I've been reading a book of meditations on Jesus' crucifixion, which I was given in response to some issues I was struggling with. Thus, most of my musings over the past month have focused on either my own grappling or the more penitential - and less clearly joyful - aspects of my faith, or sometimes both together. I think it may be portraying an unrealistic view of my present state of mind, which in reality has rounded a dark corner into a much brighter place. So just as Fr. Neuhaus' book is urging me not to rush to Easter, it is probably important for me to not rush into the Lenten desert, either!
I have received mercy, which I so desperately need, and there can be no response but to rejoice in it! Even regarding my own failings, it isn't that "I'm SO terrible, and isn't it great that God can love even someone as awful as me," but that God is so awesome that he has provided a Way for all of us, no matter how badly we may have messed things up. It isn't that those things don't matter, but that their only real importance is that he has transformed us. And it's impossible to convey with mere words how great it is that God dwells in us, unites us with himself and lets us know him in ways that we could never hope for on our own!
Following Jesus fills my life with joy! Even amid challenges (a friend's too-young death, my dad-in-law's health, daughter's family moving away soon, even remembering old hurts), I find myself celebrating the blessings God has provided for so long and anticipating those to come, though they're sure to be different from how we know them now. And more than these gifts, I'm thrilled to spend time with the One who loves me most and with others who also love him in return, and am eager to share him with those who haven't encountered him yet.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Judgment vs. mercy
"Do not judge before the time. Most especially, do not judge others. We are to be hard on ourselves, working out our salvation in fear and trembling, while being generous toward others. Our only hope for salvation is in the mercy of God and therefore, as Jesus admonishes again and again, we must be merciful to others. The mercy we give will be the mercy we receive." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
I've recently been taking to heart the message that I should cut myself some slack. (Seriously.) I have a tendency to be hard on myself. I was taught from early on that no one should ever have to be harder on me than I am on myself. It was a message of personal responsibility that I took seriously, right along with my good-hearted uncle's message that I was the 14-year-old "man of the house" after my dad died. And because I've provided abundant reason to be hard on myself since then, that shoe fits really well.
As with most spiritual truths, there is room to err on both sides of this one. We often tend to be judgmental of others - at least, of some others, those whose offenses we deem really bad - while dismissing our own faults as not so serious. In fact, I think that if we're going to view our own shortcomings as small, we need someone else's to compare them against favorably. It's the Pharisee in us, giving thanks to God that we're not like those sinners, even that one over there.
At the other extreme, we can view our own failings so severely that we withdraw ourselves from God's service, deeming ourselves unworthy of being useful to the community of faith. We feel we must not give a testimony that can be undercut by our flaws.
The glory of God is found when our unworthiness isn't an issue for us any longer. If my testimony acknowledges my weakness, my failings and unworthiness, but emphasizes that God is greater than my shortcomings and sins, then I begin to approach the mark. I realize the mercy I've already received, and am eager to share mercy with others. And I trust in God, not to be merciful to me because I am merciful to others, but because God is merciful to all. I think it's just the nature of mercy that we cannot truly receive it in its fullness without also extending it.
I've recently been taking to heart the message that I should cut myself some slack. (Seriously.) I have a tendency to be hard on myself. I was taught from early on that no one should ever have to be harder on me than I am on myself. It was a message of personal responsibility that I took seriously, right along with my good-hearted uncle's message that I was the 14-year-old "man of the house" after my dad died. And because I've provided abundant reason to be hard on myself since then, that shoe fits really well.
As with most spiritual truths, there is room to err on both sides of this one. We often tend to be judgmental of others - at least, of some others, those whose offenses we deem really bad - while dismissing our own faults as not so serious. In fact, I think that if we're going to view our own shortcomings as small, we need someone else's to compare them against favorably. It's the Pharisee in us, giving thanks to God that we're not like those sinners, even that one over there.
At the other extreme, we can view our own failings so severely that we withdraw ourselves from God's service, deeming ourselves unworthy of being useful to the community of faith. We feel we must not give a testimony that can be undercut by our flaws.
The glory of God is found when our unworthiness isn't an issue for us any longer. If my testimony acknowledges my weakness, my failings and unworthiness, but emphasizes that God is greater than my shortcomings and sins, then I begin to approach the mark. I realize the mercy I've already received, and am eager to share mercy with others. And I trust in God, not to be merciful to me because I am merciful to others, but because God is merciful to all. I think it's just the nature of mercy that we cannot truly receive it in its fullness without also extending it.
A dreamt song
Without knowing your plan
Without seeing your face
I give all that I am
to your glory and grace.
© 2010, LifeKnell Music Ministry
Being bathed in prayer last night before/in bed seems to have made all the difference. Yesterday morning I awoke from a nightmare/memory - assaulting four of the five senses - that left me not daring to return to sleep. This morning I awoke with a new song of praise in my mind.
We'll see what the Lord wants to make of this . . .
Without seeing your face
I give all that I am
to your glory and grace.
© 2010, LifeKnell Music Ministry
Being bathed in prayer last night before/in bed seems to have made all the difference. Yesterday morning I awoke from a nightmare/memory - assaulting four of the five senses - that left me not daring to return to sleep. This morning I awoke with a new song of praise in my mind.
We'll see what the Lord wants to make of this . . .
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Following
"The point is that, in this life and in the world to come, those who follow Jesus will receive everything they want, if what they want is to follow Jesus . . ."
"At one level, we love God because he has promised us salvation. At a second and higher level, we love God without regard to whether he will save us. At the highest level we love God even though we know that he will eternally condemn us for loving him. . . . As strange as it sounds, some saints and mystics have spoken that way." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
It might not be clear from the second portion I've quoted that Fr. Neuhaus doesn't agree with this view of these alleged levels of purity of faith. Neither do I, really, yet I often find myself at the second of these "levels." And tying into the first quote, sometimes all I know for sure is that I want (and strive) to follow Jesus, to know him and have him live in me and transform me. I want people to look at me and see someone who loves Christ, someone for whom loving Christ makes all the difference, and someone through whom Christ is making all the difference in others. And at the end of my life, I shall not find myself surprised should God tell me that my failings have been so great that my eternal presence with him would be so great an obstacle to those I've hurt that they cannot find their place in him if I am in mine, that I can no longer follow Jesus. That would truly be Hell. But if that should be, I will be one of the voices howling in the ears of my fellow condemned, proclaiming God's great love and justice, knowing that I have received no greater punishment than I deserve. Yet I hope in Christ that this will not be so.
At such times, I find that I cannot quite quote St. Dysmas from his cross. For me, it is more like this: Jesus, remember them - those I've offended, for whom I've been more than a mere scandalon, but a barrier blocking the way to you - when you come into your kingdom.
"At one level, we love God because he has promised us salvation. At a second and higher level, we love God without regard to whether he will save us. At the highest level we love God even though we know that he will eternally condemn us for loving him. . . . As strange as it sounds, some saints and mystics have spoken that way." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
It might not be clear from the second portion I've quoted that Fr. Neuhaus doesn't agree with this view of these alleged levels of purity of faith. Neither do I, really, yet I often find myself at the second of these "levels." And tying into the first quote, sometimes all I know for sure is that I want (and strive) to follow Jesus, to know him and have him live in me and transform me. I want people to look at me and see someone who loves Christ, someone for whom loving Christ makes all the difference, and someone through whom Christ is making all the difference in others. And at the end of my life, I shall not find myself surprised should God tell me that my failings have been so great that my eternal presence with him would be so great an obstacle to those I've hurt that they cannot find their place in him if I am in mine, that I can no longer follow Jesus. That would truly be Hell. But if that should be, I will be one of the voices howling in the ears of my fellow condemned, proclaiming God's great love and justice, knowing that I have received no greater punishment than I deserve. Yet I hope in Christ that this will not be so.
At such times, I find that I cannot quite quote St. Dysmas from his cross. For me, it is more like this: Jesus, remember them - those I've offended, for whom I've been more than a mere scandalon, but a barrier blocking the way to you - when you come into your kingdom.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Desperate hope
"Christians are those who, like the thief on the cross, have turned to him with faith that is more like a desperate hope . . . " - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
I'm careful how I speak of other Christians, many of whom have a far purer heart and more earnest faith than my own. Yet some of my fellow believers seem to act as if they belong to an exclusive club, to which they've earned admittance by how they've lived. And still I need to be careful because, in truth, most of them have lived their faith far better than I have. And therein lies the reason this passage resonated within me.
If heaven is a reward for living a good life, as my father-in-law's neighbor once suggested and as many good people believe, I'm in big trouble. There is no way I can ever hope to do enough good to make up for the evil I've done. I can easily agree with Solzhenitsyn's observation that the line between good and evil runs through every human heart, because I cannot disown the evidence of my life. Desperate hope? Absolutely, and often more desperate than hopeful! My only hope is that Christ has purchased for me the reward to which I can never again aspire on my own.
I'm really relating to Fr. Neuhaus' excellent book:
"When our faith is weak, when we are assailed by contradictions and doubts," - or by our own unworthiness, for that matter - "we are tempted to look at our faith, to worry about our faith, to try to work up more faith. At such times, however, we must not look to our faith but look to him. Look to him, listen to him, and faith will take care of itself. Keep looking. Keep listening."
I strive to live as I believe I'm called, not in the hope of thereby gaining heaven, but because the grace and love that this undeniably undeserving sinner has received demands no less a response.
I'm careful how I speak of other Christians, many of whom have a far purer heart and more earnest faith than my own. Yet some of my fellow believers seem to act as if they belong to an exclusive club, to which they've earned admittance by how they've lived. And still I need to be careful because, in truth, most of them have lived their faith far better than I have. And therein lies the reason this passage resonated within me.
If heaven is a reward for living a good life, as my father-in-law's neighbor once suggested and as many good people believe, I'm in big trouble. There is no way I can ever hope to do enough good to make up for the evil I've done. I can easily agree with Solzhenitsyn's observation that the line between good and evil runs through every human heart, because I cannot disown the evidence of my life. Desperate hope? Absolutely, and often more desperate than hopeful! My only hope is that Christ has purchased for me the reward to which I can never again aspire on my own.
I'm really relating to Fr. Neuhaus' excellent book:
"When our faith is weak, when we are assailed by contradictions and doubts," - or by our own unworthiness, for that matter - "we are tempted to look at our faith, to worry about our faith, to try to work up more faith. At such times, however, we must not look to our faith but look to him. Look to him, listen to him, and faith will take care of itself. Keep looking. Keep listening."
I strive to live as I believe I'm called, not in the hope of thereby gaining heaven, but because the grace and love that this undeniably undeserving sinner has received demands no less a response.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
My mask
If you've been away for at least a couple days, start here before proceeding.
Then read here.
Though we're strangers still I love you
I love you more than your mask
And you know that you must trust this to be true
And I know that's much to ask - Rich Mullins
It isn't just our dressers and closets and pole barns that are jammed. That's the easy part to simplify. The harder part? Ceasing all of our complicated artificiality. - Lonni Collins Pratt, Benedict's Way
(I'm cheating, really. The first quote was cited by the author of the second.)
It isn't that I'm terribly fond of my mask. I hate it, really. It feels disingenuous, and I hate dishonesty. I'd rather know you hate me for my past than think that you likely would if you just knew it. (No "you" in particular, there; all of you, world.) That's part of why I'm grateful for the other person with me in list 2. The thing is, somebody I trust once suggested that my mask is my gift to those around me.
I know he didn't mean to imply that my true self is hideous. He's a gentle soul, with wisdom and wit and a deep love for God. He didn't express a trace of revulsion toward me, and was understanding of my quandary.
"I feel I'm being dishonest with everyone who thinks they know me," I told him, several years after having dealt with and worked through my great failing, yet still feeling less than fully resolved over it. (This has a really long half-life.)
"I understand," he replied gently (I'm paraphrasing; it's been at least 8 years). "It's a testimony to your character that you feel that way." (My friend Tom had said as much.) "But when you share this with others, you lay a great burden on them. By the time you trust someone enough to feel you ought to tell them, they'll feel obliged to forgive you, and it's likely to be very difficult for them to do so."
I suppose he was telling me that the people I love and respect would likely quote Rich Mullins to me, never dreaming that they'd be asking more of themselves than of me, and that I'd be pretty selfish to put them to that test. So that leaves me longing for the authenticity and simplicity that I seem to have forfeited forever.
The simple truth is that it doesn't matter how many people are in list 1 as long as I remain in list 2. Also,
It would be the epitome of arrogance for me to approach life as if somehow Christ's sacrifice is sufficient for everyone else's sins (after all, I'm quick to offer grace to others) but mine. But sin has many burdens beyond the spiritual alienation that is its greatest; all other burdens serve to dissuade one away from sin so as to avoid this separation. One other of these burdens would seem to be my mask.
Sometimes I struggle to remember, or to fully believe, that Jesus' death was for a specific purpose, that He has borne the primary burden of my sin. I must keep my eyes upon him, and to do so I must believe in Him. I mustn't, for instance, dwell overlong on whether all of Christianity has somehow been built on the desire of his followers to salve their disappointment.
For when my eyes aren't on Christ, the burden of my mask grows quote onerous again. At such times, it becomes a great millstone, and life is the raging sea. But with a word he calms the sea, and all I need do is to listen for his voice.
Then read here.
Though we're strangers still I love you
I love you more than your mask
And you know that you must trust this to be true
And I know that's much to ask - Rich Mullins
It isn't just our dressers and closets and pole barns that are jammed. That's the easy part to simplify. The harder part? Ceasing all of our complicated artificiality. - Lonni Collins Pratt, Benedict's Way
(I'm cheating, really. The first quote was cited by the author of the second.)
It isn't that I'm terribly fond of my mask. I hate it, really. It feels disingenuous, and I hate dishonesty. I'd rather know you hate me for my past than think that you likely would if you just knew it. (No "you" in particular, there; all of you, world.) That's part of why I'm grateful for the other person with me in list 2. The thing is, somebody I trust once suggested that my mask is my gift to those around me.
I know he didn't mean to imply that my true self is hideous. He's a gentle soul, with wisdom and wit and a deep love for God. He didn't express a trace of revulsion toward me, and was understanding of my quandary.
"I feel I'm being dishonest with everyone who thinks they know me," I told him, several years after having dealt with and worked through my great failing, yet still feeling less than fully resolved over it. (This has a really long half-life.)
"I understand," he replied gently (I'm paraphrasing; it's been at least 8 years). "It's a testimony to your character that you feel that way." (My friend Tom had said as much.) "But when you share this with others, you lay a great burden on them. By the time you trust someone enough to feel you ought to tell them, they'll feel obliged to forgive you, and it's likely to be very difficult for them to do so."
I suppose he was telling me that the people I love and respect would likely quote Rich Mullins to me, never dreaming that they'd be asking more of themselves than of me, and that I'd be pretty selfish to put them to that test. So that leaves me longing for the authenticity and simplicity that I seem to have forfeited forever.
The simple truth is that it doesn't matter how many people are in list 1 as long as I remain in list 2. Also,
- given how much affirmation I've already received, it is in fact most selfish - and perhaps neurotic - of me to want add anyone else to list 1 (so don't ask me!), and
- it would be most arrogant of you to think that you could make a difference being in list 1 when there are already so many good people there (so don't ask me!)
(Not to say that I'll never tell anyone else, just that those aren't good reasons.)
Sometimes I struggle to remember, or to fully believe, that Jesus' death was for a specific purpose, that He has borne the primary burden of my sin. I must keep my eyes upon him, and to do so I must believe in Him. I mustn't, for instance, dwell overlong on whether all of Christianity has somehow been built on the desire of his followers to salve their disappointment.
For when my eyes aren't on Christ, the burden of my mask grows quote onerous again. At such times, it becomes a great millstone, and life is the raging sea. But with a word he calms the sea, and all I need do is to listen for his voice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)