This week is a recording of some reflections on the times plus a song that decided to resurrect and take on new meaning.
You can listen to it below, or follow my podcast, by clicking here.
After nearly a week of fasting from the internet, I have a new chant for you that came to me today.
I have spent the afternoon chanting in the round to offer you not a balm, but a Reality.
Richard Rohr often says that "Paul was a mystic". Most of his language is heard at the wrong level, and therefore misused by some, and passed over too quickly by others. But there are some nuggets there to be sure. (He met the mystical Christ on the road to Damascus, for starters).
Whether I live or die, I am the Lord's.
Whether we live or die, we are the Lord's.
This message from Romans isn't about the promise of heaven.
It is about a living reality.
When I hear this line, I think of James Finley's wonderful words from our Point Vierge album, (Thomas Merton's Journey in Song), when he says,
"As intimacy deepens between two people, it can deepen to a point, at which they mutually disappear as dualistically other than each other. Neither one can find the place where one stops and the other begins, and they're not inclined to try. So, that point, that Zero Variance, or that point of the overcoming of otherness, is a point of solitude, because there's no observer there, to take notes on it. In a way, Merton is talking about this "transubjective communion", in which we, and God, and we and others, and we and the earth, all start disappearing, and otherness is overcome. This is why, when people die, they don't go anywhere. When we die, we disappear. We don't see the dead, for the same reason we don't see God. There's no more otherness, between themselves and this Infinity. And since they don't go anywhere, we're all right here.
Thomas Merton once wrote: "where do candles go, when they go out? If the question fills me with an alien chill, it gives witness to my heart, that I have not begun to understand the resurrection."
Use these lines if they are helpful, as you navigate how to be in these strange times. I don't send this line "whether I live or die, I am the Lord's" to you as a "promise of heaven" in the strict sense of escapism, nor even a way to calm ourselves about our own mortality... but more as an incarnate reality that can shine out quietly, like "the music of the spheres", into the disquieting "quiet" of these times. What if we were to use this chant to weather this storm, this Great Turning, this Ordeal, with total, deep down, presence, when all too often, spiritual people have been notorious for being the great escape artists.
I am seeing less airplanes in the sky, but around Christmas time, we were doing a night walk as a family, and I saw about 60 perfectly spaced, recently launched satellites polluting my vision, as I tried to exercise my God-given right to see the stars in all their glory.
I am glad I get to send you songs, but I wonder what price we will pay for tech connection, that seems to have come with the loss of the deep, lateral connection, our ancestors had with this earth. My personal prayer is that somehow the Mystery of Where We are Going is going to include a Second Naiveté with the lateral powers of the "Christ-soaked" natural world (including ourselves).
We are in deep preparation for spring, here in the north, so of course, as the tree's sap warms, and the buds show signs of waking, and our cow gives more milk, and I say hello and tend to nearly 500 plants every morning, I get (perhaps too) preachy about how often we forget this greening beauty, Earth, even as we claim we want her to live, or want to "save" her.
I just finished a novel where a Palagian was drowned by other Christian monks, for heresy. And I wondered if the Palagian found God in the water, even as those who would separate God from all this wonder, used that water only as a useful object, to violently silence him with.
Well, drown me as a heretic, but I'm in love with what God has made for us to be in love with, and in love with God, who is inseparably interwoven with all of this. I don't fall too far from the tree... my dear grandmother's favourite hymn was I Come to the Garden Alone... and I'm pretty sure, deep down, she sometimes wished she could be tarrying in her garden, sharing the joy of it with God, on Sunday mornings.
Lastly, more context for this chant can be understood in the words of Simeon the New Theologian,
We awaken in Christ’s body,
As Christ awakens our bodies
There I look down and my poor hand is Christ,
He enters my foot and is infinitely me.
I move my hand and wonderfully
My hand becomes Christ,
Becomes all of Him.
I move my foot and at once
He appears in a flash of lightning.
Do my words seem blasphemous to you?
–Then open your heart to Him.
And let yourself receive the one
Who is opening to you so deeply.
For if we genuinely love Him,
We wake up inside Christ’s body
Where all our body all over,
Every most hidden part of it,
Is realized in joy as Him,
And He makes us utterly real.
And everything that is hurt, everything
That seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,
Maimed, ugly, irreparably damaged
Is in Him transformed.
And in Him, recognized as whole, as lovely,
And radiant in His light,
We awaken as the beloved
In every last part of our body.
As all of you are facing what you are facing where you are, I have two offerings for you. One is a video I made that talks about the importance of the words we invoke at this time. And the other is the podcast... where I performed a mini concert for you.
I want to reiterate to you, that you are in my heart, and honestly, I have listeners all over the world. If you need help or supplies, I might know someone near you.
To listen to my mini concert click here.
I am starting the plants for my garden this year, with deeper reverence, than is even usual.
For the seeds.
For the soil.
For the water.
For this body, and the bodies I am entrusted to feed and protect.
James Finley has this teaching, where he suggests that everyone hold their breath for about 5 minutes, and then exhale. Quite quickly, everyone realizes the teaching.
That every breath is a gift.
The average amount of days any of us have are just over 27,000.
27,000 days. The blink of an eye.
I have already lived 14,845 days.
Being in the material world… being matter… makes us vulnerable.
Our days are like grass. We bloom like a flower in the field. The wind passes over us, and we vanish, (Psalm 103).
Is this at least part of what it means to “consider the lilies of the field”?
Fear causes us to hurt other people. Even at the best of times.
We too often fail to realize that all of this is a gift.
That we come from gift and are returning to gift.
And we live this great gift out in such fear, that fear is perhaps living our lives more than we are.
Experiencing rejection, especially as children, makes us feel even more vulnerable, and can heighten our fight or flight senses.
In the song I Believe You, the children’s choir sings “I believe you” to the voice inside of us, that says what it says.
Initially the grown up voice in the song sings, “I cannot abide you”.
The child says, “I believe you”.
As we move through these days with a media hyper-focus on the coronavirus, we can get caught up in the frenzy of seeing all others as merely unsafe. We can “not abide” others. We can become untrusting, and so afraid, that we fail to see how vulnerable we are at any given moment.
This is not to say we shouldn’t take precautions. I think precautions are smart.
As someone who participates in growing food for her family, and regardless of pandemics, puts significant effort into building the immunity systems of her family, I oscillate nearly every day, between what resiliency looks like, amidst what it also looks like to live close to vulnerability. Meaning, I don’t want my sufficiency to make me hardened… I want it to deepen the softening of what it means to live in the preciousness of my, and others, fragility.
As I have gone through this series, I have consistently been trying to expand personal healing into the Big Story. This song is no exception. Especially at this time.
What does it mean to trust, that we are precious in our fragility?
What does it mean to live as though we believe that we are a part of a great, deeply trustworthy mystery?
How do we exercise wise caution, but also not get obsessed, or treat others with disrespect?
Fighting over toilet paper ought not to be the great Opus of our time, even if it is what we feel we have control over.
When the book of James references Psalm 103, it adds that a rich man should exult in his low position because he will pass away like the flowers in the field.
That the rich man will fade away in the midst of his pursuits.
And in 1 Peter, it says “all flesh is like grass”. This is why I've never really understood the pursuit of power. Unless being memorable however you have to be, is what you feel makes you "immortal". (For instance, when I haven't really been present with my small children, they act out to try and get my attention... perhaps this is what is happening with all oligarchs?)
When we begin to sing the lines “you are precious in your fragility”, and “you are unbearably beautiful” to ourselves, and to each other, and to this planet... that inner child in each of us will sing out,
“I believe you”.
May we respond to all that lies ahead with this preciousness, for each other, and for our planet.
Find your feet, rooted in the gift of life itself. You are dust and to dust you shall return, but that dust is here because of Love... so also... you come from Love and to Love you shall return.
And... speaking of roots and seeds and the preciousness of life... I encouraged a number of you to support Randy and Edith Woodley's (Eloheh- Indigenous Centre for Earth Justice), land purchase this past fall, and they are still working at it... with some really crucial fundraising going on right now. If you reside in the US and are planning on buying seeds for your garden, I highly encourage you to purchase your seeds from Eloheh Farms! The seeds are rich in heritage and you will be supporting very beautiful work.
Here are all of the essential links for bringing support to their important work:
Read more about who they are and what they do: https://www.eloheh.org/
Purchase Randy's brand new book entitled Decolonizing Evangelicalism -
Buy their seeds! - https://elohehseeds.com/
In 2018, Ash Wednesday landed on Valentine's Day and Easter Sunday landed on April Fool's Day. So, being a songwriter, I leaped at the opportunity to work with apparent paradox and wrote successively, a song called When Love Meets Dust, and another one called Holy Fool.
I think this song is really fitting for this phenomenal epoch we are walking through. Our planet and the great interconnected Web of Life, needs our love. And we need each other's love.
There's a longing, down inside.
And this longing never dies
It can destroy
Or it can trust
But it's what happens
When love meets dust
Also... below is rough draft of the recording I'm working on for the new album Hymns From the Icons.. this is a cover of that great tune that U2 wrote with Bob Dylan... Love Rescue Me.
Love rescue US.
May it be so.
Taken from the Philokalia,
Put the mind in the heart
Put the mind in the heart
Stand before the Lord
With the mind in the heart
On this day of the Feast of the Transfiguration, I invite you into this quote from Belden Lane's brilliant book The Solace of Fierce Landscapes. The chapter is called Sinai and Tabor, where Lane goes into incredible detail, marking pilgrims to these mountains, like the late 4th century woman Egarius, and the Armenian pilgrim Elisaeus, but also points out the eastern orthodox tradition's way of seeing the mountains as apophatic and kataphatic symbols.
"Central in all of this is the conviction that the sudden, blinding light of divine radiance, as it momentarily appears in human experience, must ever be framed within a context of the utterly mundane, with all the harsh, prosaic discipline it demands. When the desert-mountain tradition does not patently reject ecstatic experience as untrustworthy, it stringently insists that "moments of splendor" serve the purposes of justice and responsibility in the ordinary life."
- Belden Lane, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes
Icon of the Transfiguration - Theophanes the Greek
“As I learn to be the adult with God’s grace, who’s there for myself, I begin to discover that the very wounded part of me that used to cause me so much pain, that I used to attack with shaming attacks, like: “there I go again” and “why am I like this” I start feeling a kind of warmth towards it. I start feeling a tender regard towards it. When we risk sharing what hurts the most, in the presence of someone who will not invade us or abandon us, we unexpectedly come upon the pearl of great price.
The suffering itself is the field in which the precious pearl is hidden.”
- James Finley
"To be alive, is to be vulnerable."
- Madeleine L'Engle
Firstly, because we're now at the half-way mark of this series on Sanctuary, I want to echo my first reflection for this series, entitled “Grief Deferral - the Hidden Shadow Behind Crises”. In which I suggested that the deferral of our grief and healing, has global repercussions. That we need to begin seeing our own healing path as just the beginning… and that as we continue forward with it, we must see our own healing as a courageous symbol of Holistic Reality. That what we discover through our healing, is a sort of brokenness that is whole, and out of that, we can truly live the heroine’s or the hero’s journey, which is about being in loving service, to our community, human and other-than-human.
When I embarked on the task of creating an album about healing, I knew I would need to make it with someone who was going to tenderly acknowledge the hurts, to help us name the pain, but also not lead us down a path toward narcissism. There is a danger in furthering our own pathology when we make our own story of pain, more special, but very tenderly, it needs to be acknowledged, almost before our story can continue with vibrancy and life. In other words, I knew James Finley would, in a childlike way, help us to grow up. (Please hear this in the context of part 4 in this series, Seeing With the Eyes of a Child).
Today’s song is really about becoming an adult, that finds their way out of old patterns and back into life. Through our journey, we can get stuck, repeating the same shaming self-talk that often, in turn, perpetuates a very insidious violence beyond ourselves. This getting stuck can last for our whole life if we don’t find a way to move beyond the patterns.
What does it mean, to be fully alive?
Today’s gospel reading is about you and me, being the salt of the earth.
It is about you and me, being the light of the world.
You may have seen the beautiful series on Netflix called Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, with the marvellous cook and writer Samin Nosrat. In the Salt episode, she takes us to Japan where we discover that there are over 4000 different types of salt. Japan shows us that we can really become a connoisseur of salt tasting, similar to wine.
Samin Nosrat uncovers the delicate mystery to seasoning food with salt and really demonstrates its importance in cooking, and how it can bring a richer experience to the taste of food.
You are the salt of the earth... you bring a richer taste to the earth.
We often think to call someone the ‘salt of the earth’ means that they are down to earth, as in, a super practical person. And that is part of it, especially if that super practical person is also sincere. But there is a danger in these verses, especially in the part that talks about people seeing our good works, in thinking that salt of the earth and light of the world is just about good deed doing.
To be fully alive, I think, is to be creative, inspired, filled with vigour, and a love for beauty in the ordinary. To be fully alive is to risk really being a creature of this earth.
Celtic Christianity had a very beautiful way of seeing the illuminated nature of all things. You glow with the light of God. But sometimes in our story, we become afraid to shine, because we might stand out. We build up barriers around ourselves, because shining is too vulnerable. What if we shine, and people try to snuff us out? So more often than not, we learn to snuff ourselves out, to avoid ridicule.
And why did Jesus say salt AND light? Why not just light... or... why not just salt?
This might seem like a farfetched association, but an interesting historical event comes to mind.
In 2500 BC, there was a comet event in isles of Britain/Scotland/Wales and Ireland, that was so disruptive, causing so much damage, that the indigenous people of that region changed their spiritual expression. Prior to this event, the gods were in the fertility of the ground. Ritual happened in caves. Heaven was 'down there', and often in the ocean herself, with ritual burials that implied a 'returning' to that which sustained your life.
After the comet struck, there was an evolution toward sky gods, with lightening bolts, and the standing stones were built to the new heavens and new rituals developed.
Ever since I heard this story, I keep wondering if we are in an age where the depth and the fertility below, and the lateral diversity of the earth, and the cosmic majesty of the stars, are going to come together in our heart comprehension … that even science now can explain, it is all one great expression of Connection... and I would add, one great expression of God.
I just wonder, if Jesus was speaking as a cosmic earth-dweller when he put salt and light together.
We also know now, scientifically, that we are made of the stuff of earth… but that the earth herself, comes from the dust of an exploding star.
The salt of the earth,
the light of the world.
As Joni Mitchell sang, “we are stardust, we are golden, and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden”.
You are the salt of the earth.
You are the light of the world.
Shame keeps us from this truth.
When we habitually “perpetuate violence against the parts of ourselves that need to be loved the most”, we have not yet realized that, as James Finley says, “for God, there’s nothing missing in the midst of all the missing pieces inside of me”. To accept that, for God, there’s nothing missing, and to really embody that truth, leads us to aliveness. But as Madeleine L’Engle said, “to be alive is to be vulnerable”, which may very well be the reason we let fear keep us in our patterns.
But I say today...
And shine... anyway.
PS- 10 years ago, I found myself in a "dark night of the soul", a descent of austere magnitude. After what felt like endless unravelling, there was one night, where I took a solo walk on the beach of Lake Winnipeg (I was fixing up a little old cabin in exchange for staying there). With the full, orange moon rising, I knew internally... that there was nothing missing amidst all the loss. Utter infinitude as one with the Lover was my Reality, and I beamed with no falseness for one glimmering moment. Being in the age of always having a camera, I was able to capture that moment. Here it is... it was a moment where I gave myself permission to shine anyway. To be salty and really live, in the reality of suffering and joy.
This weekend is not only the birthday of Thomas Merton, but the feast day of St Brigid. This time of year has become one of the most powerful weeks for me in the calendar year.
Brigid’s feast day may have a shorter history with Christianity, but for 7000+ years the Imbolc festival, Là Fhèill Brìghde, was celebrated in honour of the goddess Brigid. It represented the hope of spring and fertility. It was also a looking back, as people celebrated the miracle of making it through the most dangerous time of winter. A festival of threshold times... of in between times... of praying for lambing, and calving, as the livestock swells toward spring.
In this week’s song, So Far to Go, there is the sense that we’ve come a distance on our journey, and that now, it can’t be reversed. That we’ve somehow stepped into the unknown, and quite clearly, are in new territory, but it is such a very liminal place that we have no compass for.
As James Finley says in the spoken word portion of the song:
I’m betwixt and between two worlds.
I'm on a path not of my own making
There is a tension there. It is being in that place where nothing is resolved. Nothing is tied up in a neat bow. And there is the risk of doing violence to the slow unfoldment, by trying to wrap it up too quickly. Like if you open up a cocoon too early, before it is time, all you will see is goo. And the lesson is, don't be goo. Keep going... in your waiting.
Being patient with metamorphosis, with unresolve, is hard. This tension is one of the the reasons I am so grateful for having been introduced to contemplative practice.
And as with all of my other recent writings on this album Sanctuary, I am spending time really thinking about how these personal journeys can expand, into the Big Story so I don't lead any of us into a neurotic corner.
Interestingly, we can see this idea of being betwixt and between two worlds, in both St. Brigid and Thomas Merton.
Brigid is actually the saint of thresholds, and tradition tells us that she was born in at the entrance to a dairy barn, so, both outdoors and indoors. Her father was a chief in the druidic tradition and her mother was possibly one of his Christian slaves, who worked in the dairy. So, also, both slave and free. Both Christian, and Pagan.
St. Brigid eventually became a Celtic Christian Abbess in Kildare, Ireland, and it is said that she had a special way with both the Christians and Celtic pagans. That she could stand in both worlds. She called Christ her Druid, for instance, which was the highest compliment that could be given in her world. And, on the other hand, she, along with St. Patrick, could be seen as abolitionists, because they both spoke against slavery, (which had originally been more of a bartering system in ancient Celtic culture, but had evolved in the Celtic world, by the influence of the far off, but far reaching Roman influence.)
Thomas Merton, was born to an American mother and a New Zealander/European father, and grew up in both America and Europe. He experienced French and British boarding school, American life, and a sort of avant garde, vagrant artist’s life.
His conversion to Catholicism was a deeply sincere conversion, and his baptism was a mystical experience.
Then, as he waited to find out if he would be drafted into the war, or if Gethsemani Monastery would have him as a monk, he found himself in that liminal space, nearly tormented by unanswered questions.
At one point, he asks St. Therese of Lisieux (Little Flower) to pray for him, asking her to show him what to do, telling her he would “be her Monk”. While he asked the Little Flower to pray for him, he could hear the bells of Gethsemani ringing, even though he was on the grounds of St. Bonaventure University in New York.
Reading his journals from around this time, you can really sense the humanity, the deep longing, that reveals itself, out of that in between place.
Throughout his life, as he deepened his search, he began to dialogue with Buddhist teachers, Sufi teachers, beat poets, and with jazz, as a sacred experience. He had a profound way of building a bridge between two worlds. And... interestingly, he was born on the Eve of St Brigid... and the Eve of Imbolc, a great turning point of the year, a festival that builds a bridge between winter and spring.
So, even as we may find ourselves in a place that is not resolved, let us be inspired by Brigid and Merton... and practice being in that place of tension, for ourselves, but also for the whole world. Because you never know… this practice in sitting without resolve, may be conditioning you for a time when you are asked to hold a tension in the world, that is not going to reach a conclusion, even in your lifetime.
In the end, all of this lack of culmination, is really about a lack of consummation with the great Lover. The ache you feel, is really a longing, for the depths of who you already are, to be realized. What this is about is exactly the quote of Merton’s (and as I write this it is Merton’s 105th birthday!), where you hear James Finley’s spoken word at the end of this song…
Thomas Merton once prayed to God,
O how far I have to go to rest in you
In whom I’ve already arrived
I only wish it were over
I only wish it were begun
This week also marks the Christian festival of Candlemas, which is the feast of the presentation of the Jesus, and the ritual purification of Mary in the temple. Traditionally, people would bring their beeswax candles to the church to have them blessed for the year, to place in the household, as a symbol of Christ, as the the illumination of all things... the Light of the world. And, in the Celtic Christian tradition, Brigid was known as the foster mother of Christ, or "Mary of the Gael".
Here is an excerpt from an oral tradition Gaelic hymn, passed down through the centuries, collected by Alexander Carmichael,
Glowed to him wood and tree,
Glowed to him mount and sea,
Glowed to him land and plain,
When the foot of the Child had touched the earth.
This glowing... this Light of the world... this illumination of all things... was easy to "get", for the Celtic eye, when Brigid built the bridge.
Where is it in our own lives, could we become more expansive, to fall in love, and build a shrine to hold our glowing places sacred? To heal from our own personal traumas... to symbolize the healing of all trauma... including the trauma that is happening to Christ incarnate as this planet herself.
Also... here is a little track I recorded on the Eve of St. Brigid's Day, Merton's birthday... an ancient song for Brigid, in Irish Gaelic.
As you may remember, from A.A. Milne's beloved series Winnie the Pooh, after many whimsical and free days in his beloved Hundred Acre Wood, Christopher Robin has to say good-bye to his friends on the day he has to leave for boarding school. He’s very young, and must leave his precious place behind to become educated. And along with parting from family and place, there is a leaving behind of many trustworthy beliefs about perhaps what is most important in life. Playfulness. Imagination. The diversity of the kinds of friendships we can have. From bouncing Tiggers, to languid Eeyores, to Bears of Little Brain who dream up wonderful, catchy songs, to serious rabbits worrying mostly about harvest… (and I’ve always thought rabbit represents a foreshadow of adulthood.)
In the film, Christopher Robin, we witness a weather-worn grown-up version of the boy. After having to face the real world of boarding school, no longer allowed to draw pictures of his beloved stuffed friends, Christopher Robin grows up and is drafted to go to war and serve on the battlefield. He comes home and settles down with a wonderful woman, has a little girl, and devotes all of his efforts to a thankless job as an accountant for a furniture company.
Christopher Robin all but forgets his magical Hundred Acre Wood and the diverse set of characters he used to love. But his little daughter is longing for him to remember.
I won’t tell you the whole plot of the film, but I will say that I loved it, and thought it has a good deal to teach us about what it might mean to get to know our inner child again.
There is a very well-known therapy in depth psychology that is simply called Inner Child Work. It is about getting to know the part of yourself that was you as a child, who is still a part of you.
See, if you were lucky, you had a childhood that was free of trauma, and your parents made all the right decisions, and you didn’t have to experience rushed severances, nurtured more by institutions, than by an intimate web of intergenerational love. But more likely than not, some real shit happened, and you wound your way through the circuitous journey of your life, into a realm that does not have an adequate amount of love for the child you once were. Maybe you’ve taken the journey to slowly get to know your inner child, but most of us struggle to hold a special place in our hearts for our childhood selves. And we fail to send them messages, or speak to them in what Jim Finley calls “the timeless world of the unconscious” and say the things they needed to hear long ago. (Or, to put it another way, in your imagination, sort of “do” the things that needed to be done.)
There is a wild, childlike part of you too, that in some ways needed to be guided… things like not throwing your food, or being mean, or provoking. But commonly, the best wild parts of you were the parts that were severed… Like being told to colour within the lines. Like being made self-conscious of your little habits. Like not being allowed to be wildly creative... coming up with new words, or expressing your body, or humming or whistling a tune. And perhaps you had to part with a natural place, a wild place, that you were as bonded to as much as you were to a friend, and you may have been shamed for grieving that loss of place.
And for some, there is a very real betrayal, because like I said, real shit happened. Abuse happened. Things that should never have been, were.
Or a death happened.
And our whimsical worlds came crashing in upon us, and maybe even all our dreams felt like a betrayal.
And suddenly all the holes to fit into were square, and we had to get on with it, leaving our colourful world of Tiggers and Poohs behind.
In some sense, a severance must occur for childhood to transition to adulthood. But this used to be done in the form of a rite of passage. A ritual marking, that was still symbolic and still very imaginative and playful, (although also necessarily, a real "ordeal" as it was called). But the culture we are in does not have these rituals, and so ordeals come in the form of strange pattern interruptions of what should otherwise be a sort of methodical, institutionalized, life.
There is a term that Paul Ricoeur used, for the journey of belief, from what he called first naiveté to second naiveté. From that point of believing that all biblical narratives or fairy tales are literally true… and then after a university course or two, you begin to see any narrative, or any mythopoetic expression as suddenly, literally false. And then, there is another journey… that of arriving back at that place when we were children, but this time, with a second naiveté. A place where it is no longer “literally” anything, but now actual.
Most of us are either stuck in a first naiveté, or stuck in the denying of that naiveté. And there is a fatality to being stuck in either place. Because a grown-up stuck in the first naiveté can turn fundamentalist and hardened, in what used to be a childish innocence of literal belief. But also, a grown-up stuck in the total denial of that first naiveté, risks the loss of imagination, innovation, and creative, poetic thinking that comes from the realm of childhood.
Someone who has moved into a second naiveté has less challenges accepting the diversity of all the characters who come into their life. Adulthood can move back out of of rigidity, into a multitude of colours and differences.
The gospel reading for today is about being fishers of people. And we often have the image of a fishing rod, and hooking and luring people in. But they didn’t fish with rods in those days… they fished with nets. Which means, the nets didn’t discriminate on who was to be an acceptable fish or not.
I don’t think we would be struggling as a church, as much as we are, in the realm of accepting lgbtqia+ people, (or any person who doesn’t fit into what has been deemed “the norm”), if we could remember the characters who peppered our world as children. The Poohs and the Tiggers that we entrusted our most important secrets to. I trusted them to take me into their world, and their world was full of life, and colour. In one sense, I really learned how to pray, through enacting conversations with my stuffed toys, or my dog, or many of the trees I knew as my friends. When I encountered the world around me, I didn’t expect everyone and everything to be just like me, in order to make friends with them.
And that is what this is really about. Friendship. Relationship. Getting to know each other. Encounter. Making friends with who we really are, and making friends with who others really are. It isn’t about charity. Or even inclusivity as a buzz word. It is deeper than that. It is about finding that child within. Slowly finding a safe way to speak love to them. And then, eventually, making this realization of love about seeing the precious, inner child in everyone else.
The Waterboys have a song I cover that goes,
I'm gonna look twice at you
Until I see the Christ in you
I'm gonna look twice at you
Until I see the Christ in you
Till I'm looking through the eyes of love
And James Finley says in this song, Encountering the Inner Child,
"I see something precious in you, that you are not yet able to see.Where we are right now, is you, discovering with God's grace, the adult in you that can join me in seeing that preciousness in you. Because the child inside right now is waiting for you to see her."
Jesus said no one may enter the Kingdom of Heaven until they first see through the eyes of a child. Second naiveté is really what being “born again” is about. It is about believing each other’s experience. It is about reigniting an imaginal place within ourselves that stops ruling everything out, before we even consider that reality is far more interesting than we’ve narrowed it down to.
And the Kingdom of Heaven is certainly more interesting than what we've given credit for, which is why we must begin to see with the eyes of a child.
And... the Kingdom of God ... is within you.
Which means... you're interesting, too.
Ironically, as I sat down to write for the third part of this series on the album Sanctuary, I was brought into the challenge of the reality of this week’s song, Waiting to Be Met, by having to stop writing and spend 24 hours tending to my sick children.
Both of my children caught some sort of stomach flu and I was up all night doing laundry, rocking them, and dealing with fevers. They are both doing better now, and I am able to sit down for a moment to reflect on this song. I am mostly grateful, as they are rarely ever that kind of sick, and for the practices I have, to bear witness to the moments that are so challenging. I’ve begun a simple morning and evening Qigong practice that has been incredibly helpful, and the body trauma is not being so first in line to be in charge.
Life is the teacher, as they say. And, with this song, Waiting to Be Met, there are these lines,
what if I hide
and you don’t seek?
what if I show myself
and you look right through me?
how can I trust the mystery?
when that’s just what it is,
My children love to play hide and seek. They also adore being really seen, especially when they share a part of their day. These words about hiding and being sought, and showing ourselves to someone, are about that childlike part of all of us. And James Finley says, “that’s where God meets us”.
I always marvel at how, when I climb into bed to hold one (or both) of my fevered children and become conscious of my own breathing, I can hear their little racing heartbeat begin to slow to a more normal rhythm, and I can somehow sense when their bodies have reached homeostasis.
We’re all waiting to be met.
I recently saw a video with Charles Eisenstein talking about what he might say or do if he were to have a conversation with Donald Trump. He first asks the question: “what makes somebody into a narcissist?” And answers, “I think it originates in not being seen for who you really are. So you become addicted to making yourself seen. Making yourself the center of attention.” He goes on to say that he “would go into it with the intention of seeing him as he really is, of seeing him at the soul level”. Or as Rev William Barber said this week as he preached on Trump and Psalm 139, “I mourn for Trump,” and he goes on to speak of the dangers of how, “You can become your enemy.”
And, like that flicker of light left in the creature Gollum, Psalms 139 also says, “if I ascend to heaven you are there O God, and if I make my bed in Hell still you are with me”, "where can I go from your Spirit O God?". In other words, there is nowhere, where God isn’t. Or as Cynthia Bourgeault said in her essay from the anthology How I Found God in Everyone and Everything, “I am not a space in which God does not occupy”.
First of all, I want to be clear, in the way that James Finley is clear, later on in Sanctuary (in the track There is a Peace), that “we should never romanticize trauma with spiritual sayings. It matters that you get as free from it as you possibly can. But you can go through that evolving process in such a way, that it becomes a very mysterious place. Namely, the place in which your inner peace is no longer dependent on the outcome.”
This is radical thinking. And at first glance, it appears very dangerous to those of us who are working through trauma, and have spent much of our lives scanning our surroundings, looking for danger. (Last week’s recommendation comes to mind… be countercultural and move slowly.)
And, we also must confess that as a society, we’ve often believed and respected the perpetrators, and been more concerned about them, and are quick to come to their rescue, when events are twisted to look like an attack on them.
This is why, in the film Mary Magdalene, when the woman speaks to Jesus about the rape of one of her friends, she is challenged by Jesus with two things: that she must attempt to be free from the unforgiveness holding her in bondage, but also… and this is key… obey God over and above, obeying men. He was saying, “follow me/follow this path” even though your husbands, or fathers won’t let you. But forgive also, so you might be free. (And I will say here, that I believe that is exactly one of the things Jesus was doing.)
I hear this song today, at the more simple level, of really meeting my children in the demands of the day (which as many of you know, is not as simple as it sounds!)
But I also hear this song at a wider, radical level. So radical that it begs the question of what restorative justice could look like, if not over-simplified, in one direction or the other.
For instance, what I know of restorative justice is that it must always make sure the survivor is safe, and has the resources, and support to heal. And the survivor doesn't need to be in the room with the perpetrator. And sometimes, forgiveness needs to happen from a great distance, without making contact with the other person. But, restorative justice is also about the right people being with someone who has done a a wrong, sometimes a terrible wrong, in the hope that they too, might find their way back to homeostasis.
*And*, as many people of colour will attest, restorative justice can often be romanticized, and over-simplified, when a person of colour forgives a white person. It doesn’t mean the forgiveness shouldn’t have occurred. It means people should not fetishize forgiveness. Forgiveness should never be pornographic… but it seems sometimes that, perhaps in order to distance ourselves from the painful tenderness of the forgivenesses tapping us on the shoulder, we plaster someone else’s forgiveness story on our newsfeed, a little too freely.
This all comes back to our own need for being met. It is a delicate dance. Learning how to share. As James Finley says, “that vulnerable moment, when someone comes out from behind the curtain”.
I say all this because, at the very risk of sounding like a cheap grace evangelist, I will not rule out any being on this planet in their need to be met. Hear it at that level if you have to, but what I’m really doing is teasing out the frequency at the edge of all sermons on grace, that hums, in spite of all rah, rah, Liminoid conversions, and also in spite of a very tired, often very mean, deconstructing cynicism.
“It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand.”
Alana Levandoski is a song and chant writer, recording artist and music producer, in the Christian tradition, who lives with her family on a regenerative farm on the Canadian prairies.