Easter Lessons

So what is Easter about?  I ask my kids on the car ride up to Rochester.

"Bunnies!  Chicks! Candy!" my six year old responds. "It's about Spring, and all the new life that gets born this time of year."

"It's a reminder that no matter what happens, it is good to have hope.  Things will get better,"  my eight year old adds.

We talk about our cat that died last year, and the new kittens we have come to love.  We talk about the people we know who are going through a difficult time.

They get the idea, repeating back to me the story of hope and new life we've celebrated each year. But I remember my daughter's question a few weeks ago- "Why do they call it Good Friday?" Plus we're going to my mom's church on Sunday this year, so I feel like I better prepare them.

I tell them the Christian story- Well, this is what Christians believe...  Actually I preface it- This is what many Christians believe.  Because I don't limit Christians to a belief in bodily resurrection; there are plenty I know for whom the call to follow Jesus with the heart is the compelling story, not the belief in the supernatural.  I don't go into the historical development of the story, or the difference between mythos and logos; though Karen Armstrong's A Case for God lies in my backpack,  we'll save the history of religion for another time.

I wonder what my kids think of my religion.  They know I am a Unitarian, but am I also a Christian? They know- Mom likes God stuff; Dad does not.  But we are all UU's, and that part they get.  I actually don't really know myself if I am Christian; nor do I think it matters.  I love Jesus, and I love the tradition.  The songs and prayers of my Catholic youth sing in my blood- and on my ipod; I relish the cup of salvation on a street corner with homeless men and women many a Sunday after my Unitarian service has ended; and I have even taken on occasion to attending the local Presbyterian church.  The Christian threads in me are not ones of belief, but of legacy and heart. I find meaning in the rituals, and besides- as my eight year old daughter says when I have finished telling her about Easter-

Christians have really cool stories.

~~
The night before Easter and I am visiting the Unitarian church in Rochester. I come here now about once a year; it's strange to find my name tag with the "ask me about soul matters" logo still sitting on the rack.  Feeling a bit shy and striving for some anonymity, I tuck it into my purse. Tonight I think how different this church is from my own small fellowship back home.   A rock band opens with U2- When Love Comes to Town; there are no dark blue hymnals and we do not sing Spirit of Life.  Words and pictures flash across a large screen. I enjoy it all, but only when we enter into the spirit of prayer and meditation do I feel a familiar sense of holiness and home.

The sermon is wonderful- as expected.  Rev. Kaaren's imagery and humor is fantastic- and I find myself following her to some dim lit East Village lounge, chatting up the gospel writers over Turkish coffee. This is certainly a clever way to welcome Easter with inquiring, skeptical minds.  Her personal story and message move me- and her- to tears.  The message resonates: unconditional love goes on, and must be shared with others beyond death.

There is also this idea of recognition- or lack of it- that strikes me.  How over and over in the gospels the risen Lord is never recognized by those who loved and knew him most.  She reads Tess Gallagher's poem- The Hug- and some of the recent events of my own life link up. I think of my dream of Mary Magdalene leading me into "the garden", and of my recent encounter at Grand Central Station with a couple homeless spiritual teachers.  And I think of this call I keep having to come back to the streets, that in this place with the broken, the cup of salvation make sense, and in this place how my heart is waking, recognizing, whispering,"Rabboni".

And so too, this message: Resurrection is everywhere; it is simply that we do not recognize it.  And God walks among us, not just in the spring flowers, but in the broken, the lonely, the lost people of this world, the ones we walk on by.

On the way out the door, I too am embraced by what feels to me a 'masterpiece of connection'.  Just a moment that means much to be recognized and seen. And I remember the wholeness I have felt so many times within those Unitarian doors, these moments of connection that remind me of who I am, and compel me with joy to then rush forth from an empty tomb of myself into the world- proclaiming this message of love and celebration of life.

And so too, Easter is about the student awakening to her own call; of Mary Magdalene running forth from that tomb, to share the Good News with those still locked in fear. I do believe there is a close link between that which saves us, and that which calls us.  And we are called each of us to go forth into this world, awake and alive.

~~

Easter morning.  Church again.  The Catholic mass in a borrowed historic building. Halleluah chorus.  The place my oldest daughter was baptized.  Same faces of my childhood greet and welcome, preach a sermon of God's love and our own inherent worth. We sing "Jesus Christ is Risen Today", and my six-year old raises her voice beautifully following along. My eight-year old seems bored, coloring through most of the service. They are both amused by the renewal of Baptismal vows (sprinkling of waters), and perplexed by the Holy Communion (why do you eat that paper?).

Later I ask the girls what they thought of the service; it was long, and I am always curious what they make of all the God language.

"I thought it had a good message. It was about being kind to people," my eight year old says.

"Which part?" I ask.

She reminds me of one of the stories the priest told in his homily about a woman who had left her clothes on the clothesline.  During the night a man had come by and begun to steal her clothes.  The neighbors grabbed him and asked the woman if she wanted to call the police; but instead she noticed he was shivering and had some developmental disabilities, and so she went into her house for a coat, and put it around him.  She then told him- he was free to go.

The priest used this is an example of God's forgiveness and love.  It was stories like this that used to captivate me too as a kid.  My daughters never hear sermons in our UU church because they are always at RE by that time, and there is this idea in our Unitarian services that kids can't sit still (which to be honest, when it comes to my own church- they can't.  They do much better in churches that are less familiar.)

But I realize then that the message in the Catholic church and the message in the Unitarian church are the same.  And my kids get it. There isn't some grand myth that I need to recreate, or something else other than what we already have in all its scattered parts which makes the holiday meaningful.  Yes, it's about Spring- and things will get better.   And it's about being kind.  And we can see the resurrected God in the homeless man or the disabled thief or the woman sitting next to us on the train.  If we can forgive and love ourselves, and reach out our arms to the person we once disliked or despised or felt envy or resentment towards, then we are an extension of that all encompassing unconditional love. We are the resurrected life.

This is mythos and meaning enough- to celebrate the resurrected life that is all around us, and to recognize divinity rising in the most humble of corners. And this seems reason enough to sing Hallelluah today and every day.

Busyness and Meditation

I know there are quotes such as these from many traditions... I was trying to remember one I read recently from a Rabbi. This is going to be an intense next few weeks, with many emotions!...So now I am off to practice yoga, that I might be alert and awake and mindful and balanced and present to the gifts of this day: 

Half an hour's meditation is essential-- except when you are very busy.  Then a full hour is needed.  Saint Francis de Sale

Clearing a Space

The word contemplation comes from the Latin templum, meaning an open place, sanctuary, temple.  I have heard it spoken and relate most strongly to this idea that "to contemplate" means "to clear a space".  The meditation room and altar within are this space of sanctuary in my home; the river is this space at work.  Even the act of cleaning the room (or moving the laundry to the side), and setting the altar anew.  Today this meant removing the cat from her table-top perch (though the thought of worshipping her was tempting and on some days appropriate!), and rearranging the few remaining objects- a singing bowl, a candle and incense holder, palms from sunday's street side Ecclesia gathering, river rocks from today's trip to Plum Point.

Then music- tonight, a song of surrender- Take Lord Receive, on Holy Thursday eve.  Then silence.  Breath.   A clearing of the mind. A letting go.

The space within widens, and the heart expands.  I must remember all this at a time when the tasks before me appear overwhelming.  I found myself holding back tears of fear and frustration, as the words- How am I going to do all this?- went through my mind. I am reminded of my own daughter looking at packets of homework and literally freaking out with how much she has to do.  But I tell her, just a little at a time.  There is only the question right before you now.

And there is only the moment right before me now, I tell myself.  I have been here before, and know that this is sacred work.  I know that by being present and aware there is a spirit that has lived through me, through these hands, this voice, this heart.  I am reminded of my sister's wedding, of words and silence I have shared this year, of circles of healing and prayer I have participated in and led.   I am reminded of all who have held me, and of all whom I have held.  I am reminded too of the soul that is whole, beneath this brokenness, that opens and expands with the breath eternally and always as I let go.

It is Holy Thursday, and as I stare at the clock at this late hour, I am reminded of the story- the agony in the garden, the night of sleepless prayer.  But the tasks before me are not ones of sacrifice and death- except perhaps of that ego life.  There is always the dying of that small self that clings to the worries and the pride.  It is this I must surrender that I might live in the Spirit of all that is.   I remember the work before me is not mine alone, but there is a love- bestowed on me by so many, and by this earth, and by this silence- and it is this love I pray that will flow through me.  So it is not at all about "getting through the trials", but about awakening and rising and being born into new life.

For this I pray- to clear a space in me- that the interconnectedness of being, the spirit of love and life, the silence of all that is- might rise within.  And then through my mouth, my hands, my feet, that I may be the gift.

Amen.

Saturday Meditation for Peace

Peace radiates from a still center.  As I sat in the sanctuary with my friend, my children in the other room simultaneously ceased to argue and began to work together, creating a mural to welcome spring. And peace radiated from the deep center, as the wind below outside, and the sun through windows settled upon us.  So much devastating news in so many lives these past two weeks; the pull toward despair fallen like a shadow upon my shoulders- and in that moment, suddenly lifted.  And also from hers.  

And as we meditated, I prayed that this peace within would radiate out to all those in pain and trouble.  

And that it would move through this sanctuary into these halls and on these grounds and to the people of this whole church.  

And that through us too that there might flow into the world a gentle river of peace.

After, we walked those grounds and talked of those things of the Spirit that speak to and sustain our souls.  And my daughters looked for signs of spring-- the buds beginning on the cherry blossom tree we  planted last Easter, the magpies high in the birches, the melting snow revealing spring green clover patches on the earth.  

And as we move toward Spring and lean toward light, may we become the peace we wish to see in the world.  

Amen.

Musical Visions

I have been posting music videos in my last few posts, as so often the songs come into my head as often as thoughts throughout the day.  And in the evening, after I have tucked the kids in, it is listening to the music on my ipod and dancing (or twirling in the dark with candles and incense) that helps me to move into a sacred space.  Often I will play a song that has personal religious or symbolic meaning to me over and over, and through that song visions and poems will arise.  Then after fifteen to twenty minutes of this ecstatic dancing, I will be ready to sit and breathe and enter into prayer.  I will be ready for the holy quiet and intimacy of silence.

So today the words and music of the Beatitudes are still running through my head... But another one of my favorite songs that I played tonight was Blue Boat Home by Peter Mayer. As I listened, I had visions of a walk up a mountain with several friends of many faiths, races, nationalities, each holding his or her own story.  I envisioned a new world, where sorrows turned to gladness, and I experienced rituals of healing-- sage burning, smudging, weeping, holding one another, moving toward freedom.   In reality, I did enact a similar personal ritual on a Thanksgiving hike up the mountain, burning sage at the top.  That time I was alone though; now I hold the hope that I will walk this path and enact this healing ritual again with others.  Later in silence, the faces of those who walked with me came to me again- and I realized that this vision was also my prayer for all the people I hold at this time.

For all those I hold, here is the song- celebratory and joyful and life-affirming. The view from the top of that mountain is breathtaking and healing...and all we kindred pilgrim souls, both near and far, are on this journey together.

Blessed are You

Before I left the Hope Center yesterday, my spiritual director handed me a book on the Beatitudes (What Jesus Meant: The Beatitudes and Meaningful Life by Eric Kobell).  I began reading it on the train today, and have so far found it deeply resonant.  What a gift to hear again, for the first time, those richly beautiful verses in a new light.  In this month when so many lives of those around me have been troubled- cancer, loss, joblessness, poverty, violence, criticism and reprimand, dreams dashed and paths uncertain- and the wail of tears and prophetic voices rising in the midst- I read these words and my soul sings- You are blessed!  Rejoice and be Glad, for yours is the Kingdom of God!

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,
for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

Gospel of Matthew 5:3-10

The Angels of Grand Central Station

March marches on. The grounds are snow-covered again, though the sun lingers longer in the day.  I return to practice- yoga for balance, the light and the dark shadows battling in prayer. Beneath this white earth lies fertile soil, rich and dark.  And perhaps the longer the winter, the more resilient the spring.

I was not looking for an epiphany on Monday, but only a table where I could sit alone and read.  Later the song- take my worlds apart...I am on my knees- played through my mind as I ran the twenty blocks from Grand Central to the five-star hotel. The silent chords echoed down each block as I ran quickly to make it in time for a work appointment-- a gala tasting of goat cheese appetizers, tender prime rib, and French wine. I would have taken the subway, but the machines were not taking credit cards, and I had given my last few dollars to a man with a dirty beard and a bedraggled coat.

Lean in, the angels of Grand Central are speaking... we are broke, and broken...worlds apart.

I have seen, talked with- and more often than not, passed by- thousands of broken people who walk the streets and stations. And yet here, suddenly and unexpectedly I am filled with this overwhelming pull toward one that compels me to lean in.

I overhear snippets of a story, and remember words I have just read:

What does it mean that Jesus was divine, if we treat the homeless man in the alley as less than human? (J. Lockwood)*

I feel the unsettling in my belly; I am not insulated here.

My tears are for the homeless, the helpless, the hopeless, the abused and violated. I care about the divine because I care about them. (M. and G. Tittle)*

How are you? I ask, and he tells me a rambling story I can barely understand; but this is not the point. He is a navy vet. He is broke...or broken.  He is going to church...or not. But this too is not the point.

If it had ended there, it may have passed- another encounter, another day.  But after he told his story, and went his way, I changed tables, only to find myself near the unexpected avatar-- the bag lady with her cart wrapped in many scarves, speaking softly to herself... America, America... telling the story of her anti-war arrest.  Telling the story, though no one is listening, beneath her breath.  But I am feverishly scribing her words:  They say we are off to fight the terrorists...but we, America, are terrorists here. America, look yourself in the mirror.

~

I am repeating this story (parts of it) here on this page. Most of it I can't quite easily tell ...my first few attempts to communicate to another person failed miserably.  Only in the safe space of my spiritual director's office did I repeat- that I did not know anything except what I felt- the presence of God- and I was being asked to stay. What happens next? Angels do not show up to entertain... they arrive on our doorsteps when we least expect them, and they issue a command.  The prophecy is not empty.

~

Ten years ago this week, America invaded Iraq.

And thirty-three years ago this week, I am reminded, Oscar Romero- a prophet who spoke against the murder of his people in San Salvador by American-funded machines was shot through the heart as he broke bread with the poor- Take this and eat.

And still the machine of war rambles on, wrecking lives beneath.  The prophets and peacemakers of our world speak louder-- and if they are shot down, may other voices rise to join.

I lean in closer to speak.

From the grounding presence in my spiritual director's office, our conversation shifts from messengers to messages of peace.  He offers his vision-- a center for peace in this shattered city, this world of highland, deep river, and monastery, this city of guns and wrecking machine. Vision joins to vision; our ideas are seeds.  There are so many others who will share the tending of this ground.

For beneath the wreckage of this harsh winter lies the promise of a fertile spring.


(*These quotes are excerpted from Bless All Who Serve, on the page I had bookmarked in my pocket.)

I Will Wait

March roars...

I will wait, I will wait for you.

Monday night, the voice of trust.  The silence of a candlelit room, hands surrender, the spirit will rise.

And I'll kneel down.

Wait for you.

Tuesday at the Presbytery.  Chills and tears...to what I am called. Out of the boardrooms and the bedrooms, and into the streets.

Raise my hands

Paint my spirit gold.

Today we welcome 5 continents, women from every shore. The violence of the world has slaughtered-- but not the soul.  The women rise, return to promise and pave a new way.  

And bow my head

Keep my heart slow.

Drive home, beneath the crosses of Breakneck Ridge.  The song plays over and over on the radio; I am paying attention and letting go of this struggle for control.  I will trust.

Cause I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you

*with gratitude to Erin Dunigan, Amandine Roche, Marianne Eliot, and others...for inspirational intersections...  to Mumford and Sons for the song...  and to the still small voice: rising - reminding - letting go... More to come in days ahead. 

The Healed Healer

It has been a very full past few days-- including two days at Silver Bay. Every moment feels incredibly jam-packed and rich.  I want to sit still and unpack every bit, to understand myself more clearly, and to understand this world I find myself within.  But this is hard work, for when I do sit in silence I discover amongst the joy and excitement, that there are also the strands of tension- fear, jealousy, anxiety, desire.  I discover the shadow, which I would rather suppress.  Maybe this is why we avoid the stillness, why waiting seems interminable, why inner work is so often dismissed-- for to welcome silence is to engage in an encounter with the buried self.

And yet, it is necessary to unpack all of it, to notice and to see, to hold it and embrace it, and ultimately to let go and surrender. Tonight I read this line in The Inward Arc, by Frances Vaughn-- "Healing happens more easily through us when we allow it to happen in us." By healing, she means the movement toward wholeness, and provides a model of the "healed healer".

As I prepare for the next stage in my journey- the practicum portion of my training, where I will be meeting with people one-on-one to offer spiritual direction- I understand how essential it is to keep doing my own inner work, and to restore my spirit over and over again through contemplative practice. To do any less than this is unethical.  To serve from a place that is not whole is to be untrue to both myself and others.

And so I ask my beloved God and loving source of strength for the courage I need for the journey, to heal the little ghosts and demons that play in the shadows, to restore the wholeness of my being, and to offer through me a shared peace and presence with others.  Amen.