in the belly of the fish.

For Jonah.

We named you for a story about a man who tried to run from the One who we call God. I want you to know that you are allowed to doubt, to question, to struggle. That you are allowed to run. That this One who I call God will surely find you. You might call it Love or Wonder or Beauty or Mystery. God goes by many names, many of which I do not know yet. I'm sure you will discover your own names for the One. I don't mind if your names are different than the ones I use. But what I want you to know is that Divinity is persistent. Again and again bubbling up in unexpected places, saving us in the Depths, saving the bits and pieces we didn't know needed saving. The Divine is always taking up new forms, like a poem that keeps being rewritten and becoming better and better.

I want you to know that when you find yourself feeling like you are drowning, when you feel swallowed up by what is huge and frightening (as we all do from time to time), that there will always be a light in the darkness. And sometimes the darkness is just the the thing we needed so we could discover the light. And oddly, sometimes the darkness is richer than the light and has more to teach us.

There are rarely easy answers. Sometimes we are swallowed or saved or called for no reason at all, or no reason we can understand. Sometimes we don't understand the whys or hows until much much later, and sometimes never at all. Sometimes we need to get angry, to shout, to rebel, like the one in the story. But he is called a Prophet anyway. He was a part of bringing hope to the undeserving, even though he was quite undeserving himself. And his story keeps living on, making meaning for others as we tell it and retell it. I want you to live your own story. To know that your story is meaningful and has the power to transform others. So go aheaad and be stubborn like the reluctant prophet. Be passionate and angry and loving and loved and thoroughly alive. Be swallowed up and reborn again and again in a thousand different ways. There will be a lot of giant fish: places that scare you, challenge you, rescue you, change you. Emerge from the belly of the fish to claim anew the Land that we call life again and again and again.

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Prayer in the Darkness

Sometimes when I turn on the news or open my computer, I'm bombarded with images of people hurting, and I don't even know how to begin to pray. In those moments, I'm thankful for the prayers of others who offer words when I have none.

This prayer comes from Tony Campolo:

"We pray for the kids on the streets--
even when they rob us...
We pray for the children who could be learning--
even when they sit in class like zombies.
We pray for the goodness that is buried in young druggies--
even when they are hustling people.
We pray for them all in the name of the light
that shines in the darkness-- because
we know that darkness cannot put it out.
We pray for them all in the name of the light
that lights everyone who comes into the world.
We pray for them all in the name of the light who
gives us substance of things hoped for
and is evidence of things not seen."

May images of violence and unrest inspire us toward prayer, rather than hopelessness. May we all lift prayers for the trouble-makers, the ones who seem hopeless, the ones who frustrate us and push us to our breaking points. May we pray for the criminals as much as we pray for the victims; may we love the ones who challenge us as much as we love the ones who encourage us. May we look for the light of God in all people.

prayers, laments, and electric church.

This past week I have been praying through the psalms. I am always surprised by what a relevant book of prayers it is, full of the same desperation, hope and love that I experience when I rise to meet the world everyday.

Sometimes, I look at the world, and I feel helpless. I feel helpless against the political machine that silences and oppresses people and their bodies. I feel helpless against the hunger and unclean water and sickness that robs children of life halfway across the world. I feel helpless in the knowledge that they die and I live simply because of where I was born. I feel helpless as I sit with a woman and her husband of 50 years who is dying. I watch her love and bravery in the face of his fragility, and feel helpless as he slips through her fingers, his mind and body crumbling before our eyes.

And I cannot explain it, but the words of the book of psalms make me feel less helpless. The writer of Psalm 65 cries out to God, "You are the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas....You silence the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, the tumult of the peoples....you make the gateways of the morning and the evening shout for joy." Reading these ancient prayers, I become a part of a community: a community that celebrated and grieved, that thanked God and yelled at God, that rejoiced and suffered, that lived and died together. I feel connected to their humanity, to their beauty, and somehow I feel more connected to God. I feel a little less alone, and praying their prayers, joining my voice with their voices, I feel less helpless.

Recently, I stumbled across this poem by William Olsen, and I couldn't help thinking about how the cries of beauty on Jimi Hendrix's electric guitar that Olsen describes are a kind of prayer; A lament; An anguished cry against violence and suffering. And it's hard to explain, but the crying (whether it's in a book of old prayers or coming through a guitar amp) matters in a real, material way; music and poetry and prayer and rock bands-- these things matter because of what they awaken in us. Even the small act of putting words or sounds out into the world is an action. It is a movement. So instead of remaining frozen, paralyzed by our fear, or our doubt, or our grief, we have begun an act that leads to other acts. A word that blossoms into a hope, a song that boils into a protest, a poem that stumbles into a leap of faith.

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.