God's Skin

In addition to weekly assigned readings, my spiritual direction class last year required us to read two books. One of them, Ronald Rolheiser's The Holy Longing: The Search for a Christian Spirituality, is one of the best books on spirituality I've ever read.

Rolheiser defines "spirituality" as desire––a desire to connect with God in a deep, meaningful way. Spiritual fire burns within all of us, he notes, and what we choose to do with that fire––how we choose to channel it––is the essence of our spirituality.


Spirituality is a given. We all have it. In fact, more than that, we are our spirituality, in a very real way. We don't have a soul, Rolheiser claims––we are a soul, a soul that constantly generates energy and integrates us into wholeness.


The function of a healthy soul, he says, is twofold:

1. To generate fire, energizing us with a passion for life and love; and 
2. To integrate us into wholeness, "giving us a sense of who we are, where we came from, where we are going, and what sense there is in all of this." 

Rolheiser spends a lot of time talking about this passion for God that undergirds all spirituality. Depression is a sign of not enough of this energy, he says; restlessness is a sign of too much. The key is learning how to manage our spiritual energy so it's in an appropriate balance.

This is where Christian spirituality comes in––it gives us a means by which we can channel our divine energy in a positive direction, toward wholeness of self. A complete Christian spirituality, according to Rolheiser, has four elements, all four of which were modeled for us by Jesus:

• Private prayer and morality;
• A concern for social justice;
• Mellowness of heart and spirit; and
• Community 

These four elements constitute the essence of Christian spirituality. They are the essence of Christian discipleship. They help us come together as the body of Christ, not just in a metaphorical sense, but in a literal sense. 

Because the body of Christ, according to Rolheiser, is not just a mystical reality, but a real one. So, when we come together in community, we literally become the living incarnation of Jesus Christ––God incarnate. 

Incarnation, in fact, is what differentiates Christian spirituality from non-Christian spirituality. Christian spirituality brings a transcendent God down to earth. '

Or, as Rolheiser puts it, with Christian spirituality, God has some skin.

What does this mean to us, practically speaking? It means that we are called to live out our faith in very tangible ways. If we use our divine energy to pray for a close friend, for example, but we do not call our friend or send him a note to see how he's doing and to let him know that we prayed for him, then how will that prayer ever touch him? 

The Apostle Paul explains the essence of Christian spirituality beautifully in his letter to the Romans:

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good;  love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.  Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord (Romans 12:9-10) 

For, as he reminds us:

In one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another (Romans 12:4-5).

God works in and through us, in very tangible ways. We are, quite literally, God's hands in the world. We are God incarnate, as the body of Christ. 

We are, in short, God's skin.

12-Step Spirituality

If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us (1 John 1:8).

We say these words every week in worship during our time of confession––but how often do we really stop to consider what they really mean?

It’s easy for us to skip over these words and think that they don’t really apply to us. We rationalize that we are, deep down, good people, and we tell ourselves that our efforts to be good people absolve us from our occasional failures at living up to our potential (and, after all, there’s always grace, right??). We tend to think about sin as being someone else’s problem, not ours.

But this passage from 1 John reminds us that we deceive ourselves if we think like this. In other words, we deceive ourselves if we think that we are free from the self-deception that keeps us from seeing the ways in which we ourselves fall short of being the people God created us to be.

Getting beyond this self-deception can be difficult––but it’s not impossible. One of the ways we can do this is by practicing "12-Step Spirituality." 12-Step Spirituality is a series of 12 tasks, or "steps," used to treat various addictions, including (but not limited to) alcohol, drugs, food, shopping, and gambling. Working through these steps can be a very effective way of achieving personal (and hopefully permanent) transformation.

This transformation is not thought to be solely as a result of the effort of the addict, however (although effort by the addict is definitely required). Success, instead, is believed to be a function of the addict's having voluntarily turned his or her life over to "a higher power"––a power we Christians call, "God." 

The 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, the originator of all 12-step programs, is as follows:

1.   We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

8.   Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or      others.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we       understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

Steps one through three involve admitting there's a problem that the addict is helpless to control, while the remaining steps have to do with "cleaning house," i.e., cleaning up the mess that the addiction has caused in the lives of both the addict and those around him.

In reading through AA's 12 steps, I was struck by how well the 12 steps of their program mirrored the central task of the Christian journey as Paul so elegantly summarizes it in Galatians:

I have been crucified with Christ; 

and it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me (Gal. 2:19-20).

The 12 steps describe how one can intentionally "crucify" oneself in order to ready the self to receive "new life" in Christ.

And the beauty of the program is that it's accessible to everyone, no matter what your issue. It's really just a matter of being honest with yourself, and with God––and asking God for help.

12-step programs don't guarantee spiritual perfection, but they do promise spiritual progress if you work the steps:

So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: 

everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! 

All this is from God (2 Corinthians 5:17-18a). 

What addictions are you struggling with these days? What is getting in the way of your relationship with God? Which step are you on in your spiritual journey? 

May new life be yours in Christ––whatever your addiction.

They Like Jesus ... But Not The Church

Dan Kimball wrote a book a few years back called They Like Jesus But Not the Church (see photo, above). In it he explores the perception many young people (as well as many "old" people) have that the church is becoming an increasingly archaic institution, with little to offer in the way of modern-day relevance. Church has become, for them, an anachronistic association of like-minded people more interested in preserving the status quo than they are in changing the world.

Following in Kimball's footsteps is a young filmmaker named Jefferson Bethke, who echoed the sentiments of the young people interviewed in Kimball's book in a video he recently uploaded to YouTube  called, "Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus." The video went viral (which, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, means that a lot of people––in this case, 18,160,258 people, as of today––have watched it). Click on the link, below, if you'd like to see the video:

"Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus"

Clearly Mr. Bethke touched a nerve, especially with the so-called "Y Generation"––those born in the 1980s and 90s who are currently staying away from the church in droves.

And, in speaking for many of them, he also, in the process, made those of us whose job it is to reach those Gen Y folks (i.e., all of us) think, as well.

One of the people he made think was New York Times columnist David Brooks, who penned some thoughts about the video in his February 2 column, "How to Fight the Man" (see link, below):

How to Fight the Man

In it, Mr. Brooks pointed out the importance of not only understanding what you're against, but also, and very importantly, what you're for. As he notes:

Effective rebellion isn't just expressing your personal feelings. It means replacing one set of authorities and institutions with a better set of authorities and institutions. Authorities and institutions don't repress the passions of the heart, the way some young people now suppose. They give them focus and a means to turn passion into change.

Mr. Brooks also noted that Mr. Bethke has since recanted his perspective on "spiritual, but not religious" thinking in response to a Christian blogger named Kevin DeYoung, who posted a thoughtful (but not combative response) to Mr. Bethke's video on his blog:

Does Jesus Hate Religion? Kinda, Sorta, Not Really

So. What does this all mean for us––those of us who not only love Jesus, but who also love the Church?

It means that we need to remember:

1. That none of us has "the" definitive answer when it comes to Jesus, religion, or the church;
2. That it's important for us to listen to those who see things differently than we do;
3. That the Spirit blows where it will (John 3:8). Our job, then, is not to direct the Spirit to where we think it should go, but to follow instead where the Spirit is leading. Even if (or maybe, especially when) the Spirit works through things like YouTube videos.

Admittedly, this process of tuning into the Spirit sounds a lot easier than it often is.

But we are called, as Christians, to open ourselves up to the possibilities set forth by the Spirit through worship, through prayer, through Scripture, through open and honest conversation with one another, and maybe even through spiritual direction, as we strive (and sometime struggle) to discern just where God is in the messiness of our lives.

It's not easy, to be sure ... but it's so worth it.

Who knows but that our openness might help people see it's okay to not only love Jesus, but also religion and the Church, as well.

Praying With Icons

I love contemporary art, and I love contemporary art museums––the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington, D.C., the Contemporary Arts Center in Cincinnati, MoMA in NYC (where "Starry Night," the Vincent Van Gogh painting, above, is exhibited) ––I love them all, mostly because contemporary art defies easy explanation. It seems less cognitive and more visceral to me; in other words, it evokes not just thoughts, but feelings. Contemporary art gets me out of my "head" and into my "heart," and in so doing it helps me clarify and understand my own thoughts and feelings––not just about the art, but about life itself.

I especially like it when I encounter a work of art in which I have no idea at all what the artist's trying to convey, because that's the point at which it starts to get really interesting for me. So when I go to a contemporary art museum, I generally look for a piece I'm drawn to, for whatever reason, and then spend some time figuring out why I'm drawn to it. The reason is seldom immediately apparent to me; it takes time (which is why I almost always go to contemporary art museums by myself). I have to sit with the piece for awhile to gradually become aware of the thoughts and feelings it evokes.

Invariably, I will find that the reason I'm drawn to a particular piece of art is not necessarily because of the art itself, but because of something that's going on in my life which the art is conceptualizing in some way.  In other words, the art allows me to sort of work backwards to think about something I need to be thinking about, but which I often wasn't aware even existed. The art taps into my subconscious, bringing to light issues that otherwise might have remained dormant, allowing me not only to think about these issues, but also to feel them. I enjoy reading all the background information about the artist and what he or she meant to convey with the art, but in the end I interpret it through the lens of my own experience. 

The lecture we had last Wednesday night at my spiritual direction class, on praying with icons, reminded me of my contemporary art excursions, because I've discovered that the process I go through in studying a work of art in a museum is the exact same process one goes through in praying with icons. That is, you first allow an icon to "speak" to you in some way, by grabbing your attention; and then, in the process of "listening" to the image, you find yourself responding in some way. The icon elicits within you thoughts and feelings of which you might not be aware––thoughts and feelings you can then take to God in prayer.

The word "iconography," which describes this type of art, is formed from the Greek words for "image" (icon) and "writing" (graph). Iconographers, accordingly, do not consider themselves to be artists; they consider themselves, instead, to be writers. I learned that one does not draw an icon; instead, one writes an icon. An icon is, literally, a visual depiction of the Word of God.

Take, for example, the famous icon to the left, written by fourteenth-century Russian iconographer Andrei Rublev. It is, on the surface, a depiction of Genesis 18:1-16, the story of the three men (or angels) visiting Abraham and Sarah, who offer them hospitality. The angels, in return, tell the couple they will conceive a son, whom they will name Isaac.

During class, we were shown this icon and asked to take fifteen minutes to simply gaze at the image. We were not to approach it with any sort of preconceived notion, but instead were instructed just to sit with it, noting any thoughts and feelings it evoked. 

At first (staunch Presbyterian that I am) I must admit that I was somewhat resistant to this exercise. Byzantine art, after all, is not really my thing, and I was having a hard time understanding the connection between gazing at an icon and praying. However, I resolved to remain open. 

I was glad I did. As the minutes ticked by, I found my thoughts shifting from the story of Abraham, Sarah, and the angels, to thinking about how the three angels seemed to represent to me the Trinity––Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (or, in more modern parlance, Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer). I found myself wondering who was whom, how you could tell them apart, and what was going on among them as they sat there. Clearly, they seemed to be having a conversation of some sort––but about what? The angles of their heads would seem to indicate that the angel in gold was offering comfort and advice to the angel in green, with the angel in blue nodding approvingly over it all. 

After giving it a little more thought, I decided that the angel in green was the Holy Spirit, that the angel in gold was Jesus, offering compassion, and that the angel in blue was God, blessing all that transpired. I then found myself imagining reasons that Jesus might be offering compassion to the Holy Spirit.

It was then, at that point, that I suddenly realized that the things for which I imagined the angel needing compassion were directly related directly to things for which I, myself, might like to receive compassion. In other words, I became aware, through the art, of some needs and feelings within me I'd not really allowed myself to tap into before. As with my experience with contemporary art, the icon had drawn out of me things I hadn't realized were there.

The connection with prayer, I discovered, was that I could take these needs and feelings to God in prayer. I could simply share what I'd learned with God, or I could ask God for help in overcoming difficulties associated with what I'd learned. I could think my prayer, using the language of thought, or I could express my prayer silently, through my feelings. I could write my prayer down, using words, or I could create an icon of my own, expressing my prayer through my own art.

All this, from spending fifteen minutes on a single icon. No wonder spiritual directors often encourage the use of icons when people seem "stuck" or unable to pray. The icons seem to provide a nice detour around whatever stumbling blocks might be getting in the way.

I am fascinated by this phenomenon, so much so that I just ordered a book of (contemporary, of course) icon art. I plan to use it to explore a little more fully the role icons can play in my prayer life. I invite you to do the same. It doesn't have to be a religious icon (although it might be); it can simply be something––anything––that draws your attention. Anything that speaks to you, be it a greeting card, an image in the hallway of an office building, or even a tree outside. 


What it is it saying to you? What can you learn, through it, about yourself?


What can you learn, through it, about God?

Consolation or Desolation?

"

The storm that blew through the northeast a few weeks ago was unexpected and devastating. The photo (above) is of a once-beautiful maple tree in my front yard. The tree split nearly in half because of the weight of the snow; as a result, the borough of Madison is planning to remove it and replace it with another tree next year during the planting season. 


In addition to destroying a lot of trees, those fallen branches resulted in some pretty massive power outages, as well, since many of them knocked out power lines as they fell. Madison, for example, lost power for two days. At first it seemed a short-lived novelty; okay, no power? No big deal. We'll manage. 


But then the hours stretched into a day, and when no one could tell us when the power might be back, our optimism rapidly turned to frustration. We were forced to reflect not only on our dependence to Jersey Central Power & Light, but in a greater sense our dependence on many things we discovered during the storm we took for granted––things like warm homes, hot water, and stoves to cook our food. Things like lights, so we could see, and electric outlets to power up our computers and cell phones. There was, of course, no internet, no cable TV (or any TV, for that matter), and no e-mail. 


And I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I loved it. I loved being unplugged. I loved that sense of community we had, with people stopping by the church to see if anyone else was there (there was). I loved having a potluck lunch at the church with people bringing food to share that they'd cooked as their freezers began to thaw. There was a sense of getting back to basics––getting back to relationship, getting back to what's really important––that brought out the best in people (well, some people, anyhow!).


As I reflected on this unexpected turn of events, I found myself thinking about the spiritual concepts of consolation and desolation. I'd learned about them recently in my spiritual direction class and was surprised to learn that these concepts are not as self-explanatory as they seem. I'd always thought of a "consolation" as a life event that made you happy, while a "desolation" was one that didn't. 


I learned, however, that that's not exactly true. A consolation is more properly understood as an event that brings you closer to God, while a desolation is one that creates distance from God. And though it sometimes happens that consolations are happy events, that's not always the case. An "unhappy" event in your life can actually make you feel quite close to God, while, conversely, a "happy" event can create distance. It all has to do with where God is in any given event in your life.


During the power outage, for example, which was most definitely an unhappy event for most of us, I found myself drawing closer to God. I wrote more in my journal; I read more of my bible, as well as other books; I had more time to slow down, think, and really rest in a way I'd not been able to do for weeks. The power outage, for me, was like a miniature Sabbath retreat in that it brought me closer to God. Although inconvenient, it was absolutely more of a consolation than a desolation for me.


How did you experience the storm? Did it bring you closer to God, or distance you from God? It's important for us to identify the consolations and desolations in our lives, for it's through these events that the Spirit guides us to a deeper intimacy with God. 


Roman Catholic contemplative St. Ignatius, for example, recommends that we do a "daily examen" every evening of the consolations and desolations we encounter every day.  This prayerful reflection not only helps us detect God’s presence in our daily lives, it also helps us discern God's direction for us in life. We should seek out and engage in life-affirming activities that help us feel close to God, while minimizing, where possible, those that distance us from God. 


The daily examen helps us to see God at work in our lives––even in the midst of October snow storms and extended power outages. You just never know when a "desolation" might turn out to be a consolation in disguise.

Images of God

Summer (sadly) is over, Hurricane Irene (thankfully) has come and gone, and my coursework in spiritual formation (happily!) has begun at Quellen Spiritual Center. My class consists of fourteen women and men who are convening weekly to explore our relationship with God. In fact, "Who is God?" has been the subject of our first few weeks together.


Last Wednesday evening, for example, we discussed images of God. That is, when we think of God, what is it that comes to mind?


Few of us would think of looking in the mirror when we imagine God ... and yet, scripture tells us that that's exactly where we can find God. In the very first chapter of the very first book in the bible, for example, we're told that God created humankind in God's image; male and female, God created them (Genesis 1:27).


What does this mean for us, practically speaking? Does this mean that each one of us is our own personal God?


No, of course not. We are created beings, separate from God––and yet, in one of the greatest mysteries of life, we are, at the same time, one with God.  Understanding this mystery, and what it means for each of us personally and collectively, as the people of God, is a lifelong task. We are called by God to be in relationship with God.


And so, because we are made in the image of God, a good place to begin our journey is to start with ourselves. The "self" is the place where we first encounter God, so the more we know of ourselves, the better we understand God. We also come to know God through the images of God we encounter every day––our families, our friends, our co-workers, the people with whom we share the train, the people with whom we stand in line at the lunch counter. Each and every person we meet is an opportunity for us to encounter another image of God, just as we represent the image of God to the people we meet.


Which of course begs the question, "What kind of image are we reflecting?"


It's an important question, because our images of God often are cobbled together from our interactions with others. A child who grows up abused and shamed, for example, will often grow up thinking of God as angry and judgmental, whereas a child who grows up cherished and secure will envision God as loving. We want to make sure that the image we reflect is a healthy image of God––one that models God's love, mercy, and forgiveness to others.


What's your image of God?  God as the punishing judge, or God of mercy and love? "Bookkeeper" God, who keeps a running list of all that we do (good and bad), or shepherd God, who guides us tenderly through life? "Taskmaster" God, who requires us to "earn" God's love, or "Prodigal God," who loves us no matter what we do (or don't do)? God of Death, or God of Life?


God is all of these images, of course ... just as God is none of them. "I AM WHO I AM," God tells Moses from the burning bush, when Moses tries to pin God down as to who God is (Exodus 3:14). God refuses to conform to our expectations about God. God will be who God will be.


Our task––our lifelong journey––is to come to know God––starting with ourselves. God is found in and through the stories of our lives, so it's important for us to know our stories, to share our stories, to understand our stories. For it's in understanding our stories, it's in understanding ourselves, that we most clearly come to know God.


What's your story? Where have you encountered God? Where has God been most present to you? How have your experiences shaped your understanding of God?


I invite you to ponder these questions. May you come to new understandings of God––and yourself––through your answers.

Telling Secrets

I've been on a Frederick Buechner kick lately in terms of reading everything he's written that I can get my hands on. Frederick Buechner, for those of you not familiar with him, is a Presbyterian pastor and theologian who writes beautifully accessible books and novels in which he helps us access our brokenness as human beings simply by confessing his own.

Telling Secrets, the book I just finished, is the third of a series of memoirs he's written which, true to form, are nakedly and, at times, almost brutally honest. Using the "secrets" of his father's suicide when he was a child and his daughter's battle with anorexia when he was an adult, he explores the importance of telling our most closely-kept secrets. As he explains in the introduction of his book: 



"I have called this book Telling Secrets because I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both very telling and very important to tell. They are telling in the sense that they tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition—that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else." 


He goes on to explain that our secrets allow us to access who we really are––not the carefully-manufactured personas we like to present to the world (and sometimes even to ourselves), but the persons that we are when we're all alone, when no one's watching:


"It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are—even if we tell it only to ourselves—because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing." 


Once we're able to admit our own secrets––our own brokenness––we can then connect with others in a less superficial and far more meaningful way:


"[Telling our secrets] makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own, and exchanges like that have a lot to do with what being a family is all about and what being human is all about."


And, he notes, our "secret selves" allow us to connect not only with each other, but also with God:


"[It] is by entering that deep place inside us where our secrets are kept that we come perhaps closer than we do anywhere else to the One who, whether we realize it or not, is of all our secrets the most telling and the most precious we have to tell."


I love Rev. Buechner's thesis––that we are, fundamentally, our secrets, and that telling them is the key to connecting not only with one another, but also with God and even ourselves.  I am convinced that telling our secrets is the way we free ourselves from the power they have over us.  A secret kept can make us feel ashamed and unimportant; a secret told, however, frees us from this shame, allowing us to truly and freely be ourselves. As the Apostle Paul reminds us in his letter to the Galatians:


"For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-induglence, but through love become slaves to one another. For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'" 


I used to read that passage from Galatians and wonder how in the world Paul got from "freedom" to "loving our neighbor as ourself." I just couldn't figure out the connection. 


I see now what he was getting at, though––Paul was simply encouraging us to be ourselves, as we truly are, without pretense, so that we can connect with––so that we can love––our neighbors as ourselves.  


I know of no faster way to connect with others than in safely sharing secrets––in safely sharing ourselves.  Paul knew this; Rev. Buechner knows this; and now, I know this. This is one of the reasons I started this blog, and why I posted my spiritual autobiography as my very first post––not to tell secrets, specifically, but rather to honestly share some of who I am in the hope that you might see some of your story in my words. Our stories will not be the same, of course––my story is unique to me, just as yours is unique to you––but I'm willing to bet that there are a lot more similarities among us––any of us––than there are differences. Our stories help us see the ways in which we connect. 


What's your story? I'd love to hear it!  E-mail me your story (confidentially, of course) at pastor.madison.nj@gmail. com. 


I look forward to "connecting" with you.