Where Do I Find Myself Most Happy?

"Paths are made by walking."
  --Antonio Machado

Many, and particularly those who don't feel they have a creative bent, avoid considering their artistic side as a source of inner gladness. Our achievement and outcome-based society rarely applauds the process as highly as the product in terms of the satisfaction it renders; but to clasp artistic creativity as a spiritual practice means doing exactly that. The act of creating IS the way of exploring the image of God that graces our humanness and helps us commune with a specific aspect of His joy
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"Art-making is somehow all at once a journey, a communication, a modality, a healing, and a prayer," says Betsy Beckman in Awakening the Creative Spirit. The beauty of it is, none of these attributes of art-making depend on the expertise of the artist nor on the quality of what is produced.

But for art to mediate anything sacred to us, we must make a place for it to have full access to our undivided attention.  Lana has done just that, and tells us about the artist's retreat she has right in her own backyard:


"My cottage was built for me by my husband so I had a place to be able to leave my project on the work bench instead of having to clear everything from the dinning room table every night and store my supplies in the garage.

 

 I make jewelry, scrapbook, paint, do floral arrangements, make soap and candles, paint birdhouses and ceramics in the cottage. I also keep my some of my candy and cake decorating supplies out there when I'm not using them. My sewing, quilting and embroidery supplies are out there but I have been keeping my Bernina in the house.

I cleared a corner a couple of years ago for my daughter to have her own work area. She is into Perler beads and does intricate designs.
Having the cottage for my crafty creativity is a huge blessing for me. I have my office for writing and computer creativity but that is heavily impacted by running the household from the same office. My cottage is purely creative.

It's like a personal retreat and even though it's just behind the house in the back yard getting out there is both very easy and very difficult at the same time. All I have to do is walk out the back door, through the rose garden and there I am. But making the time to stop everything else and get out there.... well that's much more difficult."

 

Even if a full-scale cottage is not a possibility for you, might there be a place where you can be creatively attentive, communing with God as creator to Creator?  For some, this communing can be the first appreciable step toward attending to God in an otherwise dry, sad season.

 

And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it. --Psalm 90:17

Fair Weather Friends

The need does not define the call, the call defines the need.

A pithy little saying I once read that makes more and more sense as the years roll along, because nothing seems to kindle the fires of burnout faster than a call that springs more from observed need than it does from focused intention to meet Christ's interests in the Church and the world.

One of the spiritual formation practices I find most appealing is the imaginative reading of scripture. Such a reading refreshes passages that I've read so many times I find my attentiveness waning. I have gleaned all I can from informational reading--I master the text--and am ready to engage with formational reading--the text masters me. (Thank you, Alice Fryling for that easy definition of comparative scripture study models. More on her materials in the link below.)

Allowing your imaginations to touch your Gospel reading  is nothing more mystical than seeing yourself in the story. Reading the story as a participant, you determine who you are in the scenario, and notice how the environment affects your senses, who interacts with you and how you respond to the progress of the plot. In essence, you engage the passage at a personal level.

Recently, I felt God invite me to walk the full range of discipleship, serving Christ in this manner. Here is a review of my experience.

And he told his disciples to have a boat ready for him because of the crowd, lest they should crush him; for he had healed many, so that all who had diseases pressed upon him to touch him.

--Mark 3:9-10 RSV
 

 I feel like the body guard of a rock star when he gives the urgent command--have a boat ready. As the other disciples and I hurry to secure a boat--his escape route from the dangerously pressing fans--we look at each other and chuckle nervously, we shake our heads in amazement at what life has brought us so quickly. Who would have guessed we would be the ones to do this sort of thing??

 

And he said to them, "Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while." For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.

And they went away in the boat to a lonely place by themselves.

Now many saw them going, and knew them, and they ran there on foot from all the towns, and got there ahead of them.

As he went ashore he saw a great throng, and he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.

--Mark 6:31-34
 

The adrenaline rush of the wild days of miracles and healings, the demands of the ever-swarming mass of humanity--these are taking their toll. We have no time for our own most basic needs. Now when we disciples smile at each other, it is a weary smile of compassion sprouting from the soil of our communal exhaustion. He sees our weariness and invites us to rest, but the mobs JUST WON'T QUIT! And neither will he. He's like a machine. How does he do it??

 

...and this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up at the last day.

He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.

Many of his disciples, when they heard it, said, "This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?"

After this many of his disciples drew back and no longer went about with him.

Jesus said to the twelve, "Do you also wish to go away?"

--John 6:39, 56, 60, 66-67

 

Enough with the parables already! The healings and miracles bring people in droves; but then he starts talking.

At first, the stories scratch a nagging itch in their hearts. Yes! This is so true, they cry.
But later, the stories change. The people are horrified. Can't he see they're not ready for the out-of-this-world weirdness? The followers are leaving, which is a relief in a way, but also a little frightening because they're leaving offended.  Just what have we signed up for here? Why don't these people get it? We get it. It rings true but only because he explains it to us. Why won't he explain it to them? He's maddening. We aren't exactly rocket-scientists, but we get it because he explains himself. Why won't he do that for them??

Then he asks us the question we've all been asking ourselves. We look at each other, and we know the same question haunted us days before he asked it aloud. It's in our eyes when we glance at each other. Are we leaving, too?

What did we sign up for?

 

Simon Peter answered him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life;

and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God."

--John 6:68-69

 

One by one, our eyes changes. First, Peter's shifted. That wide stare of haunted horror narrowed into a fierce determination. One by one, the rest of us transfigured. We saw each other around this circle as each one made the transition. This marked our knowing each other. Really knew each other. This moment Peter became the one who would define the place where the church would come to life. "You have the words of eternal life." The words. Will  we really let the words that make us uncomfortable drive us away? It's these words that matter, after all. These words measure us.

 

Simon Peter replied, "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."

And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the powers of death shall not prevail against it.

--Matthew 16:16, 18

These were the headwaters of the church. Not the day he called us winsomely. Not even the days of miracles and healings, raising of the dead or mountaintop sermons. These all mattered, but the defining spark was in words. Words of revelation. No-matter-what words. Nothing-changes-who-You-are words.  This is when death first lost its sting...and not just for a generation, but for all time. When you asked and we answered that we would not go away.

What do I glean from this way of reading scripture?
I realize that it  is good to occasionally pause and contemplate the season that my serving is experiencing. I'd like to think all our service is like that first flush of thrill and energy that the disciples knew; but if I am honest I know that easy times and hard times will continue throughout all aspects of my life, and to deny the back-and-forth flow is to put myself at risk of either burnout or self-idolization. Neither was God's purpose in creating His church. His light shines in me the brightest, his revelation speech over me is the boldest when I can--in any season--answer like Peter when Christ questions me: "Do you also wish to go away?"


Bonus link: If you're refreshed by this way of reflecting on scripture, you might like joining a spiritual accompaniment small group that makes a practice of reviewing scripture together this way. Here is a good resource for learning more about such groups.

There's Hope in the Cross for Me

And when he had called the people unto him with his disciples also, he said unto them, Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. Mark 8:34

How in the world do we associate hope with such a command?
How do we not get stuck in the mires of self-denial and sink under a flood of self-pity?
Many of us wince and turn away from such talk of crosses because we know that is precisely what we would do.
The only way  is to search out  the perfect gift that pierces the darkness that swirls around these crosses. But it is not easy because this is, after all, a call to step willingly into the pain of withdrawal as we stop dosing on self-protection and start leaning into trust.

 

Every life lived in God's will has its moments on the peak of transfiguration and in the depth of death to self.  If we make life out to be all power and brilliancy, we grow shallow and useless as comforters of others. We may inspire them with our enthusiasm and assurance--which are good, but we cannot comfort them. More troublesome, we grow blind to our own peculiar needs for control. On the other hand, if we make life out to be all suffering and cost-counting, we grow bitter and exhausted, proving to be equally useless as comforters. Here, too, we may inspire, now with our perseverance, our self-control and our forbearance; but again, we can not comfort.  Likewise, in this perpetual state we grow blind to our own peculiar needs for control. In the balance of seasons we find our usefulness to God, to others and to ourselves. In the transition between our seasons of suffering and joy, we process what we experienced in the fullness of each season. God brings us to connect our story with an ever fuller range of Christ's own story.

 

But often  we perceive the cross of self-denial hopelessly; and by not connecting with the purpose of that cross we might misinterpret what we are being asked to take up in the first place. We end up crucifying the very thing our cross was meant to set free: our true self. It is our false self, the one that believes in the wrong comforts, that agrees with the addictions, that sets its sights on temporary coping and grasps at every sign of strength and power--this is what must die. Christ's true self, his essential self that defined his reason for becoming human--this is what was released by the cross and extended beyond it. Our perception of our own crosses should be just as far-reaching and should definitely be received through discernment. 

 

If we determine to take up our cross to follow him, we must listen closely. The hardest part is recognizing what cross to carry and what hill to climb with it, but the hidden hope that knows something wonderful, something eternal will be set free--this hope gives us the courage to follow Christ.

I Fast Twice a Week

So says the Pharisee when he catalogs his list of noteworthy acts of dedication as he prays alongside the less respectable tax collector. The parable of him told in Luke 18:9-14 reminds me of a modern day joke:

A grandma and her grandson are at the beach.
He's playing in the water, she is standing on the shore not wanting to get her feet wet, when all of a sudden, a huge wave appears from nowhere and crashes directly onto the spot where her grandson was wading.
The water recedes and the boy is no longer there, he had been swept away.
The grandma holds her hands to the sky, screams and cries: Lord, my ...GOD, how could you? Haven't I been a wonderful grandmother? Haven't I been a wonderful mother? Haven't I kept a kosher home? Haven't I given to charity? Haven't I lit candles every Friday night? Haven't I tried my very best to live a life that you would be proud of?
A voice booms from the sky, "All right already!"
A moment later another huge wave appears out of nowhere and crashes on the beach.
As the water recedes, the boy is standing there. He is smiling and splashing around as if nothing had ever happened.
The voice booms again. "I have returned your grandson. Are you satisfied?"
She responds, "He had a hat."

(thanks, LeLane, for the story.)

 

If we make Lent about the fasting, we miss the point. Lent should be more like taking a pumice stone to the places in our souls where our gratitude has gone callous.  It should be like draining the fluid of self-exaltation off the joint of spiritual gifting when that joint gets too bloated to function properly.

 

For me, this year, Lent takes the form of giving up red meat. It's never taken that form before and may never again because the reason for the choice is full of God's timely intentionality, my own listening heart and the symbolism the very world carries about the mysterious and invisible nature of God. It would be easy to be offended if someone dismissed my choice as being just me deciding to forego hamburgers for 40 days. But I am not offended because I know they do not see what I see in each meal. What I'm actually doing is making room for something better to fill the empty space that gets called a fast--and by that I don't mean the chicken or the fish or the "vegetarian option" that replaces the red meat.

 

Isaiah advises "not to hide yourself from your own flesh..." when he speaks of fasting, and that is exactly what Lent does for me. I stop hiding from myself, and I ask the hard questions. Forty days at this task is strenuous but doable. The question this year runs something like this:

Do I exalt myself--mostly without realizing it--in the name of...

...prayer?

...warfare?

...justice?

...peace?

...prosperity?

...diligence?

...honor?

...faithfulness?

...efficiency?

...sacrifice?

 

 

Each day, God might bring one of these before me to consider, making this list a quarter of the season sitting right here in this post. Most of the time the answer isn't a simple yes or no. It is more likely answered on a scale of 1 to 10.

 

I have to give the Pharisee in the parable a little credit because I see now how easy it is to hide from your own flesh when you've structured a life that appears so God-pleasing, a life that gets "results." 

 

 I wonder if the real test of whether I'm doing this thing that seems appalling when it appears in parables and jokes but looks so "right" in my own life would be to ask myself: how much is faith the measure of what keeps me walking in all those good things questioned above?  If it is not by faith alone that all these are mine, then I need (in some form or another) the blessings Lent brings me.