Lent 33: to have created something.

Lent 29: the edge of the dock.

My hands clasp each other tightly, filled with fear and tension. I stand at the end of the dock looking out over the ripples of blue water. My feet are planted firmly on the solid warm wood of the dock, and my toes curl around the edge, enjoying the comfort of worn wood bathed in sunlight. I know I cannot stay. It is time to jump in. I can feel myself trying to hold back tears.

Behind me I hear a familiar voice say, "Baby, just let go." I turn, and a kind, well-known face holds me in her loving gaze. I smile back at her and let the tears come. As I cry, she takes my hands in hers and kisses them. Then she lifts her hand and wipes a tear from my face with her thumb. "Child, it's okay to cry. But go ahead and jump. You are ready. Just splash, and float and swim." She laughs a deep, throaty laugh. It's warm and worn like the wood of the dock, like the smell of summer soil.

Then, I let go and soar into that wild blue water.

Lent 24: magic.

"Someone needs to tell stories. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they do because of it, because of your words... There are different kinds of magic after all." -from The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

I just finished reading The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. It was one of those rare novels that completely captivated me. The story was so alive that I couldn't put it down.

Reading it, I was reminded of the power of narrative. How wild tales of magic and love and death and intrigue, draw out some kind of magic in ourselves. In the most fantastic situations, we see glimmers of our own experiences, flashes of our deepest desires and fears.

I think that the Christian tradition at it's best has this kind of magic in it. When we participate in liturgy we are becoming a part of a great story. Over and over again through word, song and sacrement we participate in the story of God's redemptive power; we experience the embodiment of Jesus' life, death and resurrection. In these living stories we find ourselves, and see God's creative work in our own lives.

During Lent we are reminded of the many stories of people called into the wilderness: from Abraham and Moses to John the Baptist and Jesus. We recall their wild stories of narrow escapes from death, of wrestling with God, of miracles, of freedom, and of transformation. We are invited to imagine how our lives are also a wilderness landscapes for such miraculous tales to unfold. Following a Lenten path means not only to be captivated by the story of God, but to participate in that story. If it is true that the best stories have a kind of magic in them, then Lent might be thought of as a chance to practice magic and cast the most sacred spells: an opportunity to change the world by telling an ancient tale anew.

Lent 23: called to chaos.

"In the beginning when God created the heaven and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters." Genesis 1:1-2

Last week, my husband Kyle and I spent our time in a whirlwind of travel, conversations, interviews, phone calls, and discernment around which conference we will serve in next year. It has felt like utter chaos as we choose what part of the country we want to move to and serve in ministry. It is hard to know how to process through this unsettled feeling about where to go next. We pray and try to listen for God's voice in the midst of this; we try, also, to be logical about what is the best fit or opportunity. But in truth, it feels like there is no clear right answer. It feels like we have wandered into a wilderness.

While we stumble through the wilderness of our discernment process, I've been thinking about how Lent's invitation into a wilderness place often means leaving a familiar place of safety and order, for the rugged landscape of something more untamed. The wilderness way of Lent is not always as peaceful and quiet as we might hope and expect. In fact, sometimes it doesn't even feel all that spiritual. It feels complicated, difficult and confusing. It feels like chaos.

As I reflect on the chaos of wilderness places, I am comforted by the idea that Lent is a return to Genesis. I am reminded of the story of creation: when the earth was a formless void. From the place of chaos, life is formed.  Lent's wilderness is an invitation to dance in that same life-giving chaos, an opportunity to explore the unsettled places in ourselves. As we leave the safety of what is settled and domesticated, we come to a place where we are vulnerable to the motion of the Spirit. We come into the elements and confront our whole selves: all the naked fears and insecurities and dreams, and we allow God's spirit to hover and breathe over our deepest and darkest places.

I confess that I am exhausted from my trek through the wilderness, and I am afraid of the uncharted terrain that lies ahead. But as I face the chaos, I see small movements of hope and newness-- no stronger than a light breeze, or a little flutter of breath, or a tiny flicker of light, and I know that Holy is here, flickering. God has always moved in the wildest places, and seen them as an opportunity for creativity and life. As I listen and watch for the Spirit's movement, I am meditating on this beautiful quotation from Nietzche shared with me by my Spiritual Director: "One must still have chaos in oneself, to give birth to a dancing star."  May Lent be a journey into that beautiful glimmering chaos.

Lent 22: among the trees.

When I Am Among the Trees by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

Lent 15: beyond the wilderness.

"Moses led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was burning but not consumed." -Exodus 3:1-2

Go to edge
of what you know
out beyond the wilderness
to where a mystery
is burning
like a wild fire.
Go to the place
that terrifies you,
and requires the risk
of everything.
Go, seeking that which will
never be domesticated.
Go where some
uncontainable voice
is calling your name.
Go to the mountain
of questions
where you are
your most vulnerable.
And then
take off your shoes
to feel the brush of God
against your naked feet.
And call that place Holy.
Not because of
its location on a map;
but because it is
where you were changed;
where a voice ancient
and familiar beckoned;
where you became
who you are.