"It is the attitude we bring to spiritual reading that allows God to transform the text from interesting words to words with the power to change our very being."
~Marjorie Thompson, Soul Feast: An Invitation to the Christian Spiritual Life

I read many books that are meant specifically to inspire and transform people spiritually. I also read many books that contain factual information whose intention is to impart knowledge. At other times I read books that are meant to entertain, to distract me from the fits and starts of daily life and transport me to some other realm, to allow me to relax and renew.

It is not always the 'spiritual' books that are meant to transform that fill my spirit. Quite often it is the novel or the mystery that provides the hint of the spiritual that I need at that moment. Some of the clearest experiences of the Holy I have had while reading a yarn created by someone whose intention was to entertain but whose words opened a place within me that needed transforming.

Like most experiences in life, attitude and what we bring to a situation, colors the outcome. It is true in our reading,our work, our worship, our relationships. It is true in new experiences and ones we've done over and over. It is true in professional relationships, parenting, and with our partners. Attitude is key.

My mother has always said that, especially with children, when we expect the best of them we are rarely disappointed. If we expect the worst, they usually come through with less than pleasing behavior. Again, our attitude and what we bring makes all the difference.

There is much angst in our world right now. It is quite easy to allow the negative to rule our days. All the angst is real, founded in people's true suffering and systems that have failed us. And yet, I believe, that it is only the creative power of the positive that will open our eyes to the possibilities within this situation. If we wallow in the negative, if we allow the words we use to be merely interesting but not transforming, then there is no room for the Spirit to get into the mix. 

Ultimately the choice is ours. Changing the climate of our nation, of our world, is not primarily up to elected officials or those 'at the top' but up to regular people, like you and me, going about their daily lives, seeking out the words, the people, the situations, that have the power and promise of 'changing our very being.'

It seems to me it is the perfect time to expect the best of one another. I am willing to give it a try, are you?

"Sing praises to God, you faithful ones, and give thanks to God's holy name. For the anger of God is but for a moment; God's favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning."  Psalm 130

These final Sundays in the season of Epiphany,of seeking to see the light of God in our midst, find us reading some of the healing stories of Jesus. Tucked in the readings that are possible for next Sunday is Psalm 30. It is a psalm of thanksgiving for healing.

Healing is a difficult concept to get our arms around. While healing is not the same as curing, I believe it is always about bringing about wholeness. In our culture when we speak of healing we most often talk about cure…some miraculous event that rids people of a terrible disease or injustice. It would be wonderful if that was always the case but it has been my experience that this kind of miracle is rare. Not impossible, but rare.But in the times when I have been present to healing, wholeness always shines brightly.

Yesterday as we struggled through this psalm in preparation for next week's worship, we talked about the image of God portrayed in the words. People were uncomfortable with a God who is angry and certainly a God who appears to knowingly cause pain. Further into the psalm, the writer says 'you hid your face' which most of us did not embrace. We agreed that most often it is we who hide our face from God not the other way around. And we agreed that it is in these times that we most experience pain.

In the end we came to the conversation about how all the words we use to speak of the Holy are inadequate. While we know this to be true, we often forget. This leads to arguments with the scriptures, with others on the faith journey, with our churches, our faith leaders, with other faith traditions. We talked about how we express our faith today is so different than we might have even a few short years ago. Different people expressed how certain times in their lives, in the presence of fear or illness or tragedy, they found themselves praying in ways that were so different than they did when their lives were much calmer, more ordinary.

It caused me to wonder: these words, songs written by a people in exile, a people so in need of healing and their own sense of place, represented a certain time in the life of a nation. Would they have written these poems differently, had they known that thousands of years later, people would be 'taking them at their word'? Would they have described God as an angry God, as a vengeful God? Would they have used the metaphors they used if they would have known people, living lives they could not even imagine, would try to analyze, scrutinize and, for some, seek to take their words literally? It is difficult to know but something interesting to consider.

Every year our confirmation class writes their faith statement at the end of their year long study together. Many of the students follow the outline and words of people from a different time, with a different worldview, statements held by the church for centuries. Others take the challenge by the horns and put out there what they really believe, right now, as a sixth-grader living in uncertain, postmodern times. As I listen to their words, I always wonder what they will think of them  if they read them at 25, 40, or even at 70.

It is my hope that they, like the psalmists, might see their statements as words that were true for them at a special moment in time, at a certain step along their journey. And as they read them, they might experience a moment of knowing what it means to be a part of the wholeness that is the people of God, ever moving, every growing, ever seeking to know and to speak more fully about the One who birthed us and dreamed us into being. And in the end that they will be filled with grateful hearts.

"The people realized that God was at work among them in what Jesus had just done. They said, "This is the Prophet for sure, God's Prophet right here in Galilee!" Jesus saw that in their enthusiasm, they were about to grab him and make him king, so he slipped off and went back up the mountain to be by himself.In the evening this disciples went down to the seas, got in the boat, and headed back across the water to Capernaum. It had grown quite dark and Jesus had not yet returned. A huge wind blew up, churning the sea. They were maybe three or four miles out when they saw Jesus walking on the sea, quite near the boat. They were scared senseless, but he reassured them, "It's me, it's all right. Don't be afraid." So they took him on board. In no time they reached land on the exact spot they were headed to. ~John 6:14-21(The Message)

Last night the sunset over the lake was breathtaking. Those of us here at the retreat center stood looking out the large windows that face the water as the sky turned from blue to lavender, then pink to orange and yellow, painting a palette worthy of any Impressionistic artist. How does it happen? Why does it happen?

I don't know the answer to those questions but I know what the result is: awe, wonder, a sense of being present to something so much bigger than myself that I must stop and take note of it, perhaps breathe out a prayer of gratitude.

On the frozen lake, the ice houses dot the landscape with color…reds, blues, yellows…..tiny structures floating on water. Sitting beside the houses, trucks, cars and 4-wheelers, are in the ready for a quick, or leisurely, get-away, most likely driven by the windchill that sweeps across the lake. It is a truly Minnesota scene. There are few other places on the planet where people don't blink at such a sight. Houses, cars, lives being lived out held up by water.

The ancients believed that evil lurked below the surface of water, things unseen over which humans have no power. So the stories of Jesus walking on water showed his power to overcome the fears that can grip us. As he walked toward the disciples they knew that he indeed was the prophet they had longed for, the one who could over turn the tables of injustice, the one who could release them from their fear of the most unseen thing of all…death. He walked with confidence on the surface of what had the potential to swallow them up.

On the frozen Minnesota lake, suspended between the awe and majesty of the Creator's artistic hand, people sit now. They may not be having any particular transcendent moment or thinking thoughts about overcoming evil. But I bet they are sure having fun……and God is at work in that, too.

"I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they are my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
    from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
    and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
     with a cottonball lamb
     and ten verses I can say myself………"
 ~excerpt, Where I'm From, by George Ella Lyons

I ran across this poem on a website the of Jan L. Richardson, a writer and artist I admire, one who inspires me. I have found it to be one of those poems that travels with me. I can't stop thinking about it.

Last night, I worshiped with some of my colleagues in ministry and those who are walking through the ordination process in the United Methodist Church. We have come together for interviews, for hearing the call stories of those who have felt nudged, pulled, shoved, into a life of service in the church. I have been privileged now for three years to be a part of this process. It is a holy time for me. Hearing the joys and struggles of these people, what they have learned, let go of, abandoned, held on to with white knuckles, what they have sacrificed to get to this point, always humbles and astonishes me.

We used this poem "Where I'm From" last night in our worship. After it was read, those gathered were invited to name aloud the places they were from. They were allowed a time to name the shape and texture of the land that had shaped them. They were asked to offer the names of the saints that had held their hands and rocked them to sleep. They were urged to dig deep into their psyche and offer to one another and to God what it was that had held them in Mystery until this day.

To say this was a powerful experience would be an understatement. "I'm from cotton fields, cornbread…..I'm from rolling hills and blooming prairies….I'm from coal mines and pie-baking women…I'm from the lake that is so deep it holds the secrets of countless boats in its depths….I'm from a father who taught me to fish even though I wasn't the first-born boy………." On and on it went creating a massive poem in the sacred space of the tiny chapel.  I watched the faces as the memories clouded and shone. My eyes filled with tears as we called into our midst the cloud of witnesses that had birthed, blessed and nurtured us, not all human but all Divine.

After the speaking, the chapel was full of light in a way that was nearly transcendent. It was a moment of the in-breaking of the the kin-dom of God. The ancients would have built an altar.  What a blessing……..

Where are you from?

“I am the unopened bud, and I the blossom,
I am the lifeforce gathering to a crest,
I am the still companion of the silence,
I am the farflung seeker of the quest,
I am the daughter gathering wisdom,
I am the son whose questions never cease,
I am the dawn-light searching out glad justice,
I am the center where all souls find peace."
~     Caitlin Matthews, Celtic Devotional

This past Saturday
could be described as nothing short of glorious. Here in the Twin Cities the
temperature reached 45 degrees. After weeks of never going above freezing, this
break in the weather seemed absolutely a miracle. People headed outside in
droves. We happened to be among them walking through the Como Zoo. Children,
still dressed seasonally in snowsuits, were red-cheeked having thrown off
their hats and mittens, as their sweaty hair stuck up in wild directions.
Adults, so accustomed to layering on garments, were carrying fleeces and
jackets rolled up under ever-visible arms.

But
aside from their outerwear, it was the look on their faces that was the true
glory. Smiles all around as people once again looked one another in the eyes,
nodding, grinning from ear to ear, no longer hunkered down amid down and wool.
The looks seemed to say:"There is life teeming here, even under dirty snow
and cars caked with salty residue. There is life here!"

It
all seemed to fit the ancient Celtic calendar where spring begins on February
1st. Spring hinted its entrance to us on Saturday, planting hope and promise in
our minds, causing us to release muscles tensed by brutal temperatures and darkness. As
people who knew well the gifts of the seasons, the Celts created celebrations
to mark the thresholds that lead us from winter to spring, from spring to
summer, from summer to autumn. from autumn to winter. They also recognized the
wisdom of each season and how those relate to the seasons of our lives. It is
wise living to see our passages of time in this way. It helps keep us connected
with both Creation and Creator.

We
know that the thaw of these last couple of days will not last. There are still
frigid temperatures to endure. But the glorious gift of Saturday is that it
helped us remember that beneath the frozen ground, life is beginning to wake
up, bulbs are reaching toward the sun, grass is remembering itself. In the
limbs and trunks of trees, the motion of growth is moving upward toward leaves
that are yet to be.

And
we human ones, we are mining the gifts of this winter to bring to birth what
this new year, this spring, this season will hold for us. It is yet unknown, a
gift, a glorious gift, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be lived.

As I continue on my "read-the Bible-in-a-year" program, I concluded the Book of Job yesterday morning. Whew! For those who don't know or need a refresher, this book of the Bible consists of the main character Job being put through a slew of horrible experiences, his anger with God, his friends ridiculing him unmercifully, his getting more and more depressed, and finally his direct encounter with God that caused him to see how God had been present to him all along…..even when it didn't seem like it. The phrase "having the patience of Job" comes from this story. Job certainly needs a lot of patience as he works through his understanding of who God is, and perhaps what God isn't, and how God is working in his life.

But something jumped out at me yesterday as I was reading the ending chapter of the book. At the end of the book, Job has had what might be referred to as a rebirth experience and is ready to live a life that is in communion with God. In the paraphrased version of The Message the story ends this way: "God blessed Job's later life even more than his earlier life. He ended up with fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, one thousand teams of oxen, and one thousand donkeys. He also had seven sons and three daughters. He named the first daughter Dove, the second Cinnamon, and the third Darkeyes. There was not a woman in that country as beautiful as Job's daughters. Their father treated them as equals with their brothers, providing the same inheritance."

This took on particular significance later in the day as I read about the first bill Barak Obama signed as president: the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act. This bill allows women who have been paid less than men for doing the same work to sue their employers within a more reasonable amount of time. It is named after Lilly Ledbetter who worked side-by-side with her male colleagues for 19-years not knowing that they made more money than she based solely on their gender.

For years many women in the workplace have made less than their male counterparts. Never is this truer than in the places where the women who work need the money the most. Often it is single mothers working long hours at low wages, often under horrible conditions, who make less than the fathers who work just down the conveyor belt from them. Many, like Lilly, either don't know the facts or are frightened to confront their employers. No one…mothers, fathers, or children…wins in this situation.

So I was heartened by the news in the paper for once. I was filled with hope that Job's daughters and Job's sons can find equal respect through a new law that further protects everyone regardless of gender. It was a day when one of the oldest texts in the scriptures met the black and white of my morning paper. While none of us can hope to live 'another hundred and forty years' like Job did,the scriptures end his story with the words: Then he died-an old man, a full life.

I think most of us would wish for the same.

Have a blessed weekend…………………

"Watch the dust grains moving
in the light near the window.
Their dance is our dance.
We rarely hear the inward music,
but we're all dancing to it nevertheless,
directed by the one who teaches us,
the pure joy of the sun,
our music master."
      ~Rumi

I shared these words of the ancient Sufi mystic at our staff meeting yesterday. They are words that really capture my imagination. On these particularly cold winter days, when the sun shines so brightly as it reflects off the snow's whiteness, I have seen those dust particles dancing. I love watching them, knowing that for the most part, they are invisible at other times. Certainly they are floating in the air all the time but are lost to our eyes without the brilliance of the sun's rays. They swirl and dip, they spiral and hover, dancing in the light that makes them visible.

Rumi's words made me wonder about the many dances we do. Sometimes my daily dance seems choreographed to a tee, I know the steps, I execute them with precision and skill. Other days, the music of my life calls only for the jerky improvisation of modern jazz. I move from one step to another, leaping and falling, mostly trying to stay out of the way of myself and others. Still other days I am wearing tap shoes, my shoes moving across the hard floor with each shuffle, ball/chain, dancing as fast as I can to a music that propels me to a big finish for the day, a music that is familiar and brings me great joy.

What are the dances you do? What dance is your life calling you to today? Is it an elegant, gliding ballroom number or a hip-hop dance that leaves you breathless and exhausted? Who are your dance partners or are you doing a solo piece for your own enjoyment? Or yet, is today a day when you are called to be a 'wallflower' and sit this one out, watching, observing,holding the space for the other dancers in your midst?

Whatever the dance you are called to today, may the bright light of the sun make your movements shine for all to see. And may your inward music bring you closer to the music master that teaches us the gift of all our steps, all our days, for all  our time.

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to who this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed." ~Albert Einstein, What I Believe

Last night I stood in the line at the grocery store buying a few items for a potluck lunch that is happening today. I love looking in the carts of other people, noticing what they buy, imagining their lives outside the grocery store line. As I gazed into the cart of the man in front of me, he hefted a large bag of ice onto the checkout counter. I nearly laughed out loud.

Ice! How could anyone need any more of it?, I thought. It seems we have been surrounded by ice for weeks as the temperatures have hovered near or below zero. Ice covers our lakes, our ponds, our sidewalks. Huge chunks of ice float in the Mississippi River. I see it as I cross over its body several times a day. Icicles hang from roofs and eaves of houses and buildings, glistening like jewels in the winter sun, threatening to fall and impale those with the courage to walk beneath their sword-like structures.

On Friday evening we headed down to Rice Park in St. Paul to look at the ice sculptures being created for the Winter Carnival. Huge blocks of ice stood reflecting the twinkling lights hung on the trees in the park. Men and women dressed for Arctic temperatures used chainsaws, torches and other tools to carve the art of their imagination out of ice. As they carved, a fine spray of ice flew into their faces,clinging like snow to their scarves and beards. There were dolphins,palm trees, a fountain of unicorns and even the Lord's Supper preserved in ice. I wonder what DaVinci would think of his immortal painting recreated in such a manner?Somehow I think it would amuse him.

These artists are not only undaunted by the presence of January ice in Minnesota, they embrace it and use it to make us smile and fill us with wonder. What a gift! Robert Frost in his famous poem 'Fire & Ice' wonders whether or not the destruction of the world will come through fire or ice. I am humbled by the artists who see ice, not as a vehicle for destruction, but instead to lift us above the January doldrums and help us see ice as the mystery it is…..water become solid and shining before our very eyes, a fleeting gift of winter to be enjoyed and savored as much as we do the heat of the July sun.

"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond."
    ~Rumi

I ran across this poem yesterday while searching through a book for something else. I have come back to this poem, written hundreds of years ago, many times. It is challenging, isn't it? The idea that even our sorrows, even our down times are guests that are meant to offer us gifts. That even a meanness or malice carry things we should invite into our lives. It seems to require an openness to daily life that most of us would want to avoid. I know I do.

And yet in the very next breath I can utter that "God is everywhere, in it all, moving in the cells of my body and the ideas of my imagination. The Holy is in our relationships and the turning of the seasons, the birth of a baby and the death of an elderly friend." If this is a truth I cling to, why then is the idea that the Divine is also moving and making meaning in the more desperate moments of our lives so difficult to embrace? There are so many possible answers to that question and greater minds than mine have spent years writing, discussing and theorizing about them.

Instead, today, I want to make myself a guest house. I want to open the windows, clean the cobwebs out of the corners, and let the fresh air of the Spirit blow through the moments and the hours of this day which is, lest we forget,  pure gift. I want to keep awake to each detail that makes up the comings and goings of this day, noticing especially the rich and beautiful faces of those I meet, and not miss a single minute. I want to set a feast of hope on my table and make a dessert of love and compassion. And then I want to accept with gratitude the guests that arrive. Perhaps in embracing this wisdom of Rumi, I will encounter the gifts of the Holy in new ways.

Join me?

"Cold, Cold,
Frost, Frost,
Fling me not aside!
You have bent me enough.
Away! Away!"
  ~Aivilik Eskimo Chant

Winter is getting to people. I know it is true because, here in Minnesota, people are beginning to have that far-away look in their eyes. Their bodies are here in the ice and the, now dirty snow, but their eyes are looking into the future, toward a warm place, a place that doesn't seem gray and dingy. People have begun to wear the same dark clothes over and over. Blacks, browns, grays, that is all we can muster the enthusiasm for. If by chance we walk past someone in a bright color it seems, not beautiful, but gaudy. Winter is definitely getting to us.

January, frankly, is the time to lean toward our creative side. While people may be dressed in dark colors they are knitting bright red sweaters as a woman I saw last week was doing.Dressed in gray, she held the bright red yarn gently as her hands worked methodically. Seated next to her, a woman in black, worked the rich colors of a rainbow into a prayer shawl. They both seemed to be holding a string between the dullness of January and the promise of lighter, more colorful days. Writers I know hole up in January days to bring to birth the seeds of words they hold within them. Cooks try new recipes, woodworkers head to the workshop, musicians practice a little harder. Songs are born.

There are gifts that live within each season, each month. January finds us looking deeper for the gifts. Which is a good practice to have. This can encourage us to do the same with  people in our lives that may seem to be more January than June…….those people that seem cold, distant, a little removed. These January people are waiting for the gifts to be mined in them. Strapping on our hats,headlamp shining,we head into our interactions looking for the brilliant color that lies some place in depth of the darkness. January can teach us this.

On this winter day, on this winter weekend, may you find a splash of color, a place of warmth, a good book, a steaming cup, to hold you in these last days of January. I invite you to look for the gifts that are always lurking some place just below the surface. 

Have a wonderful weekend…………………………………