Learning to Practice Stillness

I love to knit. I can't stand to sit and watch t.v. without something in my hands to work on. I take my knitting with me to the doctor's office, to Bible study, anywhere I may have to wait. I even wish I could knit in the movie theater, but it is too dark and I think my date might feel a little neglected!

I have also learned lately that I need to learn to be quiet and still and feel the reality of right now. The last several years, with all of the trauma surrounding my son, Cody, have taken their toll and I struggle with depression, anxiety and symptoms of PTSD. There are times when I can barely function, and the dishes fill up the sink for days. There are times when all I can manage is to sit and look out a window. In these times, and when I am feeling better, taking a few minutes to concentrate and sit in the reality of God's presence in the now are where I can find peace. I am learning about meditation and contemplative prayer, and I find it really making a difference.

I have also learned that, for me, natural beauty and creating are essential to my peace and sense of well being. So, if I have to choose between the laundry and the garden, the garden is the better choice, and knitting while I watch the birds is more important than sweeping and vacuuming.

But knitting is expensive. I mean, really expensive. So I have been going to back to an old love: pencil drawing! It is a way that I can sit in stillness, observe and create. Here are some pictures I have been practicing my skills on.

Even for those who have not experienced trauma lately, but struggle to keep themselves together in the messiness and chaos of everyday, especially in the current state of our country, learning to sit and bask in the true reality that transcends what we experience is a helpful thing. We need feel the fact that, even above a lowering, stormy sky, the sun is shining on an infinite field of silver clouds, and that even in the darkness of a moonless night the stars stand in their pure brilliance as they always have. Beauty and joy do not die even when they cannot be felt for a very long time. And just sitting in the reality of Pure Love is the most real and productive thing you can do. I need to remember this. Like Mary, I need to choose a better way.

A Short Beginning to a Long Tale

In the beginning . . . .

A globe of light and all existence swirling together as one with the Creator.

Nothing was separate, neither man from woman nor man from animal, nor plant from soil nor water from air. What they ate was not separate from what they breathed, they were not separate from each other.

Intimacy was perfect because everything emanated from the Creator. The Creator was in all and through all and all things were made of Him. To eat was to savor Him. To joke was to laugh with Him. To romp with the animals was to play with Him. To sleep was to sink into the perfect peace and security of God.

     

To make love was to fuse with God; particles of energy passing from one body to another, as heat passes from one hand to another when we touch. All was truth and beauty and completeness.

But then the jealous tempter came, he who had forsaken oneness for the sake of the ambition of being greater than the Creator. He lied to the woman and told her that they were not really one with the Creator, that He was holding back what would make them equals.

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden?’

2 The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, 3 but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’ 4 “You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. 5 “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:1-4)

So she took and ate, and the man ate, too. Like little children pulling their hands from their Father’s and rushing into the street after something shiny, as if anything could be better than the perfect safety and warmth of Him.

The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The tree of division. The tree of sorting and labeling. This thing is good. This thing is bad. This act is good. This act is bad. This person is good. This person is bad.

In the dance of oneness there had been no good or bad. There were no weeds and prize-winning roses. There were no right or wrong deeds. The Creator had called everything good and it was so. All compulsions were beautiful and each flower and leaf was a pure work of art.

But they ate.

And suddenly, the sphere of Love was shattered, and the shards scattered, sparkling, far into empty space. In an instant the man and the woman were floating, anchor-less, in the vast, suffocating coldness, alone.

The man and the woman managed to clasp each other’s hands as they were blasted into the void, and though there was comfort in their touch, they were baffled that it did not alleviate the feeling of horrible, bottomless emptiness that filled them. How had one become two? And where was the Creator? Where was the garden? Their animal companions? Why were their bodies uncovered and unprotected? What would shield them from the emptiness?

Their world had been a cruel illusion.

There was nothing to do but to try to put the shattered pieces back together on their own. What had been one was now many, and nothing fit. Each separate piece to be managed and held together. No longer were food, air and water, companionship, beauty and love different expressions of the same Source. Food must be coaxed from the ground with hard labor. It must be prepared and cooked to be eaten. Sleep could only be found in a place of relative safety and shelter. Animals must be hunted and killed for warm clothing. What had been One Life was now many disjointed tasks, all needing immediate attention; burdensome tasks that must be prioritized, leaving the pleasant things undone.

And the man and the woman were disjointed, too. The woman wanted love more than food. The man wanted to provide shelter before love. Each shard of life was a struggle between them, a bargaining chip, something withheld, something reluctantly given. An action twisted into a hurt, a love withheld in revenge.

As time went on and cells painfully split and fused, the earth became populated by these lonely, purposeless creatures whose entire existence was consumed, though they had forgotten their history and origin, with the search to regain what was lost. They were baffled and confused as they pieced two shards together, only to find another had floated off. They became each intent on finding an anchor for their nothingness, a shard they could cling to, the shard that was their own.

“Adah gave birth to Jabel; he was the father of those who live in tents and raise livestock. His brother’s name was Jubal; he was the father of all who play stringed instruments and pipes. Zillah also had a son, Tubal-Cain, who forged all kinds of tools out of bronze and iron.” (Genesis 4:20-22).

“Cush was the father of Nimrod, who became a mighty warrior on the earth.” (Genesis 10:8l)

And Julia was an artist, and Rachel was a cashier. And Sara was a housewife, and Anna was a CEO. And Josh was a doctor and Omar was an electrical engineer and Ralph was a Republican and Martha was a Democrat. And this man is a Blood and this is a Crip, and this man is black and this white. And this country is a prison and this country is free, and this man is good and this man is evil, and this being is precious and this can be discarded. Nation against nation, brother against brother, father against son, world without end amen. Each born alone to die alone.

You see, the jealous tempter was right: the man and the woman did not die when they tasted of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Instead, they contracted an insanity that was a living death.

What they could not see, what even the tempter could not see, was that their aloneness and separateness were the illusions. Though the one globe of swirling unity and joy was shattered forever, the empty space they felt and saw was really contained within a larger sphere of love. Though blind and deaf to Him, they had never really left the arms of the Creator, the Filler of every vast expanse. They could not be separated from the one in Whom we live and move and have our being.

The spell had only to be broken, the madness cured, the disease eradicated. Who could accomplish this task? Not these beings who had forgotten who they were.

It had to be One who remembered the beginning . . . who was the Beginning . . . . As in every good tale the spell could only be broken by a Hero with a quest, an act of true love and a potion. The Blood of Perfection, the Living Water and the Bread of Life . . . .

A Cold and a Broken Hallelujah

Click link to hear Hallelujah

I can’t really stand to listen to “Christian” music right now. It’s too hopeful and joyful and faithful. Like shards of twinkling glass flying at my face.  

Because, see, I had this little boy. He was the sweetest, most joyful, funniest little guy who ever lived. He had been through hell, was beating the odds, was growing and amazing all the doctors and nurses. He brought joy to every person around him, just by being alive. We were inseparable, and we shared everything and caring for him was the calling and the joy of my life.

And then one day, I went away for a vacation. And I never saw that boy again. When I returned he was a shell of himself. He is not far from brain dead. You can only tell he’s in there if you look very carefully closely. And he is dying very, very, very slowly.

I was OK, until then. But I will never see that boy again in this world, and I miss his smile so much . . . . And all I can do is to love him desperately and watch him fade away.

So my only song these days is Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” And I turn it up in the kitchen and I shout it to God at the top of my lungs, and I show Him my ripped up heart and I scream,

“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken HALLELUJAH!”

And my face twists up and tears stream down and I scream,

“And it’s not a cry you hear at night, and it’s not somebody who's seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken HALLELUJAH!”

And it’s not pretty.

And I know I am “supposed” to have this amazingly faithful and trusting response, and shine a light for Jesus. And I am afraid if everyone knew, I would be a disappointment. But I’m angry, and I sleep too much, and I’m depressed. And it’s all I can do to take care of my kids. And I ask people for help to clean my house and bring us dinner.

And I see a woman in a hijab, and everything is changed. Because she is lost in the cold and the broken hallelujah, too. And I feel a part of the people of this world in a way I never did before because I don’t care what you believe, and I don’t care what you do, and I don’t care if it is fair to me or I lose my rights. I can’t care about those things anymore. All I hear are the screams of the mother whose child was crushed as they gathered at a mosque. And all I can do is stand next to her and add my screams to hers, because I know just a piece of what she feels. And the only thing that seems worthwhile in this world right now is for me to hug someone and cry with them, and say “I love you.”

Because this is a dark world, and I am grasping in the darkness like everyone else. I believe in God, and I believe in Jesus, just like I did before. But pain distills. It strips. It makes you real, and realness is messy, and it is not abhorrent to God. And I think there is something about a cold and a broken hallelujah, when it is raw and real, that pleases Him as much as the praise I could try to conjure up as a faithful Christian. I never was good a Christian, and I never was good at pretending.  

Because what I mean to say is, I don’t understand the pain and I can’t see the good of it. I don’t understand what could possibly be worth all of this. I can’t think of a single thing I would not trade to see my Cody smile again. And the little sparks of light don’t seem to make a dent in the darkness. And the only good I can see in this is that I can understand the cries of pain that are sent up from the helpless desperation of a parent who has lost a child to an arbitrary fate that can’t be explained.

I can never tell you why it happened to you. And you can never tell me why it happened to me. And they will never know how much it hurts. And we are all at the mercy of this God who tells us that, in the end, the universe is a friendly place and He is made of pure Love.

I believe Him. And I cry out, “though He slay me, yet shall I praise Him.” And I love you, Muslim. And I love you, LGBTQ(and whatever other letters) person. And I love you, single mother who is addicted to drugs. Because whatever else we are, we are all crying out in the darkness to understand and find some light. And I love you, all the ones who think your country and identity are being taken away. And I love you, all the others. And I want you here.

Because when you are stripped down to nothing but raw pain, you don’t care what another person is about, or what they have done. You just want nothing more than to embrace them and say, “I know. It hurts too much.”

“And Baby, I’ve been here before

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew ya.

And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch

And love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!

And maybe there’s a God above

But all I’ve ever learned from love

Is how to shoot somebody who out-drew ya.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night,

And it’s not somebody who’s seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

What’s Wrong with America being American?

I read a comment the other day on Facebook, in a discussion about immigration: “What’s wrong with America being American?”

It hit me in visceral way, and I recoiled.

But I sat back and thought about it. Why did this hit me this way? What is wrong with wanting America to be American?

There may be nothing intrinsically right or wrong with that idea. It all depends on answering the question, "what is America?"

I grew up being taught that America is a Christian nation, built on Christian principles. And sure, the founding fathers had some really great, ground-breaking philosophies. But I have come to the conclusion that The United States of America is not and has never been a "Christian Nation," though it may have aspired to be. Because Christ is about bringing good news to the poor, binding up the broken hearted, proclaiming liberty to the captives, opening up the prison to those who are bound, comforting all who mourn, bringing beauty instead of ashes, gladness instead of mourning, and praise instead of a faint spirit (Isaiah 61:1-3). Not just to certain of the poor, broken hearted, captives and mourners. Not just to those who are "deserving," who adhere to our ideas, who look like us.

While our nation was indeed built on principles of equality, independance and freedom from tyranny and oppression, these ideals were explicitly and systematically applied only to the white male. It may sound like I am just repeating the din of the "liberal," the activist and the celebrity, but I do not say this lightly. I did not come to this lightly. I am not quick to parrot the ideas of others, and I question everything I hear. I don’t even say it in a spirit of criticism. Our country was progressive for it’s time. There are some great things about its foundation. But it is true. It just is. That while in the light of day the founders of America were extending rights and freedoms to the white male, in the darkness oppression and tyranny were thriving and growing. There has never been a moment, not one tiny second, that this country did not include peoples of non-European ancestry and peoples who were non-English speaking. And there has not been one moment that this country has not denied these people freedom and equality. Not one moment.

Whether it was the peoples who were here when white settlers arrived, or the peoples that were brought as slaves to build this nation for the comfort and prosperity of the white settlers, or the many waves of immigrants who have continued to arrive up to the present, each group of “foreigners” has been treated as inferior, and experienced a lesser quality of life and dignity. The Italian immigrants, the Irish immigrants, the Eastern European immigrants, and the Jews . . . each have suffered at our hand. And now it is the Muslim and the Latino who are treated as a lesser species, as someone to fear and disdain. A scapegoat for our selfish propensities.

Not only has America oppressed the non-white non-Europeans in our midst, we have tortured them and killed them. From the plight of the slave to the Jim Crow South, to current police brutality. From the Jews to whom we denied asylum when they were being systematically slaughtered to the Muslims fleeing war and terrorism, to the Latinos fleeing drug and gang related violence, to the African fleeing starvation. When the United States claims to be a haven against tyranny and oppression, the very reason for which it was founded, it really means a haven to the white man.

And that is what is wrong with saying that America should be “American.” The America that people mean when they say that is a myth that never existed. For every person that experienced freedom, independence, equality and prosperity, there has been another citizen of this country who has been denied those things based on race, ethnicity, religion or sexual orientation. We have never, in all our history, treated each person as they deserve to be treated, as someone who was made in the image of God. As someone who is intrinsically worthy and worthwhile.

As for being a Christian nation, sure, we have some Christianity-based principles and moral ideals, but we have not been Christ to the world. 

"If my life denies that I am about the oppressed and crushed —- my life denies the gospel and Christ" (Ann Voskamp).

As a white woman I am grateful to live in America. I am comfortable and free here. Even for people of different ethnicities and religions there are plenty of places that are much worse. But as a Christian I say let us forget the idea of a “Christian” nation, an “American” America. We can’t go back to what never existed. Let’s go forward to bring justice to each person that we can - not the punitive justice of this world that exacts punishment and vengeance, but the Justice of God, which rights the wrongs done to the vulnerable. Let’s forget about trying to enforce our moral beliefs and about holding up our nation as some kind of "shining city on a hill," and instead put our heads down and go to work to show the love of Christ by doing as He did - by showing that we care for the hurts of our neighbors, and that each of them, regardless of race, religion or behavior, is the image of God and infinitely loved by Love Himself.

“The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.

You must not oppress foreigners. You know what it’s like to be a foreigner, for you yourselves were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:34, Exodus 23:9)