Incomprehensible for Us Birds

Once again I sit looking out my window at the bird-feeder tree, this time as a cloudy morning brightens the sky uniformly. Today, tiny feather-balls drop from the tree to the landscaped rock bed and peck around at who knows what. I watch them randomly skitter around and peck until the neighbor's central air unit rumbles into action. Spastically, the whole community takes cover, returning to the safety of the branches of the tree. Though not appearing to be finished with the pecking work, they nevertheless find the loud noise reason enough to relocate, abandoning the task at hand.

How often am I like that little bird? How often do I flap off in terror when loud things happen at the "next house" down the block, things that have nothing to do with me, really, despite the loud noise they make? That's not to say I shouldn't ever seek a larger awareness and express active concern for the larger world where possible, but should I be fearfully reactive?

One of the first hallmark moves toward spiritual formation is the recognition that we know as little about the larger environment of our spiritual placement as these little birds knew of the suburban yards they inhabit. Henri Nouwen described this step of growth succinctly in his book, Spiritual Formation: "Spiritual formation leads not to a proud understanding of divinity, but to docta ignorantia, an 'articulate not-knowing.' " We can't help but react to the things that startle us, but we can humbly acknowledge the mystery that is--and always will be--larger than our knowing.

The Faith of a Child

But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.

--Luke 18:16

 

waiting for service to begin



 Easter Sunday came bright and beautiful to my town this year. The service was everything I'd hope an Easter service to be. But for me, the highlight of Easter Sunday came at the end of the service when--as a member of the prayer team--I had the privilege of praying with a young lady who responded to the altar call.

 

Her parents brought her forward, along with her four-year-old brother. She was six herself, something I learned as I knelt down to engage her face-to-face. I asked her name and her age, and that was when the little miracle happened--the little miracle that seemed so natural to her that she didn't even take note of it, and so neither did I, although I continue to ponder the wonder of it in my heart.

 

"What's your name?" I asked her.
"A--," she answered.
"And how old are you, A--?"
"I'm six and a half."
I smiled. "You know, I was just about your age when I invited Jesus into my heart, too," I commented.
"Yes, you were five," she said matter-of-factly.
And there it was.
She knew what she couldn't possibly know, but wasn't the least bit surprised at knowing it.
Such is the way of children.
So we prayed for her heart and honored this moment when she purposely invited Christ to make a home there.
Then, her little brother tapped me on the shoulder.  He wanted a prayer, too. He wasn't quite sure why. Not until I saw this picture did I realize she had her hand on his little head. Some part of her--probably the same part that perceived and communed with my own childhood moment of re-creation-- that part knew to pass on what she'd received only moments prior herself, and to pass it on in the only way she knew how...with a touch and a prayer.



Sacrifice, the Ultimate Offering of Grace

...not to be forgotten: husband/father at whom we all smile!
 

Family.

The zone of life where we learn much about joy and about sacrifice especially where these relate to our hearts' deepest loves. We understand intellectually ideas like the death and resurrection of Christ for the sake of restoring our union with Him, but sometimes a human story helps us identify more deeply with that pinnacle moment in the history of the Church, making it more accessible for us on a human-heart level.

This is just such a story. It comes from the "Author Q & A Section" of Chris Cleave's novel, Little Bee.

In doing research for the book, did you come across any facts or stories of particular importance to you that did not make it into the final draft?

Yes, here's the true story that inspired me to write Little Bee. In 2011, an Angolan man named Manuel Bravo fled to England and claimed asylum on the grounds that he and his family would be persecuted and killed if they were returned to Angola. He lived in a state of uncertainty  for four years pending a decision on his application. Then, without warning, in September 2005, Manuel Bravo and his thirteen-year-old son were seized in a dawn raid and interred at an Immigration Removal Centre in southern England. They were told that they would be forcibly deported to Angola the next morning. That night, Manuel Bravo took his own life by hanging himself in a stairwell. His son was awakened in his cell and told the news. What had happened was that Manuel Bravo, aware of a rule under which unaccompanied minors cannot be deported from the UK, had taken his own life in order to save the life of his son. His last words to his child were: "Be brave. Work hard. Do well at school."

As Holy Week approaches, we might find that considering a contemporary story of sacrifice helps refresh the age-old story of the ultimate sacrifice Christ made for us. When we revisit The Story not so much in the "blockbuster" big screen form, not in the children's church cartoon form, but in the "Whoa! Can I relate to this at all?" form, then we begin to touch the real mystery of transformation offered to us through this great act of sacrifice. Not only might we--through near first-hand identifiers--turn and attempt to understand our own cross-bearing as Christ-followers, but we might also reflect afresh on our place on the other side of the equation: as recipients of that poignant, ultimate sacrifice. We might ponder anew our receptiveness to such a gift: when everything that can be poured out is poured out until there is nothing left but faith, hope and love to explain the action.

Can I accept something so wildly wonderful? Can I really accept it? Does every righteous thing I do now spring from gratitude for this life that was given to me through that sacrifice? Or, are my efforts rather an attempt to diminish its magnitude, bringing it down to a level that is on the top edge of comprehendible for me? Am I trying to prove--after the fact--that I was worth it after all. Just look at me now, if you doubt!

No. In The Story, we, too, are merely refugees in grave danger; and we have only that to claim as our stature in "deserving" the ultimate sacrifice. We are the creation of the Father, and this alone explains His deep desire to not only plant but also preserve life in us. May we embrace the beauty of that grace more fully with every passing Easter.

(excerpt from Christ Cleave's Little Bee, Simon and Schuster publishers, New York, NY.)

Faithfulness and Its Effect on Conscience

(Photos in illustration are from my own grandfather's personal collection of WW II pictures...)

Robert Smith gives a poignant autobiographical glimpse on the topic of risking much for the sake of conscience in his book A Quaker Book of Wisdom.  Quakers, he says, "live to the point," which seemed simple enough to him as a child. As a child, he presumed "religion would provide me with all the guidelines I needed to become the sort of man I hoped to be." But as WW II loomed,  his dedication to the Quaker tenet of conscientious objection to war became problematic.
"The Quaker dictate of nonviolence was reinforced through every encounter in my close, warm world. It was a message I had been absorbing all my life--easy to learn and easy to believe. The directive...to love your fellowman and do good.  And in 1936 this seemed, without question, to preclude shooting rifles and tossing grenades.

"Eight years later I was a private in an infantry company, marching through the snowy Belgian woods toward the Battle of the Bulge."

All of us eventually find we face that moment where "conscience meets relentless reality." In that place, we must find and express our true faithfulness. For Smith, despite his Quaker upbringing, that meeting of conscience and reality revealed "what was becoming increasingly obvious to me...that Hitler was a brutal murderer who must be opposed, and that fascism was the closest thing to an ocean of darkness that I was likely to encounter in this life."

How did he come to this place of decision? He asked himself and God the hard questions most hesitate to ask: "Is there that of God in every man? Can you maintain that ideal in a world dominated by barbaric cruelty? Does keeping humanity alive take precedence over belief in nonviolence?"

And life experience refined externally what was taking form for him internally.

"One morning a group of us decided to check out the town's bombed-out church. Why did we even bother to go in? As we stepped over, around, and through the debris, we noticed to our surprise that the organ appeared to be intact. A guy said he'd--what the hell--give it a try. Pushing aside a mess of debris, he began to pump the pedals and hit the keys. And some notes began to come out, notes that sounded like Back. And it no longer mattered that everything around was broken, that death was only two days behind us. Here we were, a ragged group of men of differing religious backgrounds who were suddenly embraced by the sensation that something like a divinity was right there with us. Soothing and protecting us. Better than a hot shower or a hot meal. Better than a night without guard duty. It was the sound of eternal life."

In the end, he discovered how best to live his own life's story, with its truths deeply rooted in the soil of a faith-oriented risk for the sake of conscience. "More than half of the draft-eligible Quaker men in the US served in WW II, inspired by the clear moral choices of this conflict. It was a higher percentage than in any previous war. I believe wholeheartedly that the Quakers who were conscientious objectors did the right thing. They were keeping alive a precious ideal--affirming the role of peacemaker and the place of nonviolence in human affairs. Those who went to war did the right thing, too...listening to that still, small voice of God within you, and doing your best to follow the path of truth...No one but God can ever judge the choices we make."

Smith, Robert L. A Quaker Book of Wisdom. New York: Eagle Brook, 1998. pp. 64-77.

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.