lent

Seeing in the Dark

/ Sharon / Leave a comment

ImageMy mother loves to tell a particular story about me, and has done so countless times.  When I was little, I spent many summers down south at my grandfather’s house out in the country where there was nary a streetlight.  Suffice it to say that when it got dark, it got real dark, and so at one point, I cried out “My eyes are open, but I can’t see!”

Decades later, my understanding of dark places has evolved.  I’ve had moments when melancholy has arrived on the threshold of my soul uninvited.   I have dwelt in shadows of obscurity, whether by choice or by circumstance. I have faced seasons when an abundance of question marks took up residence in my mental space.  I’ve bumped into grief and stumbled over fear as I groped along foggy paths to the unknown.

What does it mean to navigate dark places with eyes wide open?  Perhaps Lent is the time to ponder this question. As the Light of the World, Jesus could have just pulled me from a dark place to a brightly lit space.  Yet, having traveled from the wilderness to Gethsemane to Calvary, He made another choice – He showed up, sat down and lit a candle.   So now I consider what it might look like for me to light a candle for another.  Perhaps lighting a candle translates to sending up prayers of lament and intercession on someone’s behalf.  Or listening deeply to a neighbor’s story. Or nudging him in the direction of a therapist, spiritual director or community of support. Or reminding her that she is not alone. Or simply being present.

Your Call: What could “lighting a candle” mean for you right now?

Manna for Lent

/ Sharon / Leave a comment

Beloved Daughter,
You can’t mix sand to bake bread
But Manna is here.

This haiku has been whispering within since it came to me a few weeks ago. My response to Lent had been rather unfocused, but by the grace of God, the poem emerged as the Spirit hovered over my weariness, my creativity and my meditation on Jesus’ first temptation in the wilderness:

The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”   But he answered, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes out of the mouth of God.’ ” Matthew 4:3,4 (NRSV)

Indeed, I do find myself in a desert season these days.  This isn’t the first time I’ve been here.  I know that there is purpose, power and provision to be found even in dry places.  I also know that the temptation for me to try to fend for myself is very real.  No, I can’t turn stones into bread, but with my resourcefulness, surely I can think of some other options. But Manna, that Bread from Heaven, is here. And so I rest. I eat. I listen. I learn.

In The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality, Belden C. Lane points out that “without the tough-minded discipline of desert-mountain experience, spirituality loses its bite, its capacity to speak prophetically to its culture, and its demand for justice.”  So the significance of yielding to the work of the desert is bigger than my own spiritual growth.  Therefore, the questions for me (and perhaps for you) are:

Will you be a good steward of this desert experience? 

Will you take off your shoes and declare this to be holy ground? 

Will you cooperate in being stripped of whatever would hinder your devotion to Christ and your love of others? 

Will you walk in the valley of dry bones long enough to cry out for rivers of resurrection in the midst of idolatry, injustice, and despair?

In the company of Hagar, Moses, Elijah, Ezekiel, John the Baptist,
and in the presence of Jesus Christ,
let us say…

Yes.

Your Call: Recall the last time you were in a dry place.  Perhaps you are there now.  Either way, what lessons have you taken away from the experience?  How will you retain and act on what you have learned?  Who would potentially be blessed if you yielded to God’s work in the desert?

From Lent to Pentecost: The “Absent” Presence of God

/ Sharon / 2 Comments

Under Evergreen's Eye

As Pentecost Sunday winds up, my mind goes back to a trip I took about two months ago during Lent.  I knew I needed some time away to process things going on (or not going on) in my life.   I can’t even remember how I stumbled upon the information about the retreat. All I knew is that I needed to go.  So I went, enjoying the rustic scenery on the way.  When I arrived, the sky was overcast.  It was springtime, but neither my surroundings nor my mood reflected this.  Almost a year after my ordination, life seemed anti-climactic.  Perplexed,  I wondered, “Now what?”

So here I was at this gathering.  There couldn’t have been more than 10 people present.   To reinforce our discussion, the facilitator decided to play a clip from the movie Ray, which offers a glimpse of the life of the late Ray Charles.  In the scene, a young Ray, who had lost his sight, runs into the house and trips over something on the floor.  Disoriented and scared, he cries out to his mother for help.    There is no response. Ray’s cries grow more desperate. The mother is in the room. She is standing in a silence that would seem stoic, if the camera had not come in closer. Compassion fills her face and her eyes brim with tears, yet she knows that her son has to apply what she has taught him.  So she stands and she waits. Ray begins to grope around to get his bearings. Then, he gets still. He hears a cricket and runs toward it, fears fading.   And yes, he hears his mother breathe.  She had been there the whole time.  “Why are you crying, Mama?” he asks. Her answer — “Because I’m happy.”

As a fan of Ray Charles’ music, I had already seen the movie.  I recall being very moved by the scene I just described, but this second viewing was different.  This time, I wasn’t just watching Ray.  I was Ray.  Along with his cry, I heard the voices of the Psalmists weeping as they sought the whereabouts of God.  And I heard me.  In the face of Ray’s mother, I saw the face of God, full of love and waiting for me to get still, listen, and apply what I have been taught. God was there the whole time, breathing and rejoicing.  In that quiet moment, I had a profound awareness of God’s Presence that I had not experienced in a while and tears of release came.  Pentecost had arrived a bit early and I’m just realizing it now as I write this post. I’m grateful.

Your Call: How have you navigated seasons in your journey in which God has felt distant to you? How are you heeding the call to be still and pay attention to God’s presence in your day-to-day life?