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.

Dreams and doubts

I have come to the conclusion that I am not a blogger. At least not a good blogger. At best, I am someone who sometimes posts something to her blog. I know this to be true because I’ve recently begun following the blogs of people who are bloggers. And it is an different game entirely. So far what I have learned is that to be a blogger you need to be: brave, witty, willing to say silly things, and have a camera nearby at all times. (Actually, the last is probably optional.) I am often number three, sometimes number one, think I’m number two and almost never number four.

Above all, my favorite bloggers are fearless. Or at least their writing is. In fact, I would say that my favorite singers, writers, poets, preachers and people are pretty fearless too. They appear to have overcome that one stumbling block that keeps the rest of us from putting pen to paper. They’ve beaten back the doubt and embraced the dream. Or maybe they’ve embraced the doubt and it’s revealed the dream.

My life has been a series of doubts and dreams the last ten months. Last May I made a decision to stand up for my dream of becoming a pastor. I can honestly say that I had no idea how many doubts would come with that. It was as if the two were all shoved into a little room in the back of my heart and flooded out together when I opened the door. A little doubt here, a little dream there, a dash of neurosis and ego in the corner. I was certain that if I just said yes – out loud and in front of people – that God would whoosh down and set me on a clear path to my future. My destiny. My dream. I suppose I was looking for the dove, for the Spirit’s voice telling me God was pleased. And when that didn’t happen, just the way I had expected it would, I guess my reaction was to wonder why God wasn’t pleased. Was it as I had feared? Was I too broken?

But here is where I’m discovering that dreams and doubts collide. Because I am too broken and cut with scars, full of pride and pain. I’ve tried to navigate this strange experience and calling on my own, without a god I thought was too busy with more worthy candidates. I’ve tried to patch up my dream, all the while turning a blind eye to the reality that I’ve only succeeded in multiplying my doubts. I blamed God for the unanswered questions. I blamed God for the stumbling blocks and the realities of life. I blamed God for being silent. I wanted a magical god, one who would do up all the undone things in my life. One who would make me brand new in every earthly way I could imagine. But here’s the thing. I don’t think God wants a blank canvas. I don’t think God wants us to be born again. I think God wants us to realize why we were born in the first place, to realize who we have the capacity to become.

God won’t erase the mistakes I’ve made. God won’t rewrite the dark stories I’ve lived. God won’t stop me when I hide away or cower in the face of what I’ve seen reflected in my life. And although I kind of wish that God would want to do all those things, I know that I could not be here, if I had not been there.

wisdom.

I am in the process of reading "Organic God" by Margaret Feinberg and while there are only ten chapters in the entire book, I'm finding myself sucked in on almost every page. I'm reading and re-reading paragraphs that seem to apply so much to my life. I couldn't go on without putting some of those things on here and I certainly hope I won't break any copyright rules along the way...

From the chapter: "Amazingly Wise" --

Wisdom is more than just practical know-how. Wisdom illuminates a better way to live, and even allows us to consider the best possible way to live. Wisdom is so smart that it doesn't travel alone. Wisdom's companions include understanding, knowledge, counsel, discernment, discretion, justice, and equity. It's hard to find wisdom apart from its cohorts. ...

If wisdom is the handle and fabric of an umbrella, then its companions serve as spokes, offering protection from whatever comes--rain-driven storms or the heat of the day. Like an umbrella, wisdom can also be used like a cane when the journey of life becomes steep and our steps become unsure.

Amazingly Wise is the fourth chapter in Feinberg's "Organic God" and it eloquently talks about wisdom and proverbs and prayer. Parts of Margaret's undergraduate experience are captured beautifully here, including an inspiring story of taking a class from the great writer and leader Maya Angelou.

Feinberg took this class at Wake Forest University and this is one of those small pieces that are drawing me in. I only discovered the existence of Wake Forest last year when one of my closest friends moved practically next door to the campus. As small as it seems, I felt affirmed and assured when I read this story--like somehow it was meant to speak to me and here was one tiny, almost hidden clue.

But it was Feinberg's faithful journey that brought her to Wake Forest that really captured me. In her first few paragraphs, she admits her deep desire for acceptance from Georgetown and the work she put toward that application. After the second round of SATs, Feinberg writes: "Neither my parents, myself, nor Georgetown were impressed."

But even before that, before she had fully set out on college applications and extra-extracurricular activites, she had prayed one simple, profound prayer:

Dear God, let me know which school you want me to get into by only allowing me acceptance to one and rejection from the other three.

Wouldn't you know it? She received acceptance from only one school -- Wake Forest University. This example of faith in the journey and trust in the organic God to answer prayer is humbling and enlightening. And it's this deep and humbling faith that I need to find in my own life. For some time now, I have been filling my days looking toward a vague future in ministry.You can ask, but my answer continues to be non-committal and vague. I don’t know what I’m doing or working toward or see on the horizon. And prayer? My prayers continue to be equally non-committal and vague. Perhaps I haven’t found that deep and assuring trust that Margaret’s prayer reflects.

Will I someday be able to ask God to remove the wrong paths? My head is full of examples of God’s grace and power and constancy. But my heart is still weak and afraid—a statement I make with no little pain and some embarrassment. Will I somehow find a way to face God with my greatest fear—that I am not equipped to rise to the level God calls me to?

light.

I haven’t been writing much lately and I have missed the therapy of it. So tonight I’ve intentionally sat here, searching through my exhausted and slightly numbed mind for a topic. I’ve circled around somehow to a conversation I shared with a friend of mine over a year ago.

At the time, I was in a similar place of confusion and chaos. And I was forced to admit to my friend that I wasn’t using the gifts God had given me and that I wasn’t doing what I knew He was calling me to do. The familiar truth is—I was doing my best to stay as far away from God’s voice as I could.

My confession was met with compassion, but also with stark clarity. Katy, he said, this feeling you have—you feel empty and dark? This is the feeling you have when you are away from the light of God.

The transparency of that statement, at that moment and with that person—it cannot be overstated. Its raw truth broke something inside of me. Shattered was the habitual apathy I had begun to feel for myself, a feeling so foreign to my natural being that of course I was out of touch and empty. In its place was a much more painful reality. Through guilt or fear or plain fantasy, I had hidden my need for God in my daily life. Hidden it even from myself.

I’ll be honest—I had tried to cover up God. I covered Him with hateful words and hateful thoughts, directed equally at friends and family and myself. Here, my friend was saying, here is where you end up if you live that way.

In different words than these, he went on to say how he was brought up to know that God gives each of us these wonderfully unique gifts. Rolled up inside of us are our own special God-stories that He means for us to unravel and unleash in this world.

I’d love to say that recognizing my pain led me right back into that God-light, but actually it drove me farther away. At least at first. But my experience and opinion is that, in life, the unraveling far outweighs the unleashing. At least at first.

I’ve found that sometimes God’s paths for us intersect the ones we try to make alone. And we find these moments of intersection in places or ways or people that leave us pleasantly surprised.

But other times, I’ve found that we have to turn around and retrace our steps. We have to walk back through the darkness; this time with an intent and purpose that we didn’t carry with us the first time. And these U-turns can leave us shaky and unsure and even angry. Why wouldn’t God sweep in, take us up and turn us around at the first sign of swampy ground?

But I remember poetic writings in ancient books that speak to me about God having gone before me in all these trials. There are lessons and there is life in our dark, swampy, marshy areas. His is not merely a story of a saved people, but more completely a story of a redeemed people. And mine will never be a story of an enlightened person, but more completely the story of a person who chooses to step out of darkness.

“We will not fear…

…though the earth give way and

the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,

…though its waters roar and foam

and the mountains quake with their surging.

There is a river

whose streams make glad the city of God,

the holy place

where the Most High dwells.

God is within her,

she will not fall;

God will help her at break of day.”

-from Psalm 46