A Love Story

Sometimes when I’m driving a topic will come to me that I know I want to write about. Often times it’s certain words or even complete sentences, and in that moment I know it will probably never make it onto a printed page. Because when I write, I release, and even if I’m writing only in my head, by the time I make it to my iPad or a computer, I’ve already let it go.

I’m hoping this is not one of those times.

Today is Maundy Thursday and I’m writing in what little time I have between leaving work and heading back for worship. Today kicks off a series of services that revisit and reflect on the days in Christ’s life leading up to his trial, execution and Easter resurrection. It is generally a time I revere with a mixture of morbid respect and genuine worship. It is also somewhat exhausting.

As I was driving to catch a quick bite from Burger King (who gets my thanks for having veggie burgers on the menu) I was thinking about why it’s so exhausting. Today, for example, I didn’t do much at all in terms of preparing for the services. That was done weeks, even months, ago. I spent today planning for worship services happening weeks from now, answering emails, hanging posters; in all, I spent today like I would normally spend today. But as I left the office, I felt totally spent and zeroed in on the reason. Guilt.

Guilt is this nasty cloud that hangs over the season of Lent and especially this weekend. At some point in every service I’ll go to, I will hear the words that Christ died for me. And for you and the salvation of the world. How can I not feel guilty? Christ died for me and I overeat. Christ died for me and I forgot to wear my good shoes to church. Christ died for me and I ran out of toilet paper. Christ died for me and I do all sorts of stupid things that don’t honor his sacrifice at all.

Last year I (and half the planet) discovered the songstress Adele, and I fell completely and totally in love with her. On her first album she recorded Bob Dylan’s Make You Feel My Love. God, with generous help from Miss Adele, has imprinted those words on my heart. This is what I hear…

Katy,
When the rain is blowing in your face and the whole world is on your case, I could offer you a warm embrace to make you feel my love. When the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears, I could hold you for a million years to make you feel my love.

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong. I’ve known it from the moment that we met; no doubt in my mind where you belong. I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea and on the highway of regret; the winds of change are blowing wild and free. But you ain’t seen nothing like me yet. I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.

To make you feel my love, God

So those are the words I sang in my car while I was driving to Burger King with a supersized case of guilt and exhaustion. Jesus loved me. I mean, the human Jesus maybe didn’t, since he didn’t know me yet, but that part gets a little confusing and trinitarian. But I definitely believe he loved his friends that he shared Passover with, the last supper we remember tonight on Maundy Thursday. If there was ever a time to start laying on the guilt trip, it was that night. But Jesus didn’t do that.

For Jesus, the many days we have come to honor as Lent were not about a shadow of guilt or doom. They were about a singular purpose: Love. There’s this line in the song: “I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.” It doesn’t say: “there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel like you owe me” or “there's nothing that I wouldn't do to remind you that you don’t deserve this.”

I’m not saying we don’t owe Jesus and I’m not saying we do deserve forgiveness and the promise of peace after we die. I suppose I must be saying that we do owe Jesus and we don’t deserve it. But my point is: that’s not what He is saying. 

He is saying something more like “I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.” 

God, I confess I have not loved you with my whole heart. I have not remembered in my weaker moments that you are there with me, within me. And yet I draw from your strength in my weakness and from your weakness in my strength. You are my source of humility and honor. You are love. Amen.

Wild Stillness

What is prayer? How often do you pray and when do you do it? Do you pray for specific things if people ask you to? Do you say the same thing or nothing at all?

It’s no secret that I rarely desire liturgical prayer as a way of sensing God’s presence. I never seem to find that elusive “still voice” during Traditional Prayer. But, as in previous posts here and here, I’m coming to realize that what I’ve sort of always assumed was how everyone prayed is not, in fact, how everyone prays. So it was probably a good thing that my small group sat down last week and had a conversation about prayer.

Recently I’ve discovered that I find great comfort in writing my prayers. I don’t do it often, but when I do I always feel more in touch with God and that Spirit-core that I believe is in each of us. I started writing my prayers as an exercise in praying for others. What really sparked the idea was that I could look back at the prayers later, maybe check in to see what God had been doing. (I guess maybe I wanted to keep tabs.)

So I began writing out prayers for two of my close friends. (For transparency’s sake, I must admit to having become remiss in this practice as of late.) But in the process of praying for them, I found that my own sense of well-being was changed. My soul felt strengthened, my energy was renewed, my peace was returned. I was also reminded of the need for honesty in any conversation with God.

I should mention that when I talk about “writing” my prayers, I mean by hand. Like with pen and paper. When I type I am a compulsive editor. I rewrite almost every third sentence without even blinking and barely notice how often I backspace to use a slightly different vocabulary word. Putting pen to paper is a different animal altogether, requiring thought and good penmanship.

But even with pen in hand the desire to “correct” my prayers was much stronger than I had anticipated. As I wrote, I’d find myself wanting to change pronouns or write with a more Theologically Sound vocabulary. As I prayed for a friend’s marriage, I found myself wondering if the words I was using were the “right” words. Would these words be good enough? Would they be strong enough to bring the kind of healing that was needed?

One night as I was writing and the urge to edit was especially strong, I suddenly realized how very self-important I was being. I had censored myself before God. Not out of a desire to know God more but out of a desire to prove that I knew God best. In that moment I knew that God was indeed speaking to me. And he was saying quite clearly: Stop that.

Recently one of my pastors read of the prophet Elijah and his retreat to the wilderness. And so it’s Elijah I’ve been thinking of these days. He was afraid, running from a rumored threat against his life. He is beat up, tired, and wants to have it out with God. Why are you here? God asks. Alone in the wilderness, God speaks to Elijah, but the prophet is so full of his own importance that he can’t understand. The wind, the fire, the earthquake, these huge displays of power and God says: Nope, that isn’t me. I am the silence, the peace, the stillness. But Elijah doesn’t want to hear that. He’s still tired, still afraid. And God’s response remains mysterious: Why are you here? God asks. Why are you here?

In the end, Elijah receives instruction to go in another direction, to continue his ministry. But I’ve been wondering if there isn’t something missing in the story. Did Elijah miss the bigger opportunity? Sure, God gave him direction, took pity on him (as God is prone to do) but Elijah had a chance to really talk with God. To sit for a moment on the mountainside and say: God... I’m lost here. I’m lost here without you. And all the prophetic words I speak, the great speeches I’ve made, the words and plans and futures I’ve spoken of, have left me somehow empty. Needing you. So I’m tired and I’m afraid and at the end of the day, I just want to be with you. Not the earthquake, not the fire, not the wind or the rain or the great winds – just you, in the quiet of the early evening. 

A year has gone by since I looked out over the rolling hills of that same wilderness where Elijah spoke with God. It was a sunny day. The shadows from the spotty clouds made the empty land look like a watercolor. It was surreal and somehow eternal, frightening and comforting. If I had walked even a mile in any other direction I would have been entirely alone.

There are wide sections of wilderness throughout the holy land of Palestine, Israel and their neighboring countries. They have held the prayers not only of Elijah, but of Moses, John the Baptist, perhaps Mary and Joseph as they traveled to Christ’s birthplace. And for 40 days, they sheltered and shaped Jesus himself.

Not only is God not absent in the wilderness of our lives, he seeks it. But as with Elijah, his answer to our cries is unsettling. We look to the sky for the lightning bolt, the crashing thunder; we anxiously stand, waiting for the earth to move beneath our feet. But God does not come this way. God is something else entirely. God is wild stillness. And in this stillness, God asks: Why are you here?

Perhaps Elijah did open his heart to God that day. Perhaps he left unrecorded the words he desperately needed to share with God and God alone. Or perhaps he did miss an opportunity. One thing is certain; God was there, as God always is when we run to him. So write, sing and cry out; kneel, bow down, or stand up. Lift your arms; press your palms together. However, wherever and whenever you seek him, know that God will meet you in your wildest places. And if you hear him question, answer honestly and find rest in the wild stillness.

Four minutes

If I had four minutes to tell you something meaningful and blog-appropriate it is this: 

Welcome everyone. 

Listen without inserting your own inner monologue. 

Do not multi-task. 

When someone gets mad at you for a bunch of little things, ask them what is actually wrong; and don't take it personally. 

When something is wrong, don't get mad at someone for a bunch of little things; tell them what is wrong.

Take one moment each day and imagine something.

Write your prayers and don't edit them.

Love yourself as you would have others love you.