refer to agape love, to be specific, but I’m not going to try to explain all that here. Check out The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis.
At the end of this lengthy, rambling collection of this morning’s thoughts, I have a Jars of Clay song in my head. It’s the first track off their “Good Monsters” album, “Work.” I got to sit in on a Q&A session with the band one time and they explained the meaning behind that song. One thing they touched on was the need for community. Dan, the lead singer, talked about the human person being dragged down by the world, especially when that person is trying to live a life of faith, hope and love. A person can end up feeling like they need help just to keep breathing. That is what community is for; relationships with those whom God has given to you is His way of carrying you through. Likewise, you are someone He gives to others to carry them through.
I often pray the Glory Be, hoping that whatever I am doing at the moment will glorify Him. I cannot live out that prayer, giving “glory to the Father, to the Son and the Holy Spirit” if community and relationship are not primary in my life. I cannot honor the community of divine love that is the Trinity if I do not give myself to and receive from the community of that divine love on this earth, the Church.
“In this way the love of God was revealed to us: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through him. In this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also must love one another. No one has ever seen God. Yet, if we love one another, God remains in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us. This is how we know that we remain in him and he in us, that he has given us of his Spirit.” (1 John 4:9-13)
From the Floor
Sunday night I had a heart to heart with Jesus. Well, mostly it consisted of my heart bursting with expectations and stress and disappointments and discouragement, and His heart waiting patiently for me to quiet down so He could remind me of His faithful, trustworthy love. Sitting cross-legged on the red carpet floor of the church, I had only the light of the sanctuary candle catching on the golden doors of the tabernacle and a dozen candles lit beneath the feet of Mary. The silent darkness and empty pews beneath the high wooden ceiling beams supplied a feeling of humbled smallness. His presence reached to each corner of the room, filling every space and wrapping around me with a nearly tangible pressure. Being the sole breathing creature in the entire church building, I had only a minute of quiet thought before the need to speak aloud to the Lord overcame me. There were no excuses, no distractions, nowhere else I ought to be. I could hear rain, could smell its warm scent upon the air. And I could hear the Lord. How I missed that voice, so long lost in my foolish busyness and worry. Today I can feel the usual temptations and the familiar discouragements tugging at me. They want back in, like life-long household pets displaced to the backyard. For now, their persuasive pleas are not enough to change my mind. I prefer the silence, the smallness of being surrounded by the presence of God. I prefer my seat on the floor, at His feet.
My buddy Matt knows what I’m talking about…
Carrie In Writing 