“Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).
Lately, I’ve taken what Mary says to heart.
At Mass last week, Father said something that was one of those “very simple and obvious yet completely profound” kinds of things.
Mary said YES.
She didn’t say, “OK, great. I’ll think about it and get back to you,” when the angel told her she was going to have the Son of God. I mean, really, that’s what I probably would have said.
When we talk about discernment, or following God’s will, or whatever you want to call it, most of the time we think about it in these terms: God presenting us with some options, us weighing them for a given period of time, and then making a decision based on what makes most sense or what we’re comfortable with or what fits into our budget/schedule/life plan.
But Mary said yes! Without knowing the plan, without being sure of what it would look like, without having really any idea of how much her life would change...it was risky, it was gutsy, it was totally trust-filled. Mary isn’t the Mother of God and our Mother because she knew all the answers. She is “blessed among women” because she said yes.
God, give me the grace to live so recklessly!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Like a Child
This morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the middle of a children’s Mass. Sometimes, if I’m really honest, my first reaction to something like a children’s Mass is, “Great. How many cheesy songs do I have to sit through?” But today, I was encouraged to have a new perspective when Tricia looked over at me and said, “Great! I love children’s Masses! They’re the perfect start to the day!”
Armed with that little bit of good ol’ unintentional “Catholic guilt,” I resolved to drop my “I’m older so I’m holier” attitude and be open to what God had in store for me. And, like I usually am, I was surprised at how He can use the smallest things and seemingly most insignificant situations to teach me big lessons.
There were kids everywhere—altar servers, musicians, lectors...and, WOW, did they do a fantastic job! Aside from the cuteness inherent in everything (“Jesus tells us to wove evewy-won”), these were kids who knew what was going on. The little second-grade lector got through the first reading more flawlessly than I’ve heard from some adult lectors (what second grader knows how to pronounce “perverse?” “Libation?”). There was a real sense that they are being taught the faith in a beautiful way—one that allows for all the awkwardness and messiness of being a child while directing them toward the fullness of an adult faith experience. One especially beautiful moment happened during the homily, when Father invited the kids up to a huge mural on the wall behind the altar to try and pick out the saints. I had a flash of perception in seeing these kids—some of the smallest, youngest members of the Church—literally walking among the saints, getting to know them personally. I found myself excited at the prospect of what these kids are going to be like when they’re teenagers, or when they’re adults. This is what building the Church is all about!
When I started really reflecting on it, though, here’s a thought that really struck me: this is what God sees when he looks at me. Lisping my way through prayers, fumbling through hand motions, praying hilariously innocent prayers. I may think I’ve got it down, I may think I’m old enough to “know better” or to be better; but the truth is, I’m still just taking baby steps toward holiness. And the beautiful, breathtaking reality is that God still allows me—no, He invites me—to walk in the company of His holy ones, those who are considered the “leaders and perfecters of faith.” Even as I’m growing into “adulthood” (sometimes a scary thought), I need to realize that’s it’s OK to be messy, it’s OK to make mistakes, it’s OK to not be perfect. Kids are not perfect (just ask my mom). But parents love the snot out of them anyway, even as they laugh and post their ridiculously quotable moments on their Facebook pages.
And I think that, ultimately, is something of what Jesus means when He says to come to Him like a little child—knowing that I am loved in my imperfections and mistakes and that I am adopted into His family; trusting that I am good as I am and that He is molding me, through all of the awkwardness, into the holy woman He intended me to be.
Armed with that little bit of good ol’ unintentional “Catholic guilt,” I resolved to drop my “I’m older so I’m holier” attitude and be open to what God had in store for me. And, like I usually am, I was surprised at how He can use the smallest things and seemingly most insignificant situations to teach me big lessons.
There were kids everywhere—altar servers, musicians, lectors...and, WOW, did they do a fantastic job! Aside from the cuteness inherent in everything (“Jesus tells us to wove evewy-won”), these were kids who knew what was going on. The little second-grade lector got through the first reading more flawlessly than I’ve heard from some adult lectors (what second grader knows how to pronounce “perverse?” “Libation?”). There was a real sense that they are being taught the faith in a beautiful way—one that allows for all the awkwardness and messiness of being a child while directing them toward the fullness of an adult faith experience. One especially beautiful moment happened during the homily, when Father invited the kids up to a huge mural on the wall behind the altar to try and pick out the saints. I had a flash of perception in seeing these kids—some of the smallest, youngest members of the Church—literally walking among the saints, getting to know them personally. I found myself excited at the prospect of what these kids are going to be like when they’re teenagers, or when they’re adults. This is what building the Church is all about!
When I started really reflecting on it, though, here’s a thought that really struck me: this is what God sees when he looks at me. Lisping my way through prayers, fumbling through hand motions, praying hilariously innocent prayers. I may think I’ve got it down, I may think I’m old enough to “know better” or to be better; but the truth is, I’m still just taking baby steps toward holiness. And the beautiful, breathtaking reality is that God still allows me—no, He invites me—to walk in the company of His holy ones, those who are considered the “leaders and perfecters of faith.” Even as I’m growing into “adulthood” (sometimes a scary thought), I need to realize that’s it’s OK to be messy, it’s OK to make mistakes, it’s OK to not be perfect. Kids are not perfect (just ask my mom). But parents love the snot out of them anyway, even as they laugh and post their ridiculously quotable moments on their Facebook pages.
And I think that, ultimately, is something of what Jesus means when He says to come to Him like a little child—knowing that I am loved in my imperfections and mistakes and that I am adopted into His family; trusting that I am good as I am and that He is molding me, through all of the awkwardness, into the holy woman He intended me to be.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The heartbeat of the Father
This is not compulsive blogging, I promise...I had actually been considering the idea of keeping my blog going even though I'm not an "official" missionary at the moment. Why, you ask? Well, it's not like God doesn't stop moving in my life just because my job description is "unemployed" rather than "full-time missionary" (haha. oh Mom, I'm so sorry!)
Anyway, a conversation I had with a friend yesterday convinced me that I should just go ahead and keep it up--hey, if nothing else, it will help me process, right?
And let me tell you, I have a LOT of processing to do!
I feel like I say something along these lines quite often: "That was the hardest thing I've ever done!" I think I'm just going to stop saying it, because inevitably something comes up that's harder than what I've just managed to work through. You know that saying, "God only gives you what you can handle"? Well, what they don't tell you is the part that comes next: "After you've handled that, God gives you more!" (Which makes Mother Teresa's sassy response make more sense: "I wish He wouldn't trust me so much!")
I’ve found that these last two months have been some of the most challenging I have experienced; God has “put me through the wringer,” so to speak—stretching me to grow in ways I honestly didn’t know I could live through (even now, I’m left with a sort of incredulous feeling: “How did I make it?” Guess I’m more resilient than I thought).
Without getting into too many details, I quite suddenly found myself in a place where everything in my world seemed to have been tipped upside down and backwards. I felt...well, disoriented is probably the best word to describe it. You know that feeling when you can’t tell which way is up, or you can’t quite remember what day it is? That’s sort of what I’m talking about...something akin to spiritual amnesia, if you will. I had literally watched all my plans crumble right before my eyes; which left me feeling rather dumbfounded.
What’s a girl to do?
First step: call mom and cry.
Second step: find refuge and seek good counsel.
Third step: PRAY. A lot.
This last week or so, I’ve had to fight the almost overwhelming desire to try and “figure it out”—by which I mean taking it upon myself to search for something that will fulfill me; or, at the very least, something I could suffer through until everything got “better.” I’ve learned enough over the past two years to know that going it on my own is not successful—-so I thought I’d take care of that by praying that God would reveal to me what it is He wanted me to do—-please, quickly!-—while still doing research and sending out resumes and trying to figure it out. Hey, it’s the best of both worlds, right? I’m allowing God to direct my life, while still actively living it. God’s gotta love that.
Maybe you can predict where this is going?
In His characteristic fashion, God very quickly set about letting me know that He wants more—-as a matter of fact, He wants all of me. Inviting God to be navigator just isn’t enough. God is asking me to see this seemingly crazy, senseless time of my life as an invitation—-to know more about myself, to re-evaluate, but most importantly, to know God in a deeper, more intimate way.
Before I can do anything, before I can ask God to lead me down any sort of path, God desires that I come to know him in a more profound way, that I trust him more, that our relationship grows and deepens as only a life-long relationship of love can. In one of his homilies, Father Jose used the phrase, “tuning our ear to be able to hear the heartbeat of the Father." And that is exactly the image that describes the kind of relationship I’m talking about. God is inviting me to lean closer, to rest on him, to attune my ear to hear the sounds of His heartbeat—-a very quiet, very subtle sound. Only when I am at that degree of closeness can he move me; and then it’s the movement of a dance, the natural movement of Him leading and guiding someone who is so close to him that I can do nothing but follow where he’s going. And that’s how I will get to where I’m going next.
I have been given an incredible gift: the time and the place and the means to stop and listen. The invitation to know God. The call to more. And far be it from me to waste this gift by running around and trying to do things myself. God wants more from me than that—-God wants more for me than that. I believe now more than ever that he has his hand on me, that he has set me apart for something that is unusual and wonderful and bigger than I as of yet can imagine.
And for now, I’m just resting in the Father’s embrace and trying to sync my heartbeat with his.
Anyway, a conversation I had with a friend yesterday convinced me that I should just go ahead and keep it up--hey, if nothing else, it will help me process, right?
And let me tell you, I have a LOT of processing to do!
I feel like I say something along these lines quite often: "That was the hardest thing I've ever done!" I think I'm just going to stop saying it, because inevitably something comes up that's harder than what I've just managed to work through. You know that saying, "God only gives you what you can handle"? Well, what they don't tell you is the part that comes next: "After you've handled that, God gives you more!" (Which makes Mother Teresa's sassy response make more sense: "I wish He wouldn't trust me so much!")
I’ve found that these last two months have been some of the most challenging I have experienced; God has “put me through the wringer,” so to speak—stretching me to grow in ways I honestly didn’t know I could live through (even now, I’m left with a sort of incredulous feeling: “How did I make it?” Guess I’m more resilient than I thought).
Without getting into too many details, I quite suddenly found myself in a place where everything in my world seemed to have been tipped upside down and backwards. I felt...well, disoriented is probably the best word to describe it. You know that feeling when you can’t tell which way is up, or you can’t quite remember what day it is? That’s sort of what I’m talking about...something akin to spiritual amnesia, if you will. I had literally watched all my plans crumble right before my eyes; which left me feeling rather dumbfounded.
What’s a girl to do?
First step: call mom and cry.
Second step: find refuge and seek good counsel.
Third step: PRAY. A lot.
This last week or so, I’ve had to fight the almost overwhelming desire to try and “figure it out”—by which I mean taking it upon myself to search for something that will fulfill me; or, at the very least, something I could suffer through until everything got “better.” I’ve learned enough over the past two years to know that going it on my own is not successful—-so I thought I’d take care of that by praying that God would reveal to me what it is He wanted me to do—-please, quickly!-—while still doing research and sending out resumes and trying to figure it out. Hey, it’s the best of both worlds, right? I’m allowing God to direct my life, while still actively living it. God’s gotta love that.
Maybe you can predict where this is going?
In His characteristic fashion, God very quickly set about letting me know that He wants more—-as a matter of fact, He wants all of me. Inviting God to be navigator just isn’t enough. God is asking me to see this seemingly crazy, senseless time of my life as an invitation—-to know more about myself, to re-evaluate, but most importantly, to know God in a deeper, more intimate way.
Before I can do anything, before I can ask God to lead me down any sort of path, God desires that I come to know him in a more profound way, that I trust him more, that our relationship grows and deepens as only a life-long relationship of love can. In one of his homilies, Father Jose used the phrase, “tuning our ear to be able to hear the heartbeat of the Father." And that is exactly the image that describes the kind of relationship I’m talking about. God is inviting me to lean closer, to rest on him, to attune my ear to hear the sounds of His heartbeat—-a very quiet, very subtle sound. Only when I am at that degree of closeness can he move me; and then it’s the movement of a dance, the natural movement of Him leading and guiding someone who is so close to him that I can do nothing but follow where he’s going. And that’s how I will get to where I’m going next.
I have been given an incredible gift: the time and the place and the means to stop and listen. The invitation to know God. The call to more. And far be it from me to waste this gift by running around and trying to do things myself. God wants more from me than that—-God wants more for me than that. I believe now more than ever that he has his hand on me, that he has set me apart for something that is unusual and wonderful and bigger than I as of yet can imagine.
And for now, I’m just resting in the Father’s embrace and trying to sync my heartbeat with his.
Monday, June 28, 2010
To be and not to do
I’ve been having quite a few conversations lately about why Life Teen Missions is focused on learning how to “be” instead of “doing”—admittedly, this is something that’s a little hard to grasp onto (after almost two years, I’m still trying to figure it out!). That doesn’t necessarily mean that, as missionaries, we don’t “do” anything…it’s more like focusing on the WHY behind the “what” we’re doing.
The longer I’ve been a missionary with Life Teen, the more God has invited me to know that in order to be a missionary (to do) I have to learn how to BE missionary. There really is no separating the two. Being missionary is something that involves every part of me; it is the wrapping up of the whole of my life into God’s life. The question is no longer “God, are you calling me to be a missionary or not?” but rather, “God, WHERE and HOW are you calling me to be missionary?” I suppose that may look like the same question, but there is a huge difference in both how I ask the question, and how it’s answered. The reality is, I can “go and do” as much as I want, but if my motivation isn’t Jesus, then I’m missing the point…I’m not necessarily being missionary, I’m doing good things (which is not bad, just not the fullness).
As I started to realize that mission is above all a way of life, a posture of heart, a demeanor of readiness, the activities I defined as “missionary” became different as well. EVERYTHING became about serving God: changing the toilet paper for the 1,000th time during summer camp, making beds for other people to sleep in, washing one million spoons, leading a small group of 8th graders through Stations of the Cross, repairing drywall, coming up with ridiculous skits, learning German, pulling weeds, making dinner for someone, praying the Our Father in Dutch, talking with a teenager about music, cooking with a woman who’s feeling lonely because all her children have moved out of the house. If I can do all THAT with love…well, then, that’s something. Learning how to do those small, everyday things with love is infinitely harder—for me at least—than hopping on a plane and flying over to Botswana to teach English. But as I am being refined in the fire of God’s love, I’m learning that it is in just those small, everyday things where I grow much more in holiness, and grow much closer to understanding what being a missionary means.
I will paraphrase two great Theresa’s here: “We cannot do great things; only small things with great love” (Bl. Mother Teresa)… “If you feel too lazy to pick up a bit of thread, and yet do so for love of Jesus, you acquire more merit than for a much nobler action done in a moment of fervor.” (St. Therese of Lisieux)
Missionary life is crazy. I’ve done things like operate a chainsaw and drive vehicles way too big for me. I speak German (like a 5-year-old. We’re called to be like little children, right?). I am in multiple countries in any given week. I’ve written blogs and emails and shared my life with people who are practically strangers. I’ve been part of a support system to people who are losing hope. I laugh and cry with people. I work so that people can have a place and a space to come together and pray again. I’ve told people hard things. I freak people out because I don’t have a regular job or because I’m in the church every day, or because I know German when they don’t expect me to, or because I do “risky” things like moving 6,000 miles away from family or buying a plane ticket to Poland without a place to stay.
Do I know what’s going to happen next year or 5 years from now? Absolutely not. I really don’t even know what’s going to happen tomorrow. That is both unsettling and comforting—I am completely dependent on God. And so, right now, I TRUST that if I walk forward in faith, desiring nothing but to follow God, He will bring about His will in me and through me. Do I know what He’s doing? ABSOLUTELY NOT. But I trust that He does.
I am still not completely “sure” what God wants me to “do” with my life. I do know this: God is completely and utterly moving in my life, he is actively bringing me into a deeper relationship with him, he is molding my heart and shaping my desires to mirror his plan for me. There are things I’m learning here that I would never be able to learn anywhere else–about myself, about God, about these people I suddenly find myself surrounded by. I am different in every single way from everyone else here, except for our relationship with this person called Jesus. And THAT is mind-blowing. The unity of the Church is miraculous, and something I’ve only come close to understanding because of my experience here—fumbling through Mass in German, Dutch, French, and Czech and KNOWING that Jesus still comes. Seeing how He is uniting people in community, how He is about the work of restoring and renewing the Church here. It brings tears to my eyes to see the faithfulness of people who hang on to Christ when there are comparatively few who know that relationship with Him matters.
I can see some fruits (however small they might be) in our presence here; in the times we gather and pray, in the relationships we’re building with people, in the unexpected desire for other people to know Christ more fully. And THAT is what I believe in, what I hope for, what I rely on–that wherever God “calls” me, whatever I “do,” He will bring about His fullness.
The longer I’ve been a missionary with Life Teen, the more God has invited me to know that in order to be a missionary (to do) I have to learn how to BE missionary. There really is no separating the two. Being missionary is something that involves every part of me; it is the wrapping up of the whole of my life into God’s life. The question is no longer “God, are you calling me to be a missionary or not?” but rather, “God, WHERE and HOW are you calling me to be missionary?” I suppose that may look like the same question, but there is a huge difference in both how I ask the question, and how it’s answered. The reality is, I can “go and do” as much as I want, but if my motivation isn’t Jesus, then I’m missing the point…I’m not necessarily being missionary, I’m doing good things (which is not bad, just not the fullness).
As I started to realize that mission is above all a way of life, a posture of heart, a demeanor of readiness, the activities I defined as “missionary” became different as well. EVERYTHING became about serving God: changing the toilet paper for the 1,000th time during summer camp, making beds for other people to sleep in, washing one million spoons, leading a small group of 8th graders through Stations of the Cross, repairing drywall, coming up with ridiculous skits, learning German, pulling weeds, making dinner for someone, praying the Our Father in Dutch, talking with a teenager about music, cooking with a woman who’s feeling lonely because all her children have moved out of the house. If I can do all THAT with love…well, then, that’s something. Learning how to do those small, everyday things with love is infinitely harder—for me at least—than hopping on a plane and flying over to Botswana to teach English. But as I am being refined in the fire of God’s love, I’m learning that it is in just those small, everyday things where I grow much more in holiness, and grow much closer to understanding what being a missionary means.
I will paraphrase two great Theresa’s here: “We cannot do great things; only small things with great love” (Bl. Mother Teresa)… “If you feel too lazy to pick up a bit of thread, and yet do so for love of Jesus, you acquire more merit than for a much nobler action done in a moment of fervor.” (St. Therese of Lisieux)
Missionary life is crazy. I’ve done things like operate a chainsaw and drive vehicles way too big for me. I speak German (like a 5-year-old. We’re called to be like little children, right?). I am in multiple countries in any given week. I’ve written blogs and emails and shared my life with people who are practically strangers. I’ve been part of a support system to people who are losing hope. I laugh and cry with people. I work so that people can have a place and a space to come together and pray again. I’ve told people hard things. I freak people out because I don’t have a regular job or because I’m in the church every day, or because I know German when they don’t expect me to, or because I do “risky” things like moving 6,000 miles away from family or buying a plane ticket to Poland without a place to stay.
Do I know what’s going to happen next year or 5 years from now? Absolutely not. I really don’t even know what’s going to happen tomorrow. That is both unsettling and comforting—I am completely dependent on God. And so, right now, I TRUST that if I walk forward in faith, desiring nothing but to follow God, He will bring about His will in me and through me. Do I know what He’s doing? ABSOLUTELY NOT. But I trust that He does.
I am still not completely “sure” what God wants me to “do” with my life. I do know this: God is completely and utterly moving in my life, he is actively bringing me into a deeper relationship with him, he is molding my heart and shaping my desires to mirror his plan for me. There are things I’m learning here that I would never be able to learn anywhere else–about myself, about God, about these people I suddenly find myself surrounded by. I am different in every single way from everyone else here, except for our relationship with this person called Jesus. And THAT is mind-blowing. The unity of the Church is miraculous, and something I’ve only come close to understanding because of my experience here—fumbling through Mass in German, Dutch, French, and Czech and KNOWING that Jesus still comes. Seeing how He is uniting people in community, how He is about the work of restoring and renewing the Church here. It brings tears to my eyes to see the faithfulness of people who hang on to Christ when there are comparatively few who know that relationship with Him matters.
I can see some fruits (however small they might be) in our presence here; in the times we gather and pray, in the relationships we’re building with people, in the unexpected desire for other people to know Christ more fully. And THAT is what I believe in, what I hope for, what I rely on–that wherever God “calls” me, whatever I “do,” He will bring about His fullness.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Revelations
I don’t even know how to start this blog. I feel like I have SO MANY thoughts from the last few weeks, I can’t even begin to string them into coherent sentences (which I could use as an excuse for my only blogging once a month, instead of the promised once a week…but that’s just a lame excuse). So I’ll just jump right in and talk about something that I think is rather essential in understanding me, and how God speaks to me.
I have a lot of what have come to be known as “revelations.”
Last year, the other missionaries would all sort of laugh when we’d talk about something in formation and I would start off, “So, today, I had a revelation…” It would usually be something I was really excited about, an instance where God spoke to me very clearly or powerfully, and I would usually cry at some point during the explanation. It became a typical “Danielle” thing.
Now, I don’t claim to have any new insights—I haven’t come to know anything that tons of people before me haven’t already known about our faith, or a relationship with God. My revelations—or, rather, God’s revelations to me—mostly consist of understanding the simplest things in new ways, or with a new intensity. It’s like the difference between looking at a blueprint of something and then actually experiencing the building. The drawing of a building and the building in completed form may be, for all intents and purposes, the “same thing;” but there’s quite a big difference between the pencil lines on a piece of paper which make up the idea and the wood beams, stone, plaster, insulation, electric wiring, tile flooring, water pipes and so forth that make the real thing. Looking at a picture of the Dom in Cologne is one thing; it’s nice, you can appreciate it for how beautiful it is, you can read some interesting facts about it and wonder at how long it took to make and whatnot. You can even appreciate other people telling you about their experiences inside. But the whole thing comes crashing into your reality in a completely different way when you’re there—walking across floors that people have been walking across for centuries, climbing the hundreds of stairs to the bell tower that once-upon-a-time ago, someone had to climb for real (and not for a fun tourist attraction). You no longer only have the “idea” of being able to go in—something that’s rather nebulous and intangible—but you have the concrete, personal experience of actually going into the building. Looking at it. Touching it. Smelling it. Kneeling in front of the Lord in the Eucharistic chapel. Hearing the cacophony of shuffling feet and whispers of awe in all sorts of different languages and the bells going off and hundreds of camera shutters snapping. Sweating your way up the bell tower stairs.
You have, in a word: REALITY.
And, after all, when you really think about it, that is what the thing was designed for in the first place! Imagine if we always stopped with the blueprints! What would our world be like with only ideas?
The fact of the matter is we are a flesh and blood people—a laughing and crying, an eating and drinking, a sight and sound and touch and taste and hearing folk. We were made to experience things, with our whole selves, not just to think about them.
That is the Incarnation—God becoming flesh, taking on our reality, becoming tangible. In the person of Jesus, God is no longer just an “idea” or a conceptualization, but flesh and blood. People touched Him, spoke with Him, ate meals with Him. He is a “God who is with us.” And that challenges us to engage with our whole selves in return. Christian life is about KNOWING GOD: “this is eternal life, that [we] should know you, the only true God, and the one whom you sent, Jesus Christ” (John 17:3). Jesus—God Incarnate—came so that we would live in the reality that is his life. It is not enough to know things about Him; Jesus made that clear in everything He said to the Scribes and Pharisees. They knew tons about God, but were unable to recognize Him when He was in their midst (“Woe to you Pharisees! You pay tithes [...] but you pay no attention to judgment and to love for God.” Luke 11:42). The people who did know Jesus were the people who ripped open a roof to be near Him, who clamored through a great crowd of people just to touch the tassel on His cloak, who bathed His feet with tears and wiped them with their hair, who yelled at Him from the side of the road to get His attention, who climbed up trees just to catch a glimpse of Him.
And so, these “revelation” moments are much more than me finally understanding things I’ve always known (the beauty of the Mass, the truth of Scripture, the mystery of God becoming flesh, the reality of evil in the world…). I am climbing the tree, running along the road, obsessively following Him from place to place—just to see, to feel…to know.
I am becoming a disciple.
“We shall never have finished plumbing the mystery of the personality of Jesus. We shall never have finished listening to Him as Master, imitating Him as an example, loving Him as Savior. We shall never have finished discovering His relevance, His importance for all the great questions of our times; we shall never have finished sensing the birth in us, as a unique spiritual experience, of the desire, the torment, the hope to be able finally to see Him, to meet Him, to understand and taste to the point of supreme happiness that He is our new and true life and our salvation…we must live in the hope of meeting Jesus as we meet a traveling pilgrim on the way, a friend we know, a brother of our own blood, a Master of our own tongue, a liberator who can accomplish everything, a Savior.” (Pope Paul VI)
I have a lot of what have come to be known as “revelations.”
Last year, the other missionaries would all sort of laugh when we’d talk about something in formation and I would start off, “So, today, I had a revelation…” It would usually be something I was really excited about, an instance where God spoke to me very clearly or powerfully, and I would usually cry at some point during the explanation. It became a typical “Danielle” thing.
Now, I don’t claim to have any new insights—I haven’t come to know anything that tons of people before me haven’t already known about our faith, or a relationship with God. My revelations—or, rather, God’s revelations to me—mostly consist of understanding the simplest things in new ways, or with a new intensity. It’s like the difference between looking at a blueprint of something and then actually experiencing the building. The drawing of a building and the building in completed form may be, for all intents and purposes, the “same thing;” but there’s quite a big difference between the pencil lines on a piece of paper which make up the idea and the wood beams, stone, plaster, insulation, electric wiring, tile flooring, water pipes and so forth that make the real thing. Looking at a picture of the Dom in Cologne is one thing; it’s nice, you can appreciate it for how beautiful it is, you can read some interesting facts about it and wonder at how long it took to make and whatnot. You can even appreciate other people telling you about their experiences inside. But the whole thing comes crashing into your reality in a completely different way when you’re there—walking across floors that people have been walking across for centuries, climbing the hundreds of stairs to the bell tower that once-upon-a-time ago, someone had to climb for real (and not for a fun tourist attraction). You no longer only have the “idea” of being able to go in—something that’s rather nebulous and intangible—but you have the concrete, personal experience of actually going into the building. Looking at it. Touching it. Smelling it. Kneeling in front of the Lord in the Eucharistic chapel. Hearing the cacophony of shuffling feet and whispers of awe in all sorts of different languages and the bells going off and hundreds of camera shutters snapping. Sweating your way up the bell tower stairs.
You have, in a word: REALITY.
And, after all, when you really think about it, that is what the thing was designed for in the first place! Imagine if we always stopped with the blueprints! What would our world be like with only ideas?
The fact of the matter is we are a flesh and blood people—a laughing and crying, an eating and drinking, a sight and sound and touch and taste and hearing folk. We were made to experience things, with our whole selves, not just to think about them.
That is the Incarnation—God becoming flesh, taking on our reality, becoming tangible. In the person of Jesus, God is no longer just an “idea” or a conceptualization, but flesh and blood. People touched Him, spoke with Him, ate meals with Him. He is a “God who is with us.” And that challenges us to engage with our whole selves in return. Christian life is about KNOWING GOD: “this is eternal life, that [we] should know you, the only true God, and the one whom you sent, Jesus Christ” (John 17:3). Jesus—God Incarnate—came so that we would live in the reality that is his life. It is not enough to know things about Him; Jesus made that clear in everything He said to the Scribes and Pharisees. They knew tons about God, but were unable to recognize Him when He was in their midst (“Woe to you Pharisees! You pay tithes [...] but you pay no attention to judgment and to love for God.” Luke 11:42). The people who did know Jesus were the people who ripped open a roof to be near Him, who clamored through a great crowd of people just to touch the tassel on His cloak, who bathed His feet with tears and wiped them with their hair, who yelled at Him from the side of the road to get His attention, who climbed up trees just to catch a glimpse of Him.
And so, these “revelation” moments are much more than me finally understanding things I’ve always known (the beauty of the Mass, the truth of Scripture, the mystery of God becoming flesh, the reality of evil in the world…). I am climbing the tree, running along the road, obsessively following Him from place to place—just to see, to feel…to know.
I am becoming a disciple.
“We shall never have finished plumbing the mystery of the personality of Jesus. We shall never have finished listening to Him as Master, imitating Him as an example, loving Him as Savior. We shall never have finished discovering His relevance, His importance for all the great questions of our times; we shall never have finished sensing the birth in us, as a unique spiritual experience, of the desire, the torment, the hope to be able finally to see Him, to meet Him, to understand and taste to the point of supreme happiness that He is our new and true life and our salvation…we must live in the hope of meeting Jesus as we meet a traveling pilgrim on the way, a friend we know, a brother of our own blood, a Master of our own tongue, a liberator who can accomplish everything, a Savior.” (Pope Paul VI)
Friday, May 28, 2010
"Come, eat of my food" (Prov 9:5)
We just got back from our 8-day silent retreat in the Netherlands (with all the deacons who will be ordained as priests TOMORROW!! Awesome. Please pray for Br. Ignas, Elroy, Patrick, and Hans as they are ordained!)—and let me tell you, it was phenomenal, powerful, and exactly what I needed. That being said, look for lots of blogs coming up about different things God revealed to my heart on retreat and that I’ll be praying about for some time to come (I mean, 8 days of silence are a LOT for me, and I have a lot to process!). This particular blog, however, will focus on something a little more…“ordinary.”
Let me just start by saying this: I don’t know what it is about silent retreats, 8-day silent retreats in particular, but meals are always hilarious. Maybe it’s because it’s really the only time of the day we’re all together. Maybe it’s because we know we’re supposed to be silent, or because it’s incredibly awkward to watch someone trying to eat an orange with a spoon, or because there’s a very stern-looking portrait of Sister What’s-Her-Name staring down at us from above the table. Or maybe because (unlike Br. John’s retreat where everyone looked at a different wall during mealtimes—which is almost as awkward but not quite) we’re all staring silently at one another while someone sniffs the soup. In any case, mealtimes were a challenge. I think Purgatory might be rather like a mealtime on a silent retreat, where you just want to laugh and joke and be everyone’s friend and talk about how delicious the meatballs are, but instead everyone is listening to everyone else chew and trying not to laugh.
And, one other observation: you really do not know how culturally different you are until it comes to food. When you legitimately have to ask (to yourself of course; remember, you’re silent…) “How do I eat this?” you know you’re a foreigner. What kind of meat is that? What do I do with this fork? What side of the plate do teacup handles go on? (The right…) What is that brown stuff? Oh…I’m supposed to use this napkin all 8 days?…whoops…
Now, don’t get me wrong—Europeans can EAT. In fact, I think they’ve definitely got the one-up on the U.S. in that category. What was my life like before soup every day? How could I not have known the deliciousness of Gouda with apricot jam? Coffee four times a day? Why, yes, thanks. AND, if you ever have the luck to eat with European nuns…well then, get ready for lots of new culinary deliciousness (I mean, they make lima beans taste good. Not just good…good. I think that might be one of those unnamed gifts of the Holy Spirit).
Here’s my favorite thing about the way nuns eat: it’s liturgical. It’s like praying (“so whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.” –1 Corinthians 10:31). We celebrated Pentecost during our 8-day which, as you may or may not know, is a Solemnity. It’s like the Church’s way of saying, “Pay attention to this! This is a BIG DEAL!” And we celebrate, because God is so good to us (and because everyone remembers parties the best)! Now, if we were back home, we’d probably go to Mass (maybe, if it’s not combined with the Sunday Mass that week…) and sing some Holy Spirit songs. And those are good. But the nuns CELEBRATE—from the special church bells they ring throughout the day, to the special incense and monstrance they use (we stayed with Perpetual Adoration Sisters), to the Latin they chant during Mass, right down to the food. Special rolls at breakfast and raisin bread at dinner, instead of regular bread. Giant cakes instead of cookies at coffee time. Meatballs and noodles in the soup. Soda. Just about double the number of dishes at lunch (with asparagus, so you know it’s really special) and ICE CREAM instead of pudding. What a beautiful way to make us aware—every moment, in everything—of the importance of the day, the joy of God’s gifts to us. Every bite of asparagus was “declaring the glory of God” (Ps 19). Every little raisin was “shining with joy for its maker” (Bar 3:35). Carbonation and chocolate chips, bless the Lord!
In and of themselves, all those things are rather ordinary—in our everyday lives, we hardly give a second thought to raisins, because, let’s face it; they don’t seem that special (especially when your mom is trying to get you to eat raisins instead of cookies). But because they were reserved, set apart—consecrated, in a way—they spoke of a truth much greater than themselves. They pointed us back to the reality that God gifts us with good things; not just with delicious food, but more importantly, with his presence, his Spirit (which lasts far longer than ice cream, no matter how delicious it may be). In a beautiful way, the most ordinary, everyday things became proclamations of the Gospel; the most unassuming and completely joyful missionaries. I can only pray that my life is the same.
Let me just start by saying this: I don’t know what it is about silent retreats, 8-day silent retreats in particular, but meals are always hilarious. Maybe it’s because it’s really the only time of the day we’re all together. Maybe it’s because we know we’re supposed to be silent, or because it’s incredibly awkward to watch someone trying to eat an orange with a spoon, or because there’s a very stern-looking portrait of Sister What’s-Her-Name staring down at us from above the table. Or maybe because (unlike Br. John’s retreat where everyone looked at a different wall during mealtimes—which is almost as awkward but not quite) we’re all staring silently at one another while someone sniffs the soup. In any case, mealtimes were a challenge. I think Purgatory might be rather like a mealtime on a silent retreat, where you just want to laugh and joke and be everyone’s friend and talk about how delicious the meatballs are, but instead everyone is listening to everyone else chew and trying not to laugh.
And, one other observation: you really do not know how culturally different you are until it comes to food. When you legitimately have to ask (to yourself of course; remember, you’re silent…) “How do I eat this?” you know you’re a foreigner. What kind of meat is that? What do I do with this fork? What side of the plate do teacup handles go on? (The right…) What is that brown stuff? Oh…I’m supposed to use this napkin all 8 days?…whoops…
Now, don’t get me wrong—Europeans can EAT. In fact, I think they’ve definitely got the one-up on the U.S. in that category. What was my life like before soup every day? How could I not have known the deliciousness of Gouda with apricot jam? Coffee four times a day? Why, yes, thanks. AND, if you ever have the luck to eat with European nuns…well then, get ready for lots of new culinary deliciousness (I mean, they make lima beans taste good. Not just good…good. I think that might be one of those unnamed gifts of the Holy Spirit).
Here’s my favorite thing about the way nuns eat: it’s liturgical. It’s like praying (“so whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.” –1 Corinthians 10:31). We celebrated Pentecost during our 8-day which, as you may or may not know, is a Solemnity. It’s like the Church’s way of saying, “Pay attention to this! This is a BIG DEAL!” And we celebrate, because God is so good to us (and because everyone remembers parties the best)! Now, if we were back home, we’d probably go to Mass (maybe, if it’s not combined with the Sunday Mass that week…) and sing some Holy Spirit songs. And those are good. But the nuns CELEBRATE—from the special church bells they ring throughout the day, to the special incense and monstrance they use (we stayed with Perpetual Adoration Sisters), to the Latin they chant during Mass, right down to the food. Special rolls at breakfast and raisin bread at dinner, instead of regular bread. Giant cakes instead of cookies at coffee time. Meatballs and noodles in the soup. Soda. Just about double the number of dishes at lunch (with asparagus, so you know it’s really special) and ICE CREAM instead of pudding. What a beautiful way to make us aware—every moment, in everything—of the importance of the day, the joy of God’s gifts to us. Every bite of asparagus was “declaring the glory of God” (Ps 19). Every little raisin was “shining with joy for its maker” (Bar 3:35). Carbonation and chocolate chips, bless the Lord!
In and of themselves, all those things are rather ordinary—in our everyday lives, we hardly give a second thought to raisins, because, let’s face it; they don’t seem that special (especially when your mom is trying to get you to eat raisins instead of cookies). But because they were reserved, set apart—consecrated, in a way—they spoke of a truth much greater than themselves. They pointed us back to the reality that God gifts us with good things; not just with delicious food, but more importantly, with his presence, his Spirit (which lasts far longer than ice cream, no matter how delicious it may be). In a beautiful way, the most ordinary, everyday things became proclamations of the Gospel; the most unassuming and completely joyful missionaries. I can only pray that my life is the same.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
so live your life
“We are a Resurrection people, and Alleluia is our song” –Pope Benedict XVI.
A lot of my prayer lately has consisted of me wrestling with and trying to figure out the seemingly duplicitous nature of Christian life—the fact that when you live with Christ, there is always both joy and sorrow, suffering and blessing, death and new life (working on the blog for that one...stay tuned). For the last few days though, as is fitting for the season, I've been praying/thinking/reflecting about the Resurrection—it just keeps coming up all over the place. Father Roland made a good point last Sunday at Mass: the Church celebrates Easter for 50 days, which is 10 days longer than Lent (you can always judge pretty well how significant something is by the number of days the Church sets aside for it. So even if you knew nothing about Easter, you’d know that it must be REALLY important just by the amount of time devoted to celebrating it). We, as Catholics, are a “Resurrection People,” but I don’t think I’ve ever really lived like I believe that. And so I’ve been praying this week about what it means to live, so that my life is a proclamation of the Resurrection.
“I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly” (John 10:10).
“This is eternal life, that [we] should know you, the only true God, and the one whom you sent, Jesus Christ” (John 17:3).
What does it mean to live?
In trying to answer that, I'm finding a lot more freedom in coming to the realization that I am not the sum total of the holy hours, prayers of intention, outreach projects, Liturgy of the Hours, ministry opportunities, invitations, appointments and Rule of Life that make up the parts of my day—that is part of the structure of my time, and many of those things are set in place to provide a chance in which to encounter the Lord. But ultimately, like John’s Gospel says, this thing we call life is all about knowing and having relationship with “the only true God”: JESUS CHRIST. It is only through that knowledge of Him, that relationship with Him, that everything else takes on significance.
That’s what it means to live—I mean, to really LIVE. My life is not about keeping track of tasks; I am not called to fulfill a long list of should’s. I can schedule all the holy hours I want into my day, but if I’m not having an encounter with the living Christ, if I’m not deepening my relationship with Him, if everything in my life is not rooted in Him, then what is the point? No; I am called to (and promised) LIFE—a glorious life of Resurrection, a life of fullness and joy that flows out of my love for Jesus.
I am created in the image and likeness of the Living God.
I am daughter and bride of the King.
I am Christ’s own portion.
I am beloved by the One who created all things beautiful.
I am filled with the Author and Animator of life.
I am a lover of Love.
I am a follower of The Truth.
So...what does that mean?
It means that I cry and I laugh, sometimes at the same time, and I feel both joy and sorrow deeply. It means that even though I don’t understand the whys or wherefores, I follow where God is leading me. It means that I get a little uncomfortable (even if I might hate it) because I believe that He who is sending me is worth it. It means I take risks because I am driven by an intense and overwhelming love for One who is greater than I am. It means that I am made for greatness, that I am favored, that there is a power in me (not of my own making) that makes evil nervous. It means, oftentimes, that I have to fight for that which is true and good and beautiful. It means that I am called to more.
“For us there is one God, the Father, from whom all things are and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom all things are and through whom we exist” (1 Cor 8:6).
“This is the work of God, that you believe in the one he sent.” (John 6:29).
Praying today that I have the grace to live my “Amen.”
A lot of my prayer lately has consisted of me wrestling with and trying to figure out the seemingly duplicitous nature of Christian life—the fact that when you live with Christ, there is always both joy and sorrow, suffering and blessing, death and new life (working on the blog for that one...stay tuned). For the last few days though, as is fitting for the season, I've been praying/thinking/reflecting about the Resurrection—it just keeps coming up all over the place. Father Roland made a good point last Sunday at Mass: the Church celebrates Easter for 50 days, which is 10 days longer than Lent (you can always judge pretty well how significant something is by the number of days the Church sets aside for it. So even if you knew nothing about Easter, you’d know that it must be REALLY important just by the amount of time devoted to celebrating it). We, as Catholics, are a “Resurrection People,” but I don’t think I’ve ever really lived like I believe that. And so I’ve been praying this week about what it means to live, so that my life is a proclamation of the Resurrection.
“I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly” (John 10:10).
“This is eternal life, that [we] should know you, the only true God, and the one whom you sent, Jesus Christ” (John 17:3).
What does it mean to live?
In trying to answer that, I'm finding a lot more freedom in coming to the realization that I am not the sum total of the holy hours, prayers of intention, outreach projects, Liturgy of the Hours, ministry opportunities, invitations, appointments and Rule of Life that make up the parts of my day—that is part of the structure of my time, and many of those things are set in place to provide a chance in which to encounter the Lord. But ultimately, like John’s Gospel says, this thing we call life is all about knowing and having relationship with “the only true God”: JESUS CHRIST. It is only through that knowledge of Him, that relationship with Him, that everything else takes on significance.
That’s what it means to live—I mean, to really LIVE. My life is not about keeping track of tasks; I am not called to fulfill a long list of should’s. I can schedule all the holy hours I want into my day, but if I’m not having an encounter with the living Christ, if I’m not deepening my relationship with Him, if everything in my life is not rooted in Him, then what is the point? No; I am called to (and promised) LIFE—a glorious life of Resurrection, a life of fullness and joy that flows out of my love for Jesus.
I am created in the image and likeness of the Living God.
I am daughter and bride of the King.
I am Christ’s own portion.
I am beloved by the One who created all things beautiful.
I am filled with the Author and Animator of life.
I am a lover of Love.
I am a follower of The Truth.
So...what does that mean?
It means that I cry and I laugh, sometimes at the same time, and I feel both joy and sorrow deeply. It means that even though I don’t understand the whys or wherefores, I follow where God is leading me. It means that I get a little uncomfortable (even if I might hate it) because I believe that He who is sending me is worth it. It means I take risks because I am driven by an intense and overwhelming love for One who is greater than I am. It means that I am made for greatness, that I am favored, that there is a power in me (not of my own making) that makes evil nervous. It means, oftentimes, that I have to fight for that which is true and good and beautiful. It means that I am called to more.
“For us there is one God, the Father, from whom all things are and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom all things are and through whom we exist” (1 Cor 8:6).
“This is the work of God, that you believe in the one he sent.” (John 6:29).
Praying today that I have the grace to live my “Amen.”
Thursday, February 25, 2010
“…now it SPRINGS forth, do you not perceive it?”
I think I am dying.
Not a typical way to start a blog, so let me qualify: as I’ve been reflecting lately and going over what God continues to speak to me in prayer (the need to wait and trust in the Lord, imagery of a refining/purifying fire, various lessons on how to love, the realization that the “mission” is first and foremost ME…), I’m realizing that one of the underlying messages is that I am really being asked to die—as in, dying to self, to pride, to knowledge, to being comfortable, to having any clear sense of purpose or direction. At the end of the day, after all that is gone, there are really only two things left: love and trust (ha—the two things I have the least of!). And only when I am stripped down to those two things can the real work begin.
Surprisingly, when I came to this conclusion today, I felt a lot of peace. Not what I expected. But I’ve been finding a lot of beauty in this realization that I am dying, along with a hopefulness in the expectancy that this is not the end. God really had a plan when He created this world we live in, and He leaves little hints all over the place that point to how death and life are all wrapped up together, and even depend on each other for true fullness to be brought about. The biggest sign that God has been calling my attention to lately is the changing of the seasons (both in nature and in the Church); He has been speaking a lot to me through the imagery of the process of growth that plants go through as the seasons change and pass.
If we were to imagine myself as a seed, you could say I was planted early on and tended all throughout my life; and last year I finally started to blossom and bear fruit (not to mention, a whole lot of weeds were pulled up along the way). It was beautiful—I felt beautiful—having a period of time that was all blooming. But (as God has ordained and nature has it), while flowers and fruit are beautiful and good, they eventually have to give way to the other stages in the cycle of growth. Now, I’m no botanist, but I’m pretty sure that when fruit finally comes, part of the natural process is that some of it falls on the ground, so that the seeds can be deposited back into the earth and new things can grow. But before anything new can grow, the fruit has to first ripen, which turns into rotting, which turns into disintegrating. It’s not pretty; it’s messy. It’s smelly. But it has to happen (I suppose, this seed could also be eaten by an animal and then come back out after a journey through the digestive system, or be thrown into a trash heap by humans only concerned with a tasty snack, but neither of those options are really either less messy or less smelly). The only way that the seeds can get in the ground and start growing is if everything is stripped away first. I feel like over the past few months, I could relate a lot to this ugly, messy, stripping-away process; God has been hard at work getting rid of everything excess and preparing me to be “planted.”
After this ugly mess, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of winter; everything becomes cold, hard, dormant. Even the tree that bore the fruit is dead (at least in appearance, if not in actuality). And thus passes a long—sometimes seemingly endless—period of what appears to be nothing: the old tree is not doing anything (no flowers, no fruit), and the new seeds have yet to grow. All you can see is a tree, stripped of all its leaves, standing rather starkly against the sky and horizon, and a frozen patch of ground around it. Depressing—although, admittedly, somewhat poignantly beautiful in its starkness, its…humility…its being there with nothing else to commend itself to your senses but itself, and itself alone. You can’t help but admire it—this bare outline is, after all, what makes the tree. Soon, though, even that beauty is jaded by the long, drawn-out COLD that just pervades everything; you start asking yourself the question, “when is it going to end?” and cursing that darned groundhog when he suddenly, arbitrarily decides upon 6 more weeks of winter.
BUT—oh, the glory of the promise in that one word—all the while, underneath the ground and deep within the core of that tree, small things have been happening, even while to the eye nothing is changed. The seed, when it first made its way into the earth, had to “die”—it had to break out of its shell, cease to be itself in a way, so that it could start the process of growing into something else, something more beautiful. The shell cracks, light and moisture and nutrients creep their way in; and slowly (VERY SLOWLY…) little roots start to push out, to explore, to extend out into the soil. And the more the roots grow, the more nutrients that little seedling needs—the roots are not very strong at first, they’re just fragile little things, brand-new and trying to make a go of it. That’s why no energy can be spent on growing up. Not yet.
But, eventually, it is time to start venturing up toward the top, up toward the light. At this point, the scenery outside is starting to change as well—it’s still cold and dark outside, but not as cold and not as dark. The snow has changed into rain, every now and then little glimmers of sun peep through the clouds, and you can start hearing the birds sing again. There is a thawing, a settling; almost as if the world were sinking into a warm bath after a long period of being sick and sad and tired, heaving a deep sigh and letting all the cold, all the dirt, all the sweat of hard work just melt away. The work is not nearly finished, but it’s a great start—like that one turning point in the darkness of the middle of the night when, oh-so-subtly, the seconds start creeping toward the light and the day instead of receding from it. Everything holds the promise of newness and life. It’s not here yet—we’re only just on the cusp of spring—but the promise of it is tangible and it’s delicious. There’s a waking up of all the senses, all the faculties: “Awake, lyre and harp! With praise, let us awake the dawn!” (Ps 57:9).
The world is full of promise—just keep watching the ground! Keep hoping! “Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Rom 5:5). There is a lot of work left to go—the journey up requires so much energy, pushing the way through the heaviness and darkness and wetness and dirtiness (something to consider: these are the very same things that were, at one point, needed for the seed to grow. The only thing that changes is the seed. It may seem like an immensely vast amount of difficult stuff to get through…but maybe none of it is actually working against the seed after all…it’s just time for a different stage in growth). And then there’s still the matter of those little roots—by no means finished growing. But it’s coming!!
And until it comes—until spring arrives, until those little shoots finally sprout out of the earth, until those tiny little blossoms bud on the tree—there is only waiting. But the waiting is taking on a different shade; there is no longer enduring, in the way that you trudge through the slush and sludge of winter and hope it’s over soon. Now there is an exhilarating, anticipatory holding-of-breath as we teeter on that cusp point, anxiously waiting for that rush of a moment when you wake up and spring has burst through in all its glory! This is the waiting for Easter morning.
Just keep growing. There is nothing else without that. Shade trees don’t happen overnight; there has to be growth. No cute little kids can pretend to be explorers and climb to the tippy-top without that first step. I cannot produce any fruit without first dying, and then growing out of that death. This step is hard, it’s unseen, un-glorified, un-noticed, un-remembered when the glory of the flowers and fruit come. But the flowers and fruit would not come without it, and that’s the most important part.
This is a big deal.
This is just the beginning. I am just now starting to understand my dying, looking forward in the hopefulness that it is starting to give way to a spring-time of new growth, that I am being prepared for a new fruitfulness.
And this one little seed is in it for the long haul.
Not a typical way to start a blog, so let me qualify: as I’ve been reflecting lately and going over what God continues to speak to me in prayer (the need to wait and trust in the Lord, imagery of a refining/purifying fire, various lessons on how to love, the realization that the “mission” is first and foremost ME…), I’m realizing that one of the underlying messages is that I am really being asked to die—as in, dying to self, to pride, to knowledge, to being comfortable, to having any clear sense of purpose or direction. At the end of the day, after all that is gone, there are really only two things left: love and trust (ha—the two things I have the least of!). And only when I am stripped down to those two things can the real work begin.
Surprisingly, when I came to this conclusion today, I felt a lot of peace. Not what I expected. But I’ve been finding a lot of beauty in this realization that I am dying, along with a hopefulness in the expectancy that this is not the end. God really had a plan when He created this world we live in, and He leaves little hints all over the place that point to how death and life are all wrapped up together, and even depend on each other for true fullness to be brought about. The biggest sign that God has been calling my attention to lately is the changing of the seasons (both in nature and in the Church); He has been speaking a lot to me through the imagery of the process of growth that plants go through as the seasons change and pass.
If we were to imagine myself as a seed, you could say I was planted early on and tended all throughout my life; and last year I finally started to blossom and bear fruit (not to mention, a whole lot of weeds were pulled up along the way). It was beautiful—I felt beautiful—having a period of time that was all blooming. But (as God has ordained and nature has it), while flowers and fruit are beautiful and good, they eventually have to give way to the other stages in the cycle of growth. Now, I’m no botanist, but I’m pretty sure that when fruit finally comes, part of the natural process is that some of it falls on the ground, so that the seeds can be deposited back into the earth and new things can grow. But before anything new can grow, the fruit has to first ripen, which turns into rotting, which turns into disintegrating. It’s not pretty; it’s messy. It’s smelly. But it has to happen (I suppose, this seed could also be eaten by an animal and then come back out after a journey through the digestive system, or be thrown into a trash heap by humans only concerned with a tasty snack, but neither of those options are really either less messy or less smelly). The only way that the seeds can get in the ground and start growing is if everything is stripped away first. I feel like over the past few months, I could relate a lot to this ugly, messy, stripping-away process; God has been hard at work getting rid of everything excess and preparing me to be “planted.”
After this ugly mess, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of winter; everything becomes cold, hard, dormant. Even the tree that bore the fruit is dead (at least in appearance, if not in actuality). And thus passes a long—sometimes seemingly endless—period of what appears to be nothing: the old tree is not doing anything (no flowers, no fruit), and the new seeds have yet to grow. All you can see is a tree, stripped of all its leaves, standing rather starkly against the sky and horizon, and a frozen patch of ground around it. Depressing—although, admittedly, somewhat poignantly beautiful in its starkness, its…humility…its being there with nothing else to commend itself to your senses but itself, and itself alone. You can’t help but admire it—this bare outline is, after all, what makes the tree. Soon, though, even that beauty is jaded by the long, drawn-out COLD that just pervades everything; you start asking yourself the question, “when is it going to end?” and cursing that darned groundhog when he suddenly, arbitrarily decides upon 6 more weeks of winter.
BUT—oh, the glory of the promise in that one word—all the while, underneath the ground and deep within the core of that tree, small things have been happening, even while to the eye nothing is changed. The seed, when it first made its way into the earth, had to “die”—it had to break out of its shell, cease to be itself in a way, so that it could start the process of growing into something else, something more beautiful. The shell cracks, light and moisture and nutrients creep their way in; and slowly (VERY SLOWLY…) little roots start to push out, to explore, to extend out into the soil. And the more the roots grow, the more nutrients that little seedling needs—the roots are not very strong at first, they’re just fragile little things, brand-new and trying to make a go of it. That’s why no energy can be spent on growing up. Not yet.
But, eventually, it is time to start venturing up toward the top, up toward the light. At this point, the scenery outside is starting to change as well—it’s still cold and dark outside, but not as cold and not as dark. The snow has changed into rain, every now and then little glimmers of sun peep through the clouds, and you can start hearing the birds sing again. There is a thawing, a settling; almost as if the world were sinking into a warm bath after a long period of being sick and sad and tired, heaving a deep sigh and letting all the cold, all the dirt, all the sweat of hard work just melt away. The work is not nearly finished, but it’s a great start—like that one turning point in the darkness of the middle of the night when, oh-so-subtly, the seconds start creeping toward the light and the day instead of receding from it. Everything holds the promise of newness and life. It’s not here yet—we’re only just on the cusp of spring—but the promise of it is tangible and it’s delicious. There’s a waking up of all the senses, all the faculties: “Awake, lyre and harp! With praise, let us awake the dawn!” (Ps 57:9).
The world is full of promise—just keep watching the ground! Keep hoping! “Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Rom 5:5). There is a lot of work left to go—the journey up requires so much energy, pushing the way through the heaviness and darkness and wetness and dirtiness (something to consider: these are the very same things that were, at one point, needed for the seed to grow. The only thing that changes is the seed. It may seem like an immensely vast amount of difficult stuff to get through…but maybe none of it is actually working against the seed after all…it’s just time for a different stage in growth). And then there’s still the matter of those little roots—by no means finished growing. But it’s coming!!
And until it comes—until spring arrives, until those little shoots finally sprout out of the earth, until those tiny little blossoms bud on the tree—there is only waiting. But the waiting is taking on a different shade; there is no longer enduring, in the way that you trudge through the slush and sludge of winter and hope it’s over soon. Now there is an exhilarating, anticipatory holding-of-breath as we teeter on that cusp point, anxiously waiting for that rush of a moment when you wake up and spring has burst through in all its glory! This is the waiting for Easter morning.
Just keep growing. There is nothing else without that. Shade trees don’t happen overnight; there has to be growth. No cute little kids can pretend to be explorers and climb to the tippy-top without that first step. I cannot produce any fruit without first dying, and then growing out of that death. This step is hard, it’s unseen, un-glorified, un-noticed, un-remembered when the glory of the flowers and fruit come. But the flowers and fruit would not come without it, and that’s the most important part.
This is a big deal.
This is just the beginning. I am just now starting to understand my dying, looking forward in the hopefulness that it is starting to give way to a spring-time of new growth, that I am being prepared for a new fruitfulness.
And this one little seed is in it for the long haul.
Friday, February 12, 2010
unplugged
Yesterday, I was challenged to ask this question: “Lord, what do I desire you to work in and through me?” Below is how I answered Him in prayer this morning. For this one, I’m not going to explain…it’s just all me, straight from the journal:
I want to be changed—ultimately and permanently, but also every day. I want to be convicted of the truth of your love—with a passionate, burning conviction that settles down into the very core of my being. I want to be confident and bold in that love—to a reckless degree.
I want others to know they are loved. I want to talk about their hopes and desires, and be with them when they discover that all of those point to you and are found in you. I want to journey with people toward you. I want to be your living heart in the world—I want to reach out to others in their time of need, in their confusion, in their rejoicing over glory stories. I want to see hearts changed by you.
I want to be able to really talk about you—in a way that’s not just talking, because we live out fully this life you’ve called us into: to work hard, to laugh harder, and to cry in both beautiful and tragic moments. I want prayer to be a joy and not a job. I don’t want to think about living—I want to do it!
I want to feel fully, deeply, with a heart that reaches out to others—I want to be moved by others; to laugh when they laugh, to cry when they cry, to dance around the kitchen with them when they’re bursting with excitement, to talk through the confusion.
I want to be able to love everyone—I mean, really, everyone. I want life to be full of people! I don’t want to think in abstracts or categories; I want to live in flesh and blood! I want to be a bearer of life!
I want to claim the freedom you’ve already won for me—to claim it fully, and live it! I want to be a woman of joy. I want to always wonder at creation and marvel at your movement. I want to always be wonderfully surprised by you—with that feeling of familiarity because you’re always surprising me.
I want to love recklessly, breathlessly—from the very center of myself and with all I have. I want to be selfless. To give, and keep on giving, and not count the cost.
I want to be unshackled by awkwardness and timidity.
I don’t want to tiptoe around convention or the status-quo.
I want the Holy Spirit that is alive and active in me to reach out and embrace the Holy Spirit alive and active in another—in the same way that John leapt for joy when encountering Jesus for the first time as Mary greeted Elizabeth. I want to live the mystery of the Visitation.
“he looked up to heaven and groaned, and said to him, [‘Be opened!’] and (immediately) the man’s ears were opened, his speech impediment was removed, and he spoke plainly” (Mark 7:34-35).
God, grant me the grace…
I want to be changed—ultimately and permanently, but also every day. I want to be convicted of the truth of your love—with a passionate, burning conviction that settles down into the very core of my being. I want to be confident and bold in that love—to a reckless degree.
I want others to know they are loved. I want to talk about their hopes and desires, and be with them when they discover that all of those point to you and are found in you. I want to journey with people toward you. I want to be your living heart in the world—I want to reach out to others in their time of need, in their confusion, in their rejoicing over glory stories. I want to see hearts changed by you.
I want to be able to really talk about you—in a way that’s not just talking, because we live out fully this life you’ve called us into: to work hard, to laugh harder, and to cry in both beautiful and tragic moments. I want prayer to be a joy and not a job. I don’t want to think about living—I want to do it!
I want to feel fully, deeply, with a heart that reaches out to others—I want to be moved by others; to laugh when they laugh, to cry when they cry, to dance around the kitchen with them when they’re bursting with excitement, to talk through the confusion.
I want to be able to love everyone—I mean, really, everyone. I want life to be full of people! I don’t want to think in abstracts or categories; I want to live in flesh and blood! I want to be a bearer of life!
I want to claim the freedom you’ve already won for me—to claim it fully, and live it! I want to be a woman of joy. I want to always wonder at creation and marvel at your movement. I want to always be wonderfully surprised by you—with that feeling of familiarity because you’re always surprising me.
I want to love recklessly, breathlessly—from the very center of myself and with all I have. I want to be selfless. To give, and keep on giving, and not count the cost.
I want to be unshackled by awkwardness and timidity.
I don’t want to tiptoe around convention or the status-quo.
I want the Holy Spirit that is alive and active in me to reach out and embrace the Holy Spirit alive and active in another—in the same way that John leapt for joy when encountering Jesus for the first time as Mary greeted Elizabeth. I want to live the mystery of the Visitation.
“he looked up to heaven and groaned, and said to him, [‘Be opened!’] and (immediately) the man’s ears were opened, his speech impediment was removed, and he spoke plainly” (Mark 7:34-35).
God, grant me the grace…
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Waiting Game
Lately, I feel like my prayer has sounded something like the beginning of Psalm 13:
How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God!
(**side note: I love the Psalms. The more I read and pray with them, the more I am drawn to the honesty in their poetry—the beauty of sheer humanity crying out to God, in all conditions of the heart.**)
For what feels like an incredibly long time now, God has been speaking to me this message:
“WAIT.”
If you’re thinking that I’ve already written about this topic, you’re right—I’m just still waiting. The difference now is that my knowledge of what waiting means is taking on a new breadth and depth as I’m still being asked to wait, as I’m continually challenged in waiting, as I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to wait and trust in the Lord. Hm. This must be really important…because everything I pray ends up being answered with that same four-letter word: W.A.I.T. (ugh). And, in my stubbornness, I reply, “How long, Lord?” (Hello, whiny Israelites, anyone? Ps 95: “When at Meribah and Massah, they challenged me and provoked me, although they had seen all my works…”)
As I was praying this morning, I felt really frustrated—like I was just yelling out Psalm 13! And all of a sudden, I had a flash of perspective; I realized that getting frustrated with God wasn’t getting me anywhere, least of all closer to being done with waiting. I began to recall my 8-day silent retreat last year—one of the questions Br. John challenged me to ask was, “Lord, how do you want me to wait?” (yes…I was waiting then as well. Seems to be a theme…).
So I started praying that instead—“Lord, how do you want me to wait?”—which is quite a different question from “How long, Lord?” Because really, this life with Christ is FULL of waiting. Pick up the Bible! Open it up to any book, and you will find people waiting: Adam waiting for Eve, Sarah (and a whole host of other women) waiting for a long-promised and hoped-for child, the Israelites waiting to enter the Promised Land, David waiting to hear the voice of the Lord, the Jewish people waiting for the Messiah, the Apostles waiting for the Resurrection, all of humanity waiting for the new Heaven and earth of Jesus’ second coming. We are a people who WAIT—and don’t like it! But God keeps asking us to do it! So really, the HOW is the key.
God is proving to me time and time again that He really does answer prayers—I just have to learn how to ask the right things! Once I stopped asking “how long?” and started asking “how?” He was ready and willing to clarify; specifically through today’s Gospel story of the Syrophoenician woman’s faith (Mark 7:24-30). To summarize: a non-Jewish woman makes a request of Jesus, and He answers, for all intents and purposes, “no” (or, really, “not yet”). Then, this incredibly bold woman renews her request (with that famous line, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps”). She knows and believes Jesus can do anything—and she’s probably heard that He’s already broken all sorts of conventional rules at this point. So she boldly and trustingly approaches Him again after His initial response, with a simply astonishing amount of humility (I mean, a dog.)…and it’s at this point that Jesus grants her request.
This is not the first—or the only—time in the Gospel when Jesus reacts like this. In fact, Fr. Jean C.J. d’Elbee points out, in I Believe in Love, that Jesus responds to professions and acts of faith, above all else: “That is the great question, the condition for the miracle. ‘Do you believe that I can do it? Do you believe that I am going to do it? [...] Because God loves you, He wants to see how far you will push your confidence. He wants to be able to say to you, as He did to the Canaanite woman, ‘How great is your faith!’” (50).
That’s the point, really. God is asking me to choose Him—that act of choosing that is at the heart of faith. To believe in Love even when (especially) He says “no” or “not yet” or “wait.” To be able to always say (even though it might be through gritted teeth sometimes), “Lord, I trust in you. I know that your plans for my life are greater than anything I could imagine. I believe and hope in your desire to bless my life. Today, I choose to wait on you, and I trust that you will answer.”
How will I wait? With a bold trust in a God who I believe can work all sorts of miracles and blessings in my life—and who wants to.
I wait for you, O Lord;
I lift up my soul to my God.
In you I trust; do not let me be disgraced;
[...]No one is disgraced who waits for you,
but only those who lightly break faith.
[...] For you I wait all the long day,
because of your goodness, Lord.
[...] My eyes are ever upon the Lord
[...] I wait for you, O Lord.
(Psalm 25)
“Do not be afraid; just have faith…” (Luke 8: 50).
“Trust God and he will help you; make straight your ways and hope in him. [...] has anyone hoped in the Lord and been disappointed?” (Sirach 2:6, 10).
How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God!
(**side note: I love the Psalms. The more I read and pray with them, the more I am drawn to the honesty in their poetry—the beauty of sheer humanity crying out to God, in all conditions of the heart.**)
For what feels like an incredibly long time now, God has been speaking to me this message:
“WAIT.”
If you’re thinking that I’ve already written about this topic, you’re right—I’m just still waiting. The difference now is that my knowledge of what waiting means is taking on a new breadth and depth as I’m still being asked to wait, as I’m continually challenged in waiting, as I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to wait and trust in the Lord. Hm. This must be really important…because everything I pray ends up being answered with that same four-letter word: W.A.I.T. (ugh). And, in my stubbornness, I reply, “How long, Lord?” (Hello, whiny Israelites, anyone? Ps 95: “When at Meribah and Massah, they challenged me and provoked me, although they had seen all my works…”)
As I was praying this morning, I felt really frustrated—like I was just yelling out Psalm 13! And all of a sudden, I had a flash of perspective; I realized that getting frustrated with God wasn’t getting me anywhere, least of all closer to being done with waiting. I began to recall my 8-day silent retreat last year—one of the questions Br. John challenged me to ask was, “Lord, how do you want me to wait?” (yes…I was waiting then as well. Seems to be a theme…).
So I started praying that instead—“Lord, how do you want me to wait?”—which is quite a different question from “How long, Lord?” Because really, this life with Christ is FULL of waiting. Pick up the Bible! Open it up to any book, and you will find people waiting: Adam waiting for Eve, Sarah (and a whole host of other women) waiting for a long-promised and hoped-for child, the Israelites waiting to enter the Promised Land, David waiting to hear the voice of the Lord, the Jewish people waiting for the Messiah, the Apostles waiting for the Resurrection, all of humanity waiting for the new Heaven and earth of Jesus’ second coming. We are a people who WAIT—and don’t like it! But God keeps asking us to do it! So really, the HOW is the key.
God is proving to me time and time again that He really does answer prayers—I just have to learn how to ask the right things! Once I stopped asking “how long?” and started asking “how?” He was ready and willing to clarify; specifically through today’s Gospel story of the Syrophoenician woman’s faith (Mark 7:24-30). To summarize: a non-Jewish woman makes a request of Jesus, and He answers, for all intents and purposes, “no” (or, really, “not yet”). Then, this incredibly bold woman renews her request (with that famous line, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps”). She knows and believes Jesus can do anything—and she’s probably heard that He’s already broken all sorts of conventional rules at this point. So she boldly and trustingly approaches Him again after His initial response, with a simply astonishing amount of humility (I mean, a dog.)…and it’s at this point that Jesus grants her request.
This is not the first—or the only—time in the Gospel when Jesus reacts like this. In fact, Fr. Jean C.J. d’Elbee points out, in I Believe in Love, that Jesus responds to professions and acts of faith, above all else: “That is the great question, the condition for the miracle. ‘Do you believe that I can do it? Do you believe that I am going to do it? [...] Because God loves you, He wants to see how far you will push your confidence. He wants to be able to say to you, as He did to the Canaanite woman, ‘How great is your faith!’” (50).
That’s the point, really. God is asking me to choose Him—that act of choosing that is at the heart of faith. To believe in Love even when (especially) He says “no” or “not yet” or “wait.” To be able to always say (even though it might be through gritted teeth sometimes), “Lord, I trust in you. I know that your plans for my life are greater than anything I could imagine. I believe and hope in your desire to bless my life. Today, I choose to wait on you, and I trust that you will answer.”
How will I wait? With a bold trust in a God who I believe can work all sorts of miracles and blessings in my life—and who wants to.
I wait for you, O Lord;
I lift up my soul to my God.
In you I trust; do not let me be disgraced;
[...]No one is disgraced who waits for you,
but only those who lightly break faith.
[...] For you I wait all the long day,
because of your goodness, Lord.
[...] My eyes are ever upon the Lord
[...] I wait for you, O Lord.
(Psalm 25)
“Do not be afraid; just have faith…” (Luke 8: 50).
“Trust God and he will help you; make straight your ways and hope in him. [...] has anyone hoped in the Lord and been disappointed?” (Sirach 2:6, 10).
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"The people were filled with expectation..."
Recently, the question, “Well, what did you expect from God?” has settled in and taken up residence in my prayer. God is beginning to reveal to me that my life, as a Christian, is full of expectancy—waiting on the Lord to fulfill His promises, always wondering to a certain extent what He’s about, hoping that He will reveal to me more of Himself. BUT, when I let that expectancy turn into expectation—when I have my heart set on something and begin to demand that God fulfill it the way I want and when I want—then I set myself up to be rather disappointed, frustrated, and probably unfulfilled.
Here’s the difference:
Expectancy involves open hands and an open heart; it’s a posture of waiting, especially waiting for the development of something. There is anticipation and excitement in the unknown, and joy in waiting for what is coming.
To expect something involves an underlying demand that requires fulfillment; so there is always concern about the thing that is expected. There’s always an element of striving, of reaching for something, and never quite feeling fulfilled—so there is usually a lack of freedom and a lack of joy in a waiting that seems to be taking forever.
(Here’s another side-observation: “expectancy” is a noun, whereas “to expect” is a verb. Just one more example that God is all about BEING rather than DOING.)
I’m learning that it is OK—good, even—to have desires. But, oh, how quickly can desires (even holy ones!) turn into expectations if I don’t offer them to Jesus! And then, how quickly can I move from a posture of expectancy to striving and expecting things.
When I start to expect things, it’s easier to believe the lies surrounding my life (nasty little things, always in my periphery...); when some expectation goes unmet, I’m all too ready to believe it’s because I’m not good enough, or not loved, or that I will always be chasing joy that I can’t have (p.s. ALL of those things are false).
But when I stop expecting, give that particular thing to God, and wait, with the expectancy that God will fulfill as He chooses, then He just makes things happen so easily. I mean...ridiculously easily. God just always has a better way, and is continuing to prove to me that He wants to provide. More than that—He doesn’t just want good things for me; HE wants to GIVE them to me. So I’m really trying to not expect things—only receive.
Mary, help my posture be one of expectancy—that I would not expect anything, but receive all things in the joy of receiving them from your Son. Be with me as I wait with expectancy for the Lord to fulfill His promises (like you did!) without knowing when, or how.
Here’s the difference:
Expectancy involves open hands and an open heart; it’s a posture of waiting, especially waiting for the development of something. There is anticipation and excitement in the unknown, and joy in waiting for what is coming.
To expect something involves an underlying demand that requires fulfillment; so there is always concern about the thing that is expected. There’s always an element of striving, of reaching for something, and never quite feeling fulfilled—so there is usually a lack of freedom and a lack of joy in a waiting that seems to be taking forever.
(Here’s another side-observation: “expectancy” is a noun, whereas “to expect” is a verb. Just one more example that God is all about BEING rather than DOING.)
I’m learning that it is OK—good, even—to have desires. But, oh, how quickly can desires (even holy ones!) turn into expectations if I don’t offer them to Jesus! And then, how quickly can I move from a posture of expectancy to striving and expecting things.
When I start to expect things, it’s easier to believe the lies surrounding my life (nasty little things, always in my periphery...); when some expectation goes unmet, I’m all too ready to believe it’s because I’m not good enough, or not loved, or that I will always be chasing joy that I can’t have (p.s. ALL of those things are false).
But when I stop expecting, give that particular thing to God, and wait, with the expectancy that God will fulfill as He chooses, then He just makes things happen so easily. I mean...ridiculously easily. God just always has a better way, and is continuing to prove to me that He wants to provide. More than that—He doesn’t just want good things for me; HE wants to GIVE them to me. So I’m really trying to not expect things—only receive.
Mary, help my posture be one of expectancy—that I would not expect anything, but receive all things in the joy of receiving them from your Son. Be with me as I wait with expectancy for the Lord to fulfill His promises (like you did!) without knowing when, or how.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Ring of Fire
I always thought Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael (also known as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego) were a little un-relatable—if not downright crazy. Every time Sunday Week One comes up in Liturgy of the Hours (or any major feast day, or the season of Christmas) and we pray through the canticle that starts, “Bless the Lord, all you works of the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever,” I shake my head in wonder and disbelief; not because “you dolphins and all water creatures” are specifically mentioned, but because
THEY ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FURNACE OF FIRE!!!!
What an incredibly bold prayer—and how much pure faith these three men needed to pray it! Sometimes I forget that fact; I read Scripture stories like this one and think something along the lines of, “oh, that’s nice. They wanted everything to bless the Lord.” But that’s not the point. The point is, they were blessing God when they had nothing left, when according to all appearances and assumptions they would soon be dead, when everyone thought that there was no hope left for them, no chance, no reason to bless God. That’s gutsy. That’s what saints are made of. The more I started realizing what an amazing act of faith this was, the more I thought it was far beyond my understanding; I would never be able to attain that level of faith and trust.
So I started praying for those things. A word of advice to anyone who is thinking about praying something along the lines of “God, help me to trust you more,” or, “God increase my faith”: MEAN IT. Here’s the danger of praying like that: God listens. And He is more than ready to answer. God doesn’t skimp out on answering those prayers, because it’s exactly what He wants for and from us—for us to trust Him completely, to unite ourselves to Him—but it’s not going to look like anything you expected or hoped for. The reason I say it’s dangerous is because of how God answers; He doesn’t just give you faith or trust or love or hope (well, I’m sure He might for some people. I should say, He doesn’t just give those things to me). Instead, God gives an opportunity to love more, or to have more faith, or to trust more in Him. And that is something infinitely more blessed, but incredibly harder.
The real fire, the real furnace, that Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael were in the middle of was the fire of God’s love; of Him presenting them with an opportunity to prove their trust in Him, to make a ridiculously bold act of faith, to love God no matter what happened externally, to hope in His promises even when everyone else and all their circumstances were telling them not to. That calls to mind the chorus of a song by Shane and Shane:
“Burn us up, burn us up, burn us up; oh King, oh won’t you burn us in the furnace of your desire? We give up, we give up, we give up; oh King, oh won’t you burn us in the furnace of your desire? Won’t you throw us in the fire?”
In the song, that chorus is sung by the 3 young men in address to King Nebuchadnezzar; and while that’s really powerful, even more amazing is that those words are really a prayer crying out to God—the King. And I have (strangely, amazingly) found myself praying that same prayer lately. I think I’m beginning to understand Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael a little bit more (never thought I would say that, but there it is…). I’m by no means faced with the choice to jump in an actual furnace as a test of my faith in God; but every day God does ask me to make another act of faith, a conscious choice to trust in His plans for me, even as I don’t understand them. I can’t say I like it (fire burns!) but I know that with each minute I stay within that purifying flame of God’s love, He is melting away all in me that is not of Him:
“For he is like the refiner’s fire, or like the fuller’s lye. He will sit refining and purifying silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi, refining them like gold or like silver that they may offer due sacrifice to the Lord. Then the sacrifice of Judah and Jerusalem will please the Lord…” (Malachi 3:2-4).
That’s where the joy of being in the furnace of fire comes from—the reason those 3 holy young men are able to call upon everything in Heaven, on Earth, and under the earth to bless the Lord. There is joy in being tested in the fire of God’s love, in knowing that He is working at getting rid of all the obstacles that stand in the way of me having a deeper relationship with Him, that He is strengthening me and calling me to something infinitely greater than I can imagine or do by myself. It is painfully beautiful. It is bittersweet. It is a sacrificial blessing. And I wouldn’t change a minute of it. Through the struggle, through the questions, through the doubt, through the immense effort it takes to be able to keep on praying, “Lord, I trust you and your will for my life,” I am being made more pure and beautiful—a sacrifice worthy of the Lord—more strong and sure and confident every day of my need for Him and His provision for me.
So burn me up, oh King; won’t you throw me in the fire?
THEY ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FURNACE OF FIRE!!!!
What an incredibly bold prayer—and how much pure faith these three men needed to pray it! Sometimes I forget that fact; I read Scripture stories like this one and think something along the lines of, “oh, that’s nice. They wanted everything to bless the Lord.” But that’s not the point. The point is, they were blessing God when they had nothing left, when according to all appearances and assumptions they would soon be dead, when everyone thought that there was no hope left for them, no chance, no reason to bless God. That’s gutsy. That’s what saints are made of. The more I started realizing what an amazing act of faith this was, the more I thought it was far beyond my understanding; I would never be able to attain that level of faith and trust.
So I started praying for those things. A word of advice to anyone who is thinking about praying something along the lines of “God, help me to trust you more,” or, “God increase my faith”: MEAN IT. Here’s the danger of praying like that: God listens. And He is more than ready to answer. God doesn’t skimp out on answering those prayers, because it’s exactly what He wants for and from us—for us to trust Him completely, to unite ourselves to Him—but it’s not going to look like anything you expected or hoped for. The reason I say it’s dangerous is because of how God answers; He doesn’t just give you faith or trust or love or hope (well, I’m sure He might for some people. I should say, He doesn’t just give those things to me). Instead, God gives an opportunity to love more, or to have more faith, or to trust more in Him. And that is something infinitely more blessed, but incredibly harder.
The real fire, the real furnace, that Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael were in the middle of was the fire of God’s love; of Him presenting them with an opportunity to prove their trust in Him, to make a ridiculously bold act of faith, to love God no matter what happened externally, to hope in His promises even when everyone else and all their circumstances were telling them not to. That calls to mind the chorus of a song by Shane and Shane:
“Burn us up, burn us up, burn us up; oh King, oh won’t you burn us in the furnace of your desire? We give up, we give up, we give up; oh King, oh won’t you burn us in the furnace of your desire? Won’t you throw us in the fire?”
In the song, that chorus is sung by the 3 young men in address to King Nebuchadnezzar; and while that’s really powerful, even more amazing is that those words are really a prayer crying out to God—the King. And I have (strangely, amazingly) found myself praying that same prayer lately. I think I’m beginning to understand Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael a little bit more (never thought I would say that, but there it is…). I’m by no means faced with the choice to jump in an actual furnace as a test of my faith in God; but every day God does ask me to make another act of faith, a conscious choice to trust in His plans for me, even as I don’t understand them. I can’t say I like it (fire burns!) but I know that with each minute I stay within that purifying flame of God’s love, He is melting away all in me that is not of Him:
“For he is like the refiner’s fire, or like the fuller’s lye. He will sit refining and purifying silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi, refining them like gold or like silver that they may offer due sacrifice to the Lord. Then the sacrifice of Judah and Jerusalem will please the Lord…” (Malachi 3:2-4).
That’s where the joy of being in the furnace of fire comes from—the reason those 3 holy young men are able to call upon everything in Heaven, on Earth, and under the earth to bless the Lord. There is joy in being tested in the fire of God’s love, in knowing that He is working at getting rid of all the obstacles that stand in the way of me having a deeper relationship with Him, that He is strengthening me and calling me to something infinitely greater than I can imagine or do by myself. It is painfully beautiful. It is bittersweet. It is a sacrificial blessing. And I wouldn’t change a minute of it. Through the struggle, through the questions, through the doubt, through the immense effort it takes to be able to keep on praying, “Lord, I trust you and your will for my life,” I am being made more pure and beautiful—a sacrifice worthy of the Lord—more strong and sure and confident every day of my need for Him and His provision for me.
So burn me up, oh King; won’t you throw me in the fire?
More coffee?
Today, Amanda and Danielle ended up sitting around the breakfast table for hours sharing different things God’s been revealing to them—turns out, God had a lot to say to each one of them through the other. Here’s a peek into their conversation:
Danielle: So I’ve been praying lately about the idea of being pursued…and I think I came to kind of a revelation today.
Amanda: Do tell.
D: OK. So this is going to be “Danielle pouring her heart out time.” Get. Ready.
A: Hold on a second (pause. Amanda sits back in her chair, closes her eyes, and opens her hands). OK. I’m ready.
D: (laughs) OK, so I’m beginning to realize that I have the whole definition of “pursuit” all wrong. We talk a lot about being pursued, especially as women—and I think that’s good, and from God. We were made to be pursued in a lot of ways—humanity, as a whole, is being pursued by God, like Hosea says: “So I will allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak to her heart” (2:16. Editor’s note: “her” being Israel…and then, by extension, all of God’s people.) The problem is, we talk about being “pursued” in a holy way, but we’re really just living with the expectation of being pursued in the world’s terms.
A: Yeah, when we think of being pursued we’re expecting flowers, candy, grand gestures…like we’re all waiting to be “swept off our feet.”
D: Exactly. Sometimes I get caught up in focusing too much on those externals, and being dissatisfied when they’re not a part of my life. I think that those things are what I want—but in reality, that’s a lie. The world tells us that we should be made to “feel” like we’re worthy, we’re loved, we’re worth fighting for by what someone does—that our senses and our emotions should be pursued. But the TRUTH is that it’s our hearts—our souls—that are worth fighting for, and being pursued means we are loved the way we need to be loved, instead of being loved the way we want to be loved.
A: Gosh. That’s so true! If I really want to let go of my old way of thinking, to really live with Christ, and trust Him to fulfill my desires, I can’t just cling to the same old things I’ve always desired—the things of the world—and put Christian terms on them. Christ is not going to give me the things of the world, the things I don’t really need, the things that don’t satisfy my heart. If I define my wanting to be pursued in terms of what it looks like in the movies, it will just turn into something unhealthy. It will become really confusing: all of a sudden, saying “I’m pursuing you” is like saying the magic words, and I could think “oh, this is holy, this is right, this is how it’s supposed to be;” when, in reality, I’m still being pursued in the world’s terms and not in Christ’s terms.
D: Oh yeah! I prayed about that this morning! The reading for Mass was from 1 John, and this line just struck a chord for me: “Children, let us love not in word or speech, but in deed and truth” (3:18). I’m beginning to realize that really being pursued in a way that’s from God is going to look DIFFERENT—in the fullness of what being pursued actually means—and that difference is good, it’s real, and it’s what authentic love looks like. All the externals are insignificant. There have been times in my life, and in the lives of people I know, where all the right words were there, all the right “grand gestures,” as you called them, but underneath, there was nothing. We think we want someone flying across the world to stand on our doorstep to surprise us, but what we really want is someone who is not going through the motions, someone who loves you for who you are, someone who leads you to God and not himself.
A: Mmmm. Yeah. I think sometimes we’re scared that love won’t come along, and so we settle for less.
D: Yeah, and we sell out for what the world has to offer instead of waiting for what God has to give us.
A: And God wants to give us so much! It’s like what Father Roland was talking about the other day—God doesn’t call us to just survive; he wants us to live abundantly!
D: “I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly” (John 10:10).
A: Yes! And not just in Heaven! Not just in the life to come, but in this life too! That’s been in my prayer lately and it just blows me away. I always thought about God rewarding us in Heaven, but that’s only the half of it. We have to believe—I mean, because He tells us!—that He has good things for us and He wants to give them to us NOW. He wants us to live a blessed life. We’re afraid to give up the things we think we want…but when we give everything to God and let Him purify our desires, then He can really give us the things He wants to give us, the things He has prepared for us, the things that satisfy. (Editor’s note: this is a paraphrase of Mark 10:17-31. Check it out).
D: Oh my gosh! You need to hear this part of Malachi—this Scripture just keeps coming up and it talks exactly about that: “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house, and try me in this, says the Lord of hosts: Shall I not open for you the floodgates of heaven, to pour down blessing upon you without measure?” (3:10, emphasis added). Blessing without measure! Floodgates of Heaven! That’s crazy. God is sitting there, waiting to fulfill us, but He wants us to bring the “whole tithe,” all of ourselves—not just part of ourselves, but ALL OF US—to Him first. And He says, “try me in this,” like, “go ahead, try and prove me wrong; just see if when you give me everything I don’t bless you.”
A: Yeah, we have to believe that when God says things like that, He means them. It doesn’t mean that we won’t have struggles in our lives; it doesn’t mean that life is a walk in the park…but when He says He wants us to have life and have it abundantly, He means it! He doesn’t want us to settle for just having enough, for just scraping by; He wants us to be blessed.
D: Amen. And that ties back into the idea of being pursued. God is constantly calling us to more—to give more, but also to receive more. The beauty is not just that God wants so much from us, but that He chases after us to give us more than we ever imagined in return.
A: It’s like when we finally stop running and He catches up to us, He says “OK, are you finally ready to see what I have for you?”
D: And we have to trust that whatever He’s going to give us is going to be what we need, even if it’s not exactly what we think we want.
A: (pause) Well. That clears that up.
D: Thanks, God!
God, thank you for revealing yourself to humanity, for being a God who is truly with us. Help us to stop grasping at what we think we want and give everything to you. God, we trust you with all of our desires; we offer them to you, along with all our fears, our worries, our hopes, our plans, our expectations. Purify our hearts, Lord, so that we may more fully and freely receive what you have in store for us. Amen.
Oh, look! It’s lunchtime…
Danielle: So I’ve been praying lately about the idea of being pursued…and I think I came to kind of a revelation today.
Amanda: Do tell.
D: OK. So this is going to be “Danielle pouring her heart out time.” Get. Ready.
A: Hold on a second (pause. Amanda sits back in her chair, closes her eyes, and opens her hands). OK. I’m ready.
D: (laughs) OK, so I’m beginning to realize that I have the whole definition of “pursuit” all wrong. We talk a lot about being pursued, especially as women—and I think that’s good, and from God. We were made to be pursued in a lot of ways—humanity, as a whole, is being pursued by God, like Hosea says: “So I will allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak to her heart” (2:16. Editor’s note: “her” being Israel…and then, by extension, all of God’s people.) The problem is, we talk about being “pursued” in a holy way, but we’re really just living with the expectation of being pursued in the world’s terms.
A: Yeah, when we think of being pursued we’re expecting flowers, candy, grand gestures…like we’re all waiting to be “swept off our feet.”
D: Exactly. Sometimes I get caught up in focusing too much on those externals, and being dissatisfied when they’re not a part of my life. I think that those things are what I want—but in reality, that’s a lie. The world tells us that we should be made to “feel” like we’re worthy, we’re loved, we’re worth fighting for by what someone does—that our senses and our emotions should be pursued. But the TRUTH is that it’s our hearts—our souls—that are worth fighting for, and being pursued means we are loved the way we need to be loved, instead of being loved the way we want to be loved.
A: Gosh. That’s so true! If I really want to let go of my old way of thinking, to really live with Christ, and trust Him to fulfill my desires, I can’t just cling to the same old things I’ve always desired—the things of the world—and put Christian terms on them. Christ is not going to give me the things of the world, the things I don’t really need, the things that don’t satisfy my heart. If I define my wanting to be pursued in terms of what it looks like in the movies, it will just turn into something unhealthy. It will become really confusing: all of a sudden, saying “I’m pursuing you” is like saying the magic words, and I could think “oh, this is holy, this is right, this is how it’s supposed to be;” when, in reality, I’m still being pursued in the world’s terms and not in Christ’s terms.
D: Oh yeah! I prayed about that this morning! The reading for Mass was from 1 John, and this line just struck a chord for me: “Children, let us love not in word or speech, but in deed and truth” (3:18). I’m beginning to realize that really being pursued in a way that’s from God is going to look DIFFERENT—in the fullness of what being pursued actually means—and that difference is good, it’s real, and it’s what authentic love looks like. All the externals are insignificant. There have been times in my life, and in the lives of people I know, where all the right words were there, all the right “grand gestures,” as you called them, but underneath, there was nothing. We think we want someone flying across the world to stand on our doorstep to surprise us, but what we really want is someone who is not going through the motions, someone who loves you for who you are, someone who leads you to God and not himself.
A: Mmmm. Yeah. I think sometimes we’re scared that love won’t come along, and so we settle for less.
D: Yeah, and we sell out for what the world has to offer instead of waiting for what God has to give us.
A: And God wants to give us so much! It’s like what Father Roland was talking about the other day—God doesn’t call us to just survive; he wants us to live abundantly!
D: “I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly” (John 10:10).
A: Yes! And not just in Heaven! Not just in the life to come, but in this life too! That’s been in my prayer lately and it just blows me away. I always thought about God rewarding us in Heaven, but that’s only the half of it. We have to believe—I mean, because He tells us!—that He has good things for us and He wants to give them to us NOW. He wants us to live a blessed life. We’re afraid to give up the things we think we want…but when we give everything to God and let Him purify our desires, then He can really give us the things He wants to give us, the things He has prepared for us, the things that satisfy. (Editor’s note: this is a paraphrase of Mark 10:17-31. Check it out).
D: Oh my gosh! You need to hear this part of Malachi—this Scripture just keeps coming up and it talks exactly about that: “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house, and try me in this, says the Lord of hosts: Shall I not open for you the floodgates of heaven, to pour down blessing upon you without measure?” (3:10, emphasis added). Blessing without measure! Floodgates of Heaven! That’s crazy. God is sitting there, waiting to fulfill us, but He wants us to bring the “whole tithe,” all of ourselves—not just part of ourselves, but ALL OF US—to Him first. And He says, “try me in this,” like, “go ahead, try and prove me wrong; just see if when you give me everything I don’t bless you.”
A: Yeah, we have to believe that when God says things like that, He means them. It doesn’t mean that we won’t have struggles in our lives; it doesn’t mean that life is a walk in the park…but when He says He wants us to have life and have it abundantly, He means it! He doesn’t want us to settle for just having enough, for just scraping by; He wants us to be blessed.
D: Amen. And that ties back into the idea of being pursued. God is constantly calling us to more—to give more, but also to receive more. The beauty is not just that God wants so much from us, but that He chases after us to give us more than we ever imagined in return.
A: It’s like when we finally stop running and He catches up to us, He says “OK, are you finally ready to see what I have for you?”
D: And we have to trust that whatever He’s going to give us is going to be what we need, even if it’s not exactly what we think we want.
A: (pause) Well. That clears that up.
D: Thanks, God!
God, thank you for revealing yourself to humanity, for being a God who is truly with us. Help us to stop grasping at what we think we want and give everything to you. God, we trust you with all of our desires; we offer them to you, along with all our fears, our worries, our hopes, our plans, our expectations. Purify our hearts, Lord, so that we may more fully and freely receive what you have in store for us. Amen.
Oh, look! It’s lunchtime…
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