Loving Redemption

The Liturgy of the Palms: Luke 19:28-40 | Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29

The Liturgy of the Word: Isaiah 50:4-9a | Psalm 31:9-16 | Philippians 2:5-11 | Luke 22:14-23:56

From the invitation into the observance of a holy Lent on Ash Wednesday, we knew that it would culminate in our observance of Holy Week. But what are we observing, exactly? Heretofore, our primary focus has been on ourselves, focusing on our experiences, especially in regard to our sacrifices or additions that bring us to mindful attention to God’s presence in our lives. In Holy Week, given our cultural tendencies, we might place most of our focus on the crucifixion, the betrayal that led to it and the violence of it. But we are given a holy week to take in the story, even if we try to cram as much of it into today as we can in case you don’t come back until next Sunday. When we focus on the holiness of this week, let us turn our attention to the acts of love shown to us by Jesus.

  • We begin this week with our palms raised high with our cry of “Hosanna!” (“Save us!” or “Savior!”) We look to Jesus as Savior, the one who will save us, deliver us. He willingly goes before us, knowing that we hope but don’t fully understand.
  • Monday’s gospel lesson revisits the account of Mary anointing Jesus’ feet, which he lets her do and chastizes Judas for chiding her. Love often looks like calling out truth, be it beautiful or painful.
  • On Tuesday, Jesus’ words almost implore his followers to understand who he is and what is about to happen; he’s trying to prepare his followers, to give them understanding and insight as the time draws near. As frustrated as he may be, Jesus never forces anyone into understanding or submission.
  • Wednesday night, at the last of our Lent Soup & Study events, we will again have an agapé meal, a simple Eucharist around the table preceding our meal together. For us it’s a way we draw close to the experience of a meal between Jesus and the disciples, a feast rooted in love. In the gospel lesson that night, Judas betrays Jesus, yet Jesus continues to affirm that God has been glorified in the Son of Man. Jesus doesn’t prohibit Judas from doing what he has chosen to do, but many of us know the betrayal of a friend or loved one and how hard it is not to be attached to what they are doing, especially if it is destructive; it’s an extreme act of love.
  • Maundy Thursday we begin the Triduum by receiving the great commandment from Jesus to love one another, and we practice by washing one another’s feet as Jesus showed us, ending the service with the stripping of the altar. In our timeline, this might be the night Jesus was arrested, neither resisting nor condemning anyone.
  • Good Friday we observe the crucifixion of Jesus, from which he neither flees nor complains. Some of us will walk the Stations of the Cross to encounter more moments along the way when Jesus interacts with others, silently though it may be. Some may choose to make their confession as we, like Peter, realize that we have denied Jesus in thought, word, or deed. We will gather Friday night for the service that includes the recitation of Psalm 22 — “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” We will have a cross before us, and we can choose to bow before it in veneration, recognizing that Jesus’ ultimate act of love was his death.

What does it mean for us that we recount Jesus’ acts of love and remember that our redemption comes after a great suffering?

If we pay attention to our dreams, some of us have recurring dreams. They might be the exact same dream or some variation on a theme. I’m not trained in Jungian psychology or even in dream work, but the little I have dappled in both, dreams have something to teach us, something that is often nestled deeply in our subconscious. A recurring dream could suggest that we are experiencing a similar situation over again–like stress expressed in a dream of being in high school again and not finding your locker or schedule or being late or unprepared for a test (yes, that’s one of mine). A recurring dream could also indicate an insight that we’re being offered but haven’t given it enough attention to discern what it is that we have to learn.

Holy Week for me–increasingly so since I’ve been ordained–is much like a dream, and this year the words of Paul resonate with me like the voice of the narrator in a dream. Maybe it has something to do with the Bible study, where we’re taking our time reading Romans. (The more time you spend with anyone, the more they can grow on you, right?) Again, Paul is writing from prison, and he sends this letter to the Philippians. Someone described the portion we read today as a love song since it shows some of the characteristics of love songs from the time. There’s union, a union not to be exploited, and an emptying of self, all of which are ideals in a mutually loving relationship.

But this isn’t a romantic love, the love between Jesus and God or Jesus Christ and us. Paul tells the Philippians to be of the same mind as Christ Jesus. If we are of one mind with Jesus, our thoughts, words, and deeds will present in tender love and humility, in an endurance of suffering, and in enduring hope–all characteristics present in Jesus’ acts throughout this week. In all that we do, can we have Christ’s mind about us? Can we be at one with Christ? As Jesus emptied himself to experience fully the human condition even through suffering and death, is there something we need to empty ourselves of so that we can be faithful to God, follow Christ, and be who God created us to be? This kind of faithful obedience underscores the prayer from the Gospel according to Luke where Jesus says, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Giving ourselves to obedience to God and God’s will doesn’t mean we don’t make conscious decisions.

The invitation to a holy Lent and even into Holy Week is just that, an invitation. We could, like many others, not observe a thing, and our lives would continue. But for those of us who have given thought and awareness to the presence of God in our lives, meeting that with the recognition of Jesus’ acts of love might illumine for us how we can further reveal to others the presence of Christ in our lives, in all our suffering and all our hope.

 

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Going Through

Deuteronomy 26:1-11 | Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16 | Romans 10:8b-13 | Luke 4:1-13

There’s an unapologetically somber tone to our Lenten services. Lent, after all, is a season of penitence. You may recall from the Ash Wednesday service that Lent is a season when those who had been excommunicated–denied communion for one reason or another–were invited to pray, fast, repent, and return to commune with brothers and sisters in Christ. The season meant something to them, and I hope with all hope that it means something to us.

Because if we live a self-aware life, even in fleeting moments, we realize where we fall short. If we’re paying attention to our thoughts and intentions, our actions and inactions, we see pretty quickly our imperfections–unless you live into the prayer “God’s will be done” in every moment of every day. Because I don’t, as much as I would love to. My confessions are as earnest as yours. I promise. So we come to this holy season with humble and faithful obedience, aware of our mortality and imperfection. This humility takes us off any high horse we might have been on and brings us to our knees before our Almighty God.

And we might wonder “Why?” Why do I have to or need to feel penitent? Why can’t I just skip church this week or this month and put my time, talent, and treasure into whatever I feel is most important right now in my life, in the life of my family? Now is when we might start to get squirmy. I start to feel guilt coming on, that guilt from all the “shoulds” building up. But hear this: we have the power of choice. We can do what we feel we’ve got to do. Like I tell my kids, you decide what you’re going to do, but know that your decisions have consequences.

Cue our lesson from Deuteronomy. The book of Deuteronomy may be constructed as one book of laws and exhortations from Moses, but scholars tell us that this is a compilation of 150 years’ worth of writing. As such, it’s still considered part of the law of Moses, and I find it fascinating how these teachings find relevance in the lives of the faithful.

The lesson we have today focuses on when the Israelites have settled into the promised land, the land of milk and honey, and are given instruction on harvesting their first fruits. We may jump to the conclusion that they’re taking their gifts to the altar, giving them to God as an offering to God alone, but we’d be mistaken. The instructions are carried out in obedience to God, yes, but the reason for taking the first fruits is to provide for the widow, the orphan, the immigrant, the Levites who don’t have their own land, who aren’t self-sufficient. Those blessed by God know that the land they’ve settled, that they’ve come to “possess,” is theirs only by God, and if God commands them to provide for others as they have been provided for, so be it. God has proven to be faithful; the gift of land is certain yet conditional. It is theirs if they continue to be faithfully obedient.

In Deuteronomy, there are about 30 instances of the Israelites being instructed to remember and teach their stories, as if it were known that once they were settled, were comfortable, that they would be at risk of forgetting who they were, where they had come from, and who God is. If they forgot their story of once being an immigrant, of having made it through the wilderness, of having been protected and provided for by God, they were at risk of being protective of themselves only, of being competitive, of seeing all resources as theirs alone, of not providing for the other at the margins–the consequence of such behavior being exiled from the promised land.

Remember, I’m talking about ancient Israel, but this is part of our story, too. We bring our offerings to the altar in faithful obedience. We include the marginalized. We remember our deliverance. We celebrate a meal. We do so proclaiming a faithfulness to God through Jesus Christ. For us who confess Christ as Lord, who call upon the name of Jesus Christ, who believe in our hearts in the Resurrection, there is salvation. It’s not a one-time thing, this salvation. It’s an ongoing commitment, the ongoing retelling of our story of deliverance, of redemption, of practicing hospitality, of following the way of Jesus.

According to the gospel of Luke, Jesus is led by Spirit to the wilderness, where he fasts for 40 days, tempted all the while by Satan, the Adversary. Satan tempts Jesus with scripture to provide food, power, and deliverance. Jesus counters back with scripture in ways that truly say, “Not today, Satan.” Jesus knows the Word of God, is the embodiment of the Word. As he is fully human, he is not immune to temptation, nor is he immune to suffering. Jesus’ story in the wilderness is part of our story, too, collectively and individually.

Jesus doesn’t avoid the wilderness, putting it off until later or avoiding it altogether. He goes through it. At no point is God not present–in the person of Jesus and in ways beyond our understanding. As our ancients expressed an understanding that God sees us and hears our cries, like them, we believe that God pays attention, feels compassion, and is active in our lives through love and care, from which we are never separated even in suffering and death. Our understanding of God comes through our experience of Jesus Christ. This wilderness story is one of many that tells us Jesus has been there, too. He always has a way of having gone before us, and it is entirely of our own free will that we follow him.

We follow him in acts of love that provide for widows, orphans, strangers, and others without means to provide for themselves–through pantries, fostering, programs, assistance, mentoring, and advocacy. We do this because we know that it is not of our own position of privilege and power that we experience abundance: nothing is ours that wasn’t God’s first. Yes, that’s a strong theological claim, and you can disagree with me on it, but you would be hard-pressed to change my mind. I know I’m not the first person on this planet, nor do I believe I will be the last. I’m not powerful enough to lay claim to absolute ownership or possession to anything, despite what my ego might say and how we have to navigate our lives in this world.

And how we navigate our lives in this world reveals a lot about what we believe about who we are and whose we are. Do we live into our stories as a people of faith? Do we know our individual story as a child of God?

I said that I would offer us prompts to help us find words to use to benefit our own understanding so that when we have the opportunity to share our love of God with others, we don’t freeze. This week, the prompt (until I send the new one out on Wednesday) is “trials overcome.” If we really want to know who we are as Christians and who we are as a child of God, we can think about a major trial we’ve  faced in our lives. What did we do? To whom did we turn? Did we make it through on our own? Where was our understanding of God in that picture then or now?

Or think about an everyday aggravation we face. Why does it bother us so much? Why is it there? What is needed to solve it or accept it? Chances are the situation is mostly out of our control, but our response to it and how we handle it speak volumes. Are we called to turn swords into ploughshares and get to work? Are we to turn the other cheek? Do we need to bring offerings to the altar? What witness are we in the situation?

In whatever trial we’re facing—big or small—chances are there’s not one right way to respond except with love of God. Is it loving? Is it life-giving? Is it liberating? Or does our response tempt us with satiating self-sufficiency, power, or dominance? If we truly are a people fed, provided for, and protected by God, our actions will speak to that, our lives will reveal that, though probably not all the time.

That’s why we go through the season of Lent, why we fast and pray—not to be gloomy or downtrodden but because we’re doing the hard work of amending our lives to live more fully in the resurrected life of Christ, the ultimate expression of the love of God. Though we may not understand how, especially when we’re in the middle of those times that try our souls, we have written upon our hearts in faith the words the psalmist shares as if spoken from God, guiding us to make it through whatever challenges we face:

“Because (you are) bound to me in love,

Therefore will I deliver (you);

I will protect (you), because (you know) my Name.

(You) shall call upon me, and I will answer (you);

I am with (you) in trouble;

I will rescue (you) and bring (you) to honor.

With long life will I satisfy (you)

And show (you) my salvation.”

This means everything to me. I hope it means something for you, too.

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The Only Way is Through

Isaiah 50:4-9a | Psalm 31:9-16 | Philippians 2:5-11 | Matthew 26:14-27:66

If only the passion narrative were a “choose-your-own-adventure” story where we could make the decisions of the many characters and craft a story that wasn’t so heart-wrenching and tragic. If only our faith let us show up for Christmas and Easter to celebrate the glorious news of Jesus Christ’s birth and resurrection. If only all the stories throughout the Bible revealed the joy and faith and hope and love so we could truly celebrate being Christians and share that happiness with others. If only we weren’t so quick to run away or avoid the pain and suffering of reality.

May your hearing of the the Gospel reading today set the tone for and enrich your experience of Holy Week. It’s important that we tell the story year after year. Like our Jewish ancestors who insisted on the telling of the Passover and the observance of holy days that united them as a people delivered, a people favored by God, we, too, must tell our story and observe our holy days: our identities depend upon it. There’s insistence for all peoples and tribes to tell our stories so our children and our children’s children know and never forget who we are and where we’ve come from; it makes us stronger, these common bonds. Sharing our stories within our families and outside our comfort zones has a way of keeping our connection with reality and our dependency upon the grace of God in check.

Consider this:

Sitting with a convict who has admitted to heinous crimes, I can give testimony to the power of God to forgive him, offer redemption and wholeness, if he prays to God with repentance because I, too, have sinned (even if it’s nowhere near his crimes). He sees me as a prosperous woman in society. I must be living life right, so he wants to do what I’m doing. He wants God’s favor to be with him, too, because up to this point in his life, he can’t remember a time that didn’t reek of the stench of smoke and mildew, sweat and blood, and other things he’s trying to be polite and not mention. This makes me feel like I’ve done right, that I’ve shown him the right way. He’s going to be a better person because I’m a better person. I’m going to make him more like me.

But what about this alternative:

Sitting with the same convict, I can listen . . . not just to his crimes but to all the burdens he’s been carrying for some time: where the smoke and mildew came from, whose sweat and blood. Listen without judgment as he recounts the stories of his youth, revealing the dysfunction of his family and his parents’ so-called friends and how he thought he found a sense of belonging with his friends in school, but it turned out to be a re-creation of another mess tied up in drugs and crime. His truth-telling unfolds like a never-ending stream, and I watch as he won’t let the tears fall from his eyes until he sees my tears fall unbidden.

He looks down and away as the truth and tears stream together. All I can tell him is that the only one who knows the depths of his pain and suffering is Jesus. I won’t dismiss his doubts; rather, I share stories of those who have also questioned, “Why me?” I remind him that it’s okay to be wary of those who profess righteousness because even those who praised Jesus as he entered Jerusalem stood aside or joined the masses to have him crucified. Who’s to say we would have done differently?

I hardly know what I’m saying because a force greater than myself is flowing through me to him. I trust it to be Spirit, and I feel it to be Love. It must be what living with the mind of Christ is like. I feel small and insignificant but feel like I will never let go of the faith that holds me in the embrace of the Almighty and makes me strong. It’s not my strength that broke the floodgates of the wounded man before me. Only Jesus Christ, who persistently did what no one should have been able to do, what no one was supposed to do . . . Only Jesus Christ who faced, mostly in opposition, all manner of authority and power and still rode into town on a donkey without any sort of defense–not even fear . . . Only Jesus Christ who let us choose what would be done, knowing it meant showing us the way of suffering and death . . . Only Jesus Christ who “holds all things together” (Col 1:17) releases us into the freedom of true Love.

We deceive ourselves if we skip the arduous journey to the cross this week. Yes, we know the full arc of the story, but if we take some time to sit with the stations of the cross or just pray with this reading from Matthew, what do we find ourselves resisting? What do we want to skip over? What do we think we already know enough about? What are we already “right” about?

Jesus, who enters our world through a willing, unmarried young woman, who shows our world that things aren’t always what they seem, brings the divine into our world right smack dab into the mess of things as they are and shows us all how to go through it. We’ll die, yet we’ll live. This is the way of the cross. This is our story. This is who we are as a Christian people.

In Matthew, we are told that Judas realized too late how pointless his betrayal was, how greatly he had been used to no good end. Whatever he thought he was getting out of the deal, it had been an illusion. Things weren’t as they seemed, and he had so completely lost hope, he rejected life altogether. If only Judas had seen. If only Judas had been there. If only Judas had persevered through the despair, he, too, would have tasted and seen the glory of the Resurrection, the power of redemption, and hope everlasting while still in the flesh.

We can’t let ourselves be fooled by illusion, by quick fixes or cheap promises that guarantee us a bypass over the pain and suffering of life. We can’t succumb to normalcy of oppression and domination. We can’t let ourselves forget our story, that it’s our job, our responsibility, to live our lives in the way of Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit — because Jesus showed us that we can, with God’s help.

It’s going to mean reading even more of the Bible to tune our ears to hear God’s guidance and remember God’s power, mostly through the stories of those who walked the way before us. We have to talk to strangers, listen intently to our neighbors near and far, and get outside our comfort zones. Most importantly, living in the way of Christ means loving without judgment, loving and living without fear because we know who truly holds the power of Life.

As we walk through this week, we will open our hearts and minds to remember. We’ll taste hope. We’ll be afraid. We’ll worry. We’ll face death. And we’ll sleep, knowing the Son will rise to greet us Easter morning. But we’ve got to go through hell first.

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On Glory

Acts 16:16-34 | Psalm 97 | Revelation 22:12-14,16-17,20-21 | John 17:20-26

Wednesday morning chapel is now one of the highlights of my week during the school year. Looking out into the sea of about 60 bright eyed children and the dedicated, nurturing teachers, I hope that what I say in the few moments of my homily will plant a seed of God’s whole and everlasting love in them. I hope they have something to take away with them because I won’t always be there to remind them that they are beloved children of God, and I know that they are growing up in a world of pain and suffering.

Isn’t that typical of a good mother? To want to protect her children?

And there are lots of children to be protected.

The little second-grade boy who, while we were standing in the lunch line, told me his mom was in jail, and the boy behind him who told me he was about to get out of DHS.

The 13-year-old girl who tried to commit suicide.

The 17-year-old transgendered child kicked out of the house.

The 25-year-old busted for meth, though he’s been using since he was 14.

The 35-year-old refugee whose spouse died, leaving him with the toddler and no home.

The 45-year-old single mom who went in for a routine mammogram and ended up with a same-day biopsy.

The 59-year-old who learns about her biological parents and siblings for the first time.

The 64-year-old who hears the confession and remorse of her molester who is dying and thinks she is someone else.

The 80-something-year-old who loses mobility, not just outside the home but within the house, too.

And the 98-year-old who grimaces with pain and fear of the unknown.

These—all of these—are children, precious babies who are in the midst of suffering. Mamas who care want to eliminate the pain.

How many of you have heard or said, “Honey, if I could take away your pain, I would”? How many of you have actually crossed hell and high water to do so, or at least to try?

Glennon Doyle Melton spoke at Trinity Cathedral a couple of weeks ago, wrapping up the Insights lecture series. She’s acclaimed for writing her truth on her blog Momastery.com.

In her writing, she shares the truth she knows as a wife, mother, recovering addict, and lover of Jesus, and people have discovered that her speaking matches her writing. The cathedral was literally full of giddy women, excited to hear her in person. She shared her stories and how they intersected with other women’s stories, usually meeting at that important point of vulnerability.

One woman told her what a failure she thought herself as a mother because her son was in the throws of addiction, of pain. Glennon, in the crazy-wise way she has, basically said to the woman, “Oh, honey, I hear you. I heard you say you’re a failure. So what is it that you think a mother does? What’s your job description?”

And the woman says, “Well, to protect my child, to keep him from getting hurt.”

“Mmm-hmmm, and what are your hopes for your child?” Glennon asks.

“That he grows into a strong, resilient, confident man,” the mother says.

“And how do we become strong and resilient?” Glennon asks.

The dawn of realization can be awesomely beautiful and painfully brutal, like life itself, which is why Glennon coined the term brutiful. The brutiful truth, they tearfully acknowledged, is that we go through suffering and emerge stronger than we were before, resilient in an enduring sort of way, and confident of our place in this brutiful life.

Maybe a more realistic job description for mothers is to love and sustain life, life that is given to us. All life originates in God, and we are given the care of life in this world. We just have to make it through the suffering parts. Just.

God knows we need help.

So the Son of God comes and lives among us. Jesus goes to the sick and the suffering or they come to him, and he heals them. Their pain is taken away. It seems miraculous and magical and transactional, but really it’s transformational. When it happens so quickly, it’s hard to distinguish, except that for the healed persons, their life is forever changed in a way only they and God know. They’ve not just been physically healed by God; they’ve been restored to wholeness, their full glory.

Do we even know what that means?

Glory?

Because it caused me pause.

I had to stop and realize that I didn’t really know what Jesus meant when he said to God that he wanted us to be with him, to see his glory, the glory given to him because God loved him before the foundation of the world. It sounds great. It resonates within me but doesn’t register consciously in my brain.

So I looked at different definitions of “glory” and how we use it in our liturgy (because we use it a lot). We have our doxology: “Glory to God in the highest,” we sing. We partner glory and honor because it can mean high regard and esteem, and we do hold God in the highest regard, so we use glory because it’s the best we can do with our finite language.

But what about this glory that’s given to Jesus by God? The glory restored in those who are healed? Wouldn’t you know that I opened my e-mail Friday morning to the daily message from the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, and in the little preview line on my phone, their word for the day in bold was GLORY.

I gasped out loud because I had seriously been wondering about glory. (Y’all, when we seriously wonder in the presence of God, we need to keep our eyes and ears open because we’re going to run smack dab into it.) Brother Curtis told me—because I know he was just speaking to me (let alone the thousands others who read these things)—

“Glory, or to be glorified, is to teem with God’s light and life and love. It’s to draw from the deepest waters of life, how the psalmist prays: ‘For you are the well of life, and in your light we see light.’ The Gospel writers speak of glory as if someone were simply luminous, irradiated with God’s light and life and love.”

That’s the understanding of glory that resonates within me so deeply that it strikes the chord of Truth and sends chills up my spine.

Jesus, Son of God, perfectly shone forth in glory, though he was disguised to those who did not believe. It looks like he healed by flicking a switch, but it was the power of recognition that transformed lives. Letting ourselves see Jesus in full glory and doing the even harder thing of recognizing the glory within us changes things. That glory of light and life and love is already in us, being as we are, created in God’s image, but our glory gets buried under layers upon layers of stuff we accumulate throughout life. To let that light and life and love break through is going to hurt, and often it’s going to hurt badly.

Our God knows this too, and I imagine God saying, “Son, go and show my children—your brothers and sisters—go show them Truth. You go and live out your life revealing our glory, and there are those who will recognize us. You’re going to go through the suffering of them all, for them all, to show them the way back to me. You’re going to die, but you’ll go back to them after three days to show them Life and Love and Light fully revealed. You’re going to be among them in your fullness of Glory, and you’re going to tell them that you will be with them forever. And then you’re going to return to Me, and we will abide and welcome all the children as they come to us.”

Jesus knew this to be true and lives out his brutiful life even through death.

Now we are in the season where Jesus has ascended and is gone again, even though he said he’d be with us always, and it doesn’t seem to make much sense.

But Jesus said those things about being one with the Father and with us. He said that thing about giving us the glory that he had been given. He said that thing about love being most important, and he did that thing about redeeming all suffering.

So what are we left to do?

Maybe instead of thinking about being a perfect mom or dad, friend or relative, husband or wife… Maybe instead we should ask ourselves:

What is my role as a child of God?

What is my responsibility to the One who gives me life and light and love?

Our responsibility might look more like a challenge, for we are to grow into our God-given glory and show God’s glory to the world as best we can. We already have the glory dwelling within us. It’s our work—even through suffering and death—to grow into that glory.

We do this through grace and steadfast faith, hope, and love and whatever other gifts we are given. We study the Scripture and the lives of those in our tradition that teach us how to grow toward God. We spend our entire lives as children reaching toward our beloved parent. If we choose to grow into God’s glory, we can’t help but radiate with glory, revealing it to the world around us. We might even realize that every bit of everything is all One in God.

Recognizing our glory and seeing God’s glory in others, even if they don’t see it themselves, changes us, changes our worldview.

We come closer to seeing ourselves and those around us as I imagine God sees us,

with whole and everlasting love. So when I look out at the sea of faces, be they the children in chapel or yours here today, I know I don’t have to protect you or give any of you what’s not mine to give. My responsibility and privilege is to love you, be with you, and to share in the hope of our wholeness in God in every way I can. God’s already given you the glory, already planted that seed.

I see it in you.

I hope you see it, too.

 

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Standing for Peace When All Hell’s Broken Loose

The streets are filled with crime, the prisons overcrowded, the drugs too available and the bombs too frequent.  The wails and moans get closer, the burdens too heavy.

The laundry is more dirty than clean, the dishes crowd the counter and hide the sink.  A mass of papers and unopened mail cover the desk.  The kids are sick and the checking account overdrawn.  The refrigerator is bare, and the price of gas just went up again, just in time for the van to need a refill.

Both scenarios are very real, and I venture to say that both are images of hell.  What is hell but an everpresent suffering, seemingly inescapable?  Yet hell can be overcome with a heaping dose of peace grounded in love — or perhaps it is love grounded in peace.  Undoubtedly the two are so intertwined it matters little.  Before the moans become our own and our vision clouded by the fog of negativity, we have to utter words of love, evoke a sense of peace and see the Light present in all.

How many times has great suffering brought about great realizations, great triumphs and understandings?  If you cannot find one example, perhaps you haven’t thought long enough or listened closely enough.  Perhaps you just missed it altogether.  Not to worry.  Just brace yourself since it will come again.

I do not mean to over-simplify.  There is a suffering in the world that I have not and probably cannot fathom.  The genocide in Darfur, the plight of refugees, the millions of homeless and hungry.  I do believe in the power of the collective, though.  One positive thought attracts more, light attracts light, and if we all were to focus and/or pray on peace and contentment, wouldn’t the world be different?

Quite obviously, we all have difficult lessons to learn, obstacles to overcome.  We haven’t learned how to love one another with our whole heart.  Whether at the market or in the home, in our hometown or in a different country, we have to be able to stand for and in peace if we are to improve ourselves, our kids and our humanity.  This is hard; at least, it is when you’re not used to it.  It’s like how they say to frown takes more muscles than to smile.  Really, it takes less energy to love someone than it does to harbor animosity, anger or fear towards them.

It helps to have support, to surround yourselves with others in a unified effort.  It isn’t a bad thing to stand for peace when it seems all hell has broken loose.  You are embodying the change you wish to see.  You cannot force peace with brutality any more than you can clean the house by bringing in more dirt and grime. 

“Be the change you wish to see,” said Gandhi and one of my bumper stickers.  Be the peace you wish to see. Start at home or start in the public.  It may actually be harder to be truly peaceful to those you love most — it was and is for me.  I am a work in progress.  I get my glimpses of hell, feel the suffering and have to remember I can still breathe into the Spirit.  I still have hope, and I can stand for peace here and now.

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