Something More

In our Sunday morning class, we're reading through Barbara Brown Taylor's book, An Altar in the World. In her introduction, she wonders what folks mean when they describe themselves as "spiritual." She writes, "it may be the name for a longing - for more meaning, more feeling, more conncection, more life. When I hear people talk about spirituality, that seems to be what they are describing. They know there is more to life than meets the eye. They have drawn close to this 'More' in nature, in love, in art, in grief. They would be happy for someone to teach them how to spend more time in the presence of this deeper reality . . .Who has the key to the treasure box of More?"

I think I know the answer to that question, "who has the key?" It's Taylor's answer, too. You do.

We go through our daily lives, attending to the things that demand attention, following the routine (walk the dog, water the plants, answer email, solve problems, fight traffic, wait in the check out line, prepare a meal, do the laundry) that absorbs our energy and, due to its sameness or its hurriedness, can suck the life right out of us. No wonder we long for More.

Here's the irony: the More is in the midst of the ordinary. It's the very fact of our living itself that gives rise to that blessed sense of More. I don't know about you, but I can't plan for my experience of More. It always takes me by surprise. I blindsides me when I take a little pause and just pay attention to what I'm doing. Walking the dog, and noticing her beauty of her gait, her joy in the adventure, or the glory of the morning. Watering the plants, and seeing that the tomatoes are turning red. Answering email, and sharing a goofy joke that makes me laugh out loud. Standing in the check out line, and watching a young mother coo at her baby. In these moments, these ordinary, everyday moments, I connect somehow with that thing that is at my core, that thing that reminds me that I am a part of something larger than myself, and I am moved to awe.

These moments are just as powerful, just as spirit-filled as Sunday mornings in the sanctuary and quiet moments of prayer. What I need is to simply notice them, or as the Buddhist teachers would say, to be mindful of them. The More is all around me, when I simply awaken to it.



Barbara Brown Taylor's book, An Altar in the World, was published in 2009 by HarperOne.

Easter Blessings

The church courtyard is full of children, laughing, running, looking for the Easter eggs which have been "hidden" along ledges and under bushes. The sun is warm. A cross of calla lilies has been erected.

Folks of all ages are eating breakfast - long time members, brand new visitors, homeless folks who've wandered in from the park down the street. Eggs, scones, cereal, juice and coffee. There is food enough. There is welcome. There are smiles for everyone.

It's easy to be happy on a bright spring morning with perfect weather and good friends around. And if that's all there were too it, we'd all be happy all of the time. But we're brand new on this side of Holy Week. We worked hard to get here.

But this is the Easter promise. That our deepest fears, our empty hours and our flowing tears do not defeat the promise of life. Life is full of grace and miracles, just like this sunny-drenched morning.

Will there be troubling times ahead. Yes, of course there will be. But we know that morning will come, and hope will come, and grace will come. No matter what.

Happy Easter.

At the End of Lent

We are in the last week of Lent. How did that happen? Where did that time go? It seems like just days ago I was burning palm leaves for Ash Wednesday.

I have not been as disciplined as I might have hoped this season. I wanted to journal. I didn't. I wanted to be more mindful of how I was eating. I wasn't.

These days that are meant to be a time for reflection have become consumed with the busy-ness of doing: worrying about the budget, a difficult and disappointing set of meetings in Cleveland, several deaths in the congregation, and an orthopaedic problem that is requiring painful physical therapy. This has not been the time for paying attention for which I'd hoped.

Oh, but wait. Maybe that's just what Lent is about. The recognition that life is brief, and busy, and painful. And even in the middle of all of that, God is.

Maybe I can let myself off the hook for not journaling and for still driving through the fast-food joint. Maybe what I really can focus on is the gift of my life, with its trials and pains, and give thanks.

In one of our Lenten classes this year, we tried to put words to our spiritual journeys using the discipline of haiku. Admittedly not accomplished at this, here is what I wrote:

Remember. It's not
just do or don't. Breathe. Grace. Peace.
Opening the heart.

There's no grace-free zone
wherever I am, God is
and goodness abounds.

Blessings to you as we move into Holy Week, and ready our hearts for Easter joy.

I Thank You for Those Things that Are Yet Possible

Ted Loder is a retired United Methodist minister. He's written several books of poems, prayers and reflections. His use of language, his grappling, and his honesty all resonate deeply with me.

I find that I turn to Loder more and more for my own meditation and quiet time, yet his writings are also a rich resource for poems and prayers that I use on Sunday mornings. I have recently started using some of his poetry in memorial services.

Last Sunday I used a portion of one of Loder's poems in a memorial service that truly was a wonderful celebration of life. It is entitled "I Thank You for Those Things that Are Yet Possilble," and it's from his book, Guerrillas of Grace. Here is the bit that I read:

O God of timelessness
and time,
I thank you for my time
and for those things that are yet possible
and precious in in:
daybreak and beginning again,
a word of forgiveness,
and sometimes a song,
for my breathing . . .my life.

Thank you
for the honesty which marks friends
and makes laughter;
for fierce gentleness
which dares to speak the truth in love
and tugs me to join the long march towards peace;
for the sudden gusts of grace
which rise unexpectedly in my wending from dawn to dawn;
for children unabashed,
wind rippling a rain puddle,
a mockingbird in the darkness,
a colleague and a cup of coffee;
for all the mysteries of loving,
of my body next to another's body;
for music and silence,
for wrens and Orion,
for everything that moves me to tears,
to touching,
to dreams,
to prayers;
for my longing . . . my life.



Ted Loder, Guerrillas of Grace. (San Diego: LuraMedia, 1984) p. 42

January Dreaming

It's been a while since I've posted on this blog. The busy days of December gave way to a bit of January duldrums that I've been trying to shake off. And then, suddenly, it was January 20, 2009.

When Barack Obama raised his hand, swore a solemn oath and became the 44th president of this country, we grew up a bit. His presidency speaks to me of our ability to act on hope instead of fear and to call upon our better natures as members of the human collective.

My dream for this new year is that the enthusiasm and the optimism that was so palpable on the mall in Washington, in a crowd that actually was as diverse as we imagine that we are, can carry us beyond our selfish and petty concerns. My dream, my prayer for us all, is that we really do all grow up, take responsiblity for one another, and live into a world where justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream.

My Advent Journey

The liturgical year is a great thing. As someone who grew up in a church that did not observe the church seasons, I was used to moving directly from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Throughout all of December, we sang Christmas carols and focused on the joy of the birth of a baby, God’s own child.

As an adult, I have embraced the liturgical seasons, with their shifting colors, moods, and songs. The joy and celebration of Christmas is, for me, enhanced by the time of preparation and reflection during these four weeks of Advent.

One of my habits during Advent is to set up an Advent wreath. Many evenings, after Gail has gone to bed, I sit in the quiet and darkened house, light the candles, and rest in solitude, watching the flames, and allowing my thoughts to wonder. I turn over the words in my head: hope, peace, joy, love. I think about how I experience these things – not just as emotions or fleeting moments, but how my own living is sustained and nurtured by these Advent longings:
What are my hopes and dreams?
Am I at peace with myself and with others?
How and where I find joy?
How the love that I have for others and the love that I receive strengthen me, complete me, and make me a better person?

We are near the end of the first week of Advent. I hope you will join me on this wonderful journey.

An Advent Prayer

November 30 is the first Sunday of Advent. In the liturgical year, or the church year, Advent is a time of watching and waiting, a time of hope, of expectation and preparation. It is getting ready for the coming of the Christ, the miracle of God’s presence with us, among us, within us.

For me, one of the deeply satisfying aspects of observing the liturgical calendar is the rhythm that it creates and the cycle that it follows. It helps to keep me from moving too quickly through life. It marks off time, creates boundaries, and says to me, “In this time, think about these things.”

It would be easy to rush into Christmas. The mood is joyful, the songs are beautiful, and it is a wonderful celebration. But the ancients who developed this liturgical season understood that we must take time to prepare in order to fully appreciate and respond to God’s great gift to us. And in this day and age, with the partying, shopping and eating rush that besets us all between Thanksgiving and December 24, so much more than ever, we need this season of quiet watchfulness.

Advent is a gift of time – a great opportunity for us to slow down, to focus, and to make ready our hearts and our lives for the fullness of God’s presence. I offer this prayer for Advent:

Holy One, we experience your presence in many ways: the majesty of a star-filled sky, the coolness of the night breeze, the gentleness in a mother’s touch, the fragile tenderness of a newborn child. May we open our hearts, open our imaginations to all the ways that that your love and your grace touch our lives.

In this Advent time of watching and waiting, may we be newly aware of all of the possibilities that exist for us in this life: the ability to love and to be loved, the opportunities for forgiveness and for reconciliation, the potential that we each have to reach out to one another and to care for one another.

God, may we find the courage to cast off the shackles of the past, the worries, the fears, and the disappointments that hold us back and keep us from acting courageously and that stop us from taking chances. May our faith be strengthened: our faith in you, in one another and in ourselves that we might live more boldly, acting with compassion and working toward your realm of justice. May we both envision and strive for a future where all of your children will live in peace.

God, we want to be people who live in hope, not in fear, people who look forward with expectation, not backward or who live only in the past. May we be people whose open hearts and open minds make it possible for your spirit to be born in us every day. Amen.