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.

The Middle

Do you ever feel equally self-aware and clueless? Welcome...

I desire reflective writing. I love the idea of sitting and filling pages with stream-of-consciousness writing. But when I sit to give form to fleeting thoughts, I inevitably come to a place where I just stop. The place where my judgmental self catches on to what is happening and shuts it down. It’s as if I sneak onto a movie set to make my own original and fabulous film, and then I’m suddenly caught; the cameras stop rolling, security is called and all is wrapped for the night.

But not today. Today I’m going to be extra sneaky. I’m going to battle through, which means a good portion of this will not ever make sense. In fact, I’ll probably delete those parts, so don’t you worry about it. Just make believe. The magic of Hollywood.

Last week I ventured to the TEDxMidland event and was mediocred. Is that a word? Let’s just say I was not wowed. But I was inspired to come home and immediately begin watching TED talks that did wow me. Talks and presentations and conversations that just blew my brain to pieces and made me remember why I love new ideas and new people. Innovation is not about business or finances or technology. Innovation is about people and humanity; it’s mystery and imagination.

One talk was given by the author of “Eat, Pray, Love”. She was funny and witty and beautiful, and I now want to be like her in every way. Have you ever met someone like that? Or watched them in some interview or presentation and in that moment, they are everything you wish you were? Not only that, but they actually inspire you to recognize that you could indeed be that put together and brilliant, if you just tapped into the amazing brilliance inside?

So anyway, back the witty and beautiful author. First of all, she should have played herself in that movie. More to the point, she expressed some amazing thoughts on the creative process. Recounting the ancient ideas that muses or geniuses or daemons were outside forces that came upon people, inspiring their creative endeavors, she promoted a return to the ancient practice of separating oneself and one’s self-worth from the creative process.

Here is what spoke to me:  We have some responsibility. We do not however, have all the responsibility. We do not owe our soul to our art. We may find some sense of meaning from that which we create, but those days when inspiration is out of reach, should not lead us to conclude that we have somehow lost our meaning. All of us are called to create – I truly believe that – but that doesn’t mean that every day we’ll create something we want to keep.

Back at the hometown TEDx event, one presenter (not quite as lovely as Ms. EatPrayLove) spoke on the importance of failure. We must fail often, he professed. We should crave and seek opportunities that may or may not lead to failure. We need to take risks and relish the process, even if the process leads us to a total flop.

Not so easy, says I. The challenge the presenter talked about is in finding ways of measuring or recognizing small moments of progress along the way. How do we celebrate the small steps that might lead to larger failures? Do we only rate ourselves on the end product? I think so. And I think, as did the speaker, that this is the major flaw in most of our processes.

Just the other day a friend introduced me to a new blog writer – new to me anyway. She (the blogger) is a recovering addict, a mother, a writer, a liberal Christian and, in short, a perfect fit for me. I was reading one of her earlier entries about her first days of recovery from alcohol addiction. I was astonished to hear her describing my life. She writes about sitting in her room one day with her sister and looking at what her life had become, or at least the outward signs of her life. Sitting on her bed, they surveyed the mess of clothes and wine bottles and old magazines that littered her bedroom. In that moment she realized she no longer knew how to value anything. Boom. I thought of what I see from that same place in my own house; empty shoe boxes, piles of clothes, trash, old books, just a mess of things that pile up and take up space in my house. Then I thought about all the other vantage points in my house where things are even worse. I realized that I too have lost the ability to value things. Or at least, my spectrum is skewed.

For some time now, I have been seeking some help with this predicament. About six months ago, I finally began to go to therapy to deal with… well, whatever came up I suppose. To be honest, I first went to therapy because someone finally said this to me: You are an amazing and insightful person; I think you should try going to therapy.

It doesn’t exactly sound like those two sentences go together. Maybe I’d always thought I couldn’t be amazing or insightful to anyone as long as I was broken and in need of therapy. So I chose to ignore one or the other, depending on the day. Until I finally got the memo that I could in fact be both. So I started therapy. I’m not sure if I like it or not, and I’m not sure if it’s helping me. I know that I’m thinking about certain things differently than I have before. It might be worth it for that reason alone. But that is another story for another day…or days.

I suppose that’s the point though. That at The End of any self-reflection is actually a Middle. There is always another story for another day. Heck, I literally wrote most of this story on another day. But none of it means anything when it’s still just an End. It only starts to mean something when it becomes a Middle; when we’ve disentangled the muse and can look back at our lives, or the products of our lives, with some degree of distance.

So if you’re looking for a good, solid wrap-up ending, this is not that entry. But check back, I’m sure it will make much more sense in the future.

The Middle.