I’m reminded of the classic Christmas movie, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”, based on the picture book by Dr. Seuss. Not the Jim Carey movie - the first one, with Boris Karloff narrating the slimy moves of the Grinch.  As the Grinch recounts all that he finds abhorrent about Christmas, he says, “All The Who girls and boys / Would wake bright and early. They’d rush for their toys! And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! The one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! [1]

In this time, in this day?  Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!   And the problem with noise is that in the midst of it, it is difficult to identify a single sound, a single voice.   There is nothing of the personal, of “the one” in the wild cacophony of sounds that don’t blend, don’t mesh; that clash and clang, the harmony long forgotten.  

And when I’m in a crowd, the only way I can be heard is to shout louder, screech higher, yell crazier than the next guy.  Not that this helps anyone to understand what I’m saying, but I think that when in a crowd, there is a false security in thinking I’m anonymous. I can say anything, and who cares?  And so the shouting via Social Media simply brings crowd-shouting to new lows of discord and dissonance.

So — how do we stop the noise? (assuming, of course, that we want to stop it…) 

Simple, but not so simple. We stop the noise by walking away, leaving the crowd. Focusing on the one. It’s harder to yell at any one person without consequence. One-on-one communication is personal; anonymous yelling isn’t. Now, in speaking to the one, I am seen; my words are heard for what they are. My words matter.

Jesus always focused on the one. The leper. The widow. The Samaritan woman. The tax collector.  The blind man. The mad man. Society’s outcasts, seen lovingly as the one by Jesus.  Over and over again. he looked above the crowd, up and out through the throng, his eyes resting upon the one.  He saw their heart, their very soul. He noticed their pain, how they didn’t “fit” - and that made them all the more precious to him. He saw them. Each one. The one.

When we focus on the one, the hyperbole of the crowd looks ridiculous. The shouting sounds overly loud, hitting discordant notes of chaos, frenzy, confusion; the protests over-wrought with pent-up emotions that have gone awry. But when focusing on the one? I am exposed. They are exposed.  It’s now personal.  It’s me and her.  Me and him.  Just us in the quiet.   And now?  We can hear our heartbeats. The whisper of an idea or thought exchanged. Just us.

When we speak to just the one, and look into her eyes, his eyes… what do we see? Looking at just the one removes our focus on the madding crowd, and brings it down to the level of the one. Not a political party, but a little brother, a big sister, with shared experiences reaching far into shared yesterdays, outshining the political fires of discord.  Not a Conservative, nor a Liberal; not Democrat, or Socialist, but a dear friend with whom you’ve vacationed, shared meals; with whom you’ve hiked mountains, played golf. Not a racial stereotype, but a Black sister who sits in the row next to you every Sunday, a Hispanic gentleman who owns the local Mexican restaurant, the sweet Chinese lady who greets everyone she sees with a calm, beautiful smile. Not gay or transgender, but a family member we love, with whom we’ve shared struggles and tears; someone with whom we don’t always agree, but that you have agreed to love each other, above the discord of differences.

When we focus on the one, we are agreeing to love no matter what. That is the Jesus-focus on the one —that kind of laser-focused love is what we are called to do. We walk away from the noise, and quietly focus on the one. Over and over again.

When we look at the one, when we listen to the one, we are elevated to a holy level of sharing struggles and heartaches; of life’s “what-ifs” and “if only’s”. Differences melt away and we are left with sharing the heart of the matter, digging deep into the mess of things. Yes, it hurts, but it’s real. Looking at the one always brings us back to love, to the essence of that one person in our loving gaze. Focusing on the one raises us above the noise and the momentary issues of the day, focusing our heart and minds on the person at hand. We tune in to who they are, in this time, in this place. That’s all that really matters.

When we look at the one, the noise of the crowd fades into the background, and we are now able to hear the melody of that one voice, that one song, blending in harmony with ours - not because we share political ideologies, or seek power or possessions or riches.  Our voices blend, one with the other because we see The One in each other’s eyes, in each other’s heart, our quiet voices blending in a rich harmony of hearts in tune with The One. 

Listening to the one, to The One.  Oh, the stillness, the quiet in that harmony!  It’s a beautiful thing - we can almost hear our heartbeats as one. 

It’s good to know we’ve still got a heart.

For anyone who follows my blog, you may have noticed I’ve been rather silent. (At least I hope you’ve noticed!) It’s been two months since my last published blog entry, and although I tried to continue writing for a bit when the dry spell hit, it was sporadic and half-hearted at best. Writers’ block set in deeply, and sometime in mid-June, I decided I needed a break, a sabbatical of sorts. I kept meaning to get onto my blog site and let folks know, but I could not even stir up the energy to write that much.

I’d entered a period of acedia.

The word acedia originates from the Greek, literally meaning “a lack of caring”. I won’t bore you with the convoluted and moralistic history of the word (you can look it up if it pulls at your intellectual curiosity) but suffice to say, it was considered a common malady (and a moral failing!) in monasteries throughout the Middle Ages, and has had a resurgence of notice in modern times.[1] Today, acedia is more akin to our own understanding of apathy, a sense of not caring about anything or anyone.

Personally, I wasn't actually in the full throes of acedia, (at least I don’t think so), but I was in that summertime pattern of torpor, of just going through the motions, walking through life step by step, but not sure where I was going. I recognized it for what it was - not truly a depressive state, but certainly a time when I was at odds with myself, unsure of what was next, of what I wanted, or what I needed. The thought of writing a blog seemed overwhelming, so much so I questioned whether I should even continue the effort, and decided it was best to simply accept this period of literary dryness, acknowledge my need for space and time - and wait. The thought of a sabbatical seemed “just right”, and like Goldilocks, I settled into the smallest chair and decided to take a break. To sit and wait. Wait and see what came next.

Earlier this week, I awoke one morning, and just knew - knew - that this sabbatical time was over. I sat at the computer; I took out my paper journal - and the words just came pouring out. The words had returned. God whispered, “It’s time.”

My two-month sabbatical was revitalizing, as well as busy. Life certainly carried on! My husband and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary in our backyard on July 4th, (even though our actual anniversary is in August, we chose July 4th given the busy-ness and commitments of our family over the summer), and it was a special and very meaningful event. We renewed our vows in front of family, and enjoyed a sweet afternoon of love and celebration with our clan. We spent quality time with our grandchildren. We’ve enjoyed beach days, bike rides, and nature hikes. We’ve delighted in lobsters and burgers on our back porch, and have hosted fun dinners with friends and family on that same porch. I’ve had time to bake the strawberry shortcake and blueberry breads that marked my childhood summers, and to enjoy the fresh bounty of corn and tomatoes only summers in New England can boast. As I emerge from this much-needed quiet time of re-creation, I now find my mind busily “writing” about all manner of things near and dear to my heart. It is time to return to the writing, to the sharing of the “simply sacred”, to the unraveling - when we can - of the tangled web of modern life’s complexities and challenges. The words have returned.

I’m glad I took this time to wait, to watch, to listen, to pray. I’ve had time to re-create; to choose the good things, to honor the true things, to appreciate all the blessings God has sent my way, as well as discard what’s no longer useful, what doesn’t fit. This time has brought me perspective and renewed commitment to living this life I’ve been blessed with in a grace-filled and loving way. And those words! They fascinate me, feed me, revitalize me. I love words, the reading of them, the writing of them; the craft of choosing exactly the right one, the defining of heart and soul with a few choice letters. Words are powerful, deep, and true. It’s always been about the words; about the ideas that form within our hearts that, when shared, often blossom into revelation and connection. Words enrich our minds and souls, and provide us with concrete ways of sharing, whether spoken or written. For me, words are a gift to be shared, a resource to be mined, a place of growth and renewal. Words matter.

I’ve come to see after this small break that the sharing of the words and the heart behind the words is why I write. I write from the heart - not only for me, but for those who graciously read the words I write. If I can encourage just one person, comfort just one heart, affect just one friend with words that show love and lead to healing and joy? It is worth my time and effort, and all the angst I pour out into each blog.

May you, my dearest readers, continue to be blessed by my words - if even only in small ways. It will be enough.

[1] For a personal memoir on acedia in a modern context, see “Acedia & me: A Marriage, Monks and a Writer’s Life” by Kathleen Norris. (Riverhead Books, 2010).

And when I don’t have a rock-solid answer like “Oh! I do some consulting”; or “I volunteer at the food pantry”; or “I have a part-time job doing x”, their eyes widen with barely disguised shock. I’ve learned to expect it. Depending on who asks, I might go into the list of things I thought I’d be doing at this stage (volunteering at the local hospice, or teaching quilting classes on a regular basis), but for the most part, I’ve learned to keep it simple. “I do whatever needs doing on any particular day. I quilt, I garden, I read, I cook, I take walks.” And still - that look of disbelief, that sense I get that somehow, I’ve failed to meet their expectations of what retirement should look like.

There have been many (many) books written on retirement; the finances, the planning, the timing, the changes, …the things to be done during retirement, but other than the financial planning to make the transition, I’ve not felt the need to plan the activities of my retirement in the same way I planned my career, or my family, or the myriad of things that I did in my middle-years of life. It has not seemed necessary.

I have pondered this issue of “retirement” for much of the past year - this transition from a working nurse-attorney to a fully-retired woman “of a certain age”. I’ve tried a few things (like those mentioned above), but for various reasons out of my control, they did not work out; and except for the initial disappointment (which one of us “planners” takes kindly to carefully-laid plans gone amuck?), I’ve been perfectly fine living my days, one at a time. I can best describe it as having transitioned from “Martha” to “Mary” - those well-known Biblical sisters of Lazarus who highlight the contrast between being a doer and being a sitter.

I was a Martha, no question about it. I planned out my own and my family’s life with military precision: school, career, meals, shopping, entertaining; the kids’ schooling, extracurricular activities and camps; family vacations and our “couple” weekends away. We participated fully in our church life, my husband and I engaged in whatever roles were needed, for multiple ministries over the years, fully committed to faith life for our own sakes as well as the kids’. I loved entertaining: there were church groups and family celebrations and holidays and reunions (and some funeral receptions, sadly) constantly in play. For each season there was a plan, and I took great pride in putting it all together.

I’ve come to understand, however, that for me, the “Martha” season has come and gone, and in my life-season today, I I’ve been called to be “Mary”. I simply want to be, to abide, to live in the moment for the sake of the moment. I’ve been called to sit at the feet of Jesus and listen.

It’s true that in today’s fast-paced world, action, planning, and busy-ness are valued and appreciated, but I’ve come to understand that, at least in this season, that is not always so. Sometimes, the quiet way is the better way. It is also very true that this particular season is not the call for everyone. We need Marthas in our life just as much as Marys. Many (like my husband) are fully fulfilled in the ongoing engagement with the working world. His gifts are many, and his fulfillment is in using them at this time of life— leading, solving problems and mentoring his work team. Will that change for him? Maybe. Will my current life-season change in the future? Maybe. We are never guaranteed that our current season will last, nor do we know how long it will last. We can only try to be faithful to the season we are in, and pray to know if and when a change might come.

There’s a holy tension, though, in Mary’s posture. In our world, sitting is not looked upon kindly; it is seen as lazy, passive …a non-productive posture. But sitting at the feet of Jesus is much more than a passive stance in which we do nothing; it is an active posture of listening, of paying attention to the One speaking. Sitting is a position of receiving - whatever is available to us from The Teacher in any given moment. Sitting is also very much a posture of service, of giving up of one’s self to the good of another— a quiet yet reciprocal heart-stance that conveys an openness and willingness to be fully available to another for whatever they need: a listening ear, a prayer, a word of encouragement. Sitting implies patient waiting, servitude, full attention to the other.

Mary’s posture of sitting at Jesus’ feet was appreciated by Him: he told Martha that Mary had chosen the better way: “Martha, Martha… only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen what is best, and it will not be taken away from her.” [1] You can hear in Jesus’ words a gentle, loving rebuke, a plea to see that being in service, being available comes in many forms. Sometimes, it looks like nothing we expect. Sometimes, it’s simply sitting.

In this season, I’m learning that at least for now, for me, I have chosen the better way, the one thing that is needful. My rhythms are quiet but sure. My days are filled with creativity through writing, quilting and knitting (and gardening when I’m able). I spend time with friends, encouraging them and processing life. I have space for more time with my adult children and grandchildren, available to be with them when circumstances allow. I read all manner of books. I have more time to do things for my husband, and with my husband, strengthening and enriching our long relationship more now than ever before. My rhythms of prayer are vibrant, consistent, filled with joy.

It is a season rich with Presence and peace. It is a season of fulfillment and quiet. It is a season I intend to fully embrace and enjoy. For now.

[1] John 10:41-42 CEV

Later as I was gazing out the French door of our family room, I was privy to watching robins, cardinals, finches, wrens (even a woodpecker!) —as well as the occasional osprey and hawk overhead, busy with breakfast. Squirrels and chipmunks scampered up trees, jumping from branch to branch, going about whatever daily business occupied their days. Our resident herd of deer made an appearance, shyly tiptoeing out of the woods behind the house, watching for the very-real possibility of coyotes stalking about. There seemed to be such purpose out there, a well-orchestrated dance with each creature inherently understanding their role, keeping to task, inhabiting their space with a seeming holiness that was profound.

My rhododendrons are in full bloom, fat lacy blossoms ranging from a pink so pale as to seem white, to a deep magenta-pink that would be the envy of any haute-couture devotee. I find it interesting that each bush seems to take a turn to be the one in full bloom, as if in a well-executed fashion show, each showing off their own particular grouping of blooms, not hesitant to steal the floral stage, if only but for a day. The shaded area in the front of the house now boasts a thick carpet of lilies of the valley, their heady scent bold and forward, belying their small and dainty flowers.

This very rainy spring has one advantage that trumps the hassles of the shoreline flooding in our area; it has led to a prolific, prodigal blooming of shrub and flower I’ve not witnessed around here in many years. My lilacs are heavy with bloom; the honeysuckle vine thick with buds, a sure promise of a summer-ripe profusion scent and flower; peonies, irises, bee balm, lavender - all lining up for their turn to bloom, to shine, to pour forth blessing; hydrangea bushes so filled with buds, they can’t help but bow down low to the damp earth in homage to the glorious God of Spring.

Spring is a sacred time, especially if one is attentive to the nuances inherent in the full-blown majesty of the vernal display. When I was a busy mom, working full time and involved with all manner of things and life, spring had a tendency to flash by, a quick vision now here - now gone. I’d wake up one morning, and the blooms on the rhodies would already be spent, petals carpeting the ground below; somehow I’d missed the show. I’d try to capture the moments; I really did. But often, life simply didn’t have the space for time, or the time for space.

I’ve come to understand that the grace and blessing of watching a new spring unfold is truly a blessing; a sacred assignment too precious to reject, too beautiful to turn away.

Entering into the experience of a spring morning, or of an evening of peepers and newly cast shadows of trees unfurling their leaves brings the reality of the Divine and creation into sharp focus. Silencing technology for a precious hour or two allows the mind to settle into the contemplative wonder of creation unfolding around us, a clean, renewed reality that settles the mind, calms the heart, expands the soul. Walking away from the modern mess of the world into the planned, wondrous symphony of springtime - even if only for an hour or two - brings the world, and our lives, into sharp focus. It’s a reset, a re-charge, a renewal that runs deep, rings true, sings long and melodious long after we’ve returned to the madness of our every-day lives.

The sanctity and grace of a glorious spring day far surpasses what man has attempted to create in cathedral domes or stained glass windows, for in each spring’s unfolding, God reveals His nature in each flower blossom, each newborn fawn, each new robin hatched. If we want to see God, we simply need to watch the glories of the green trees unfold. If we want to hear God, there is no melody sweeter than dawn’s song of the cardinal to his mate — or the the chorus of hundreds of peepers at dusk. Spring shouts the Divine message of love in the unfolding of new life, of a new chance to renew and refresh.

Each spring is sacred. Each spring brings a renewed hope for life and grace. Each spring promises another chance to make it right, to enter into God’s own nature and be witness to His creation. Each spring unfolds the gritty, raw truth that life is good, that life and creation are resilient, and that His creation will triumph - no matter how unwisely we’ve managed the planet —or our lives.

Spring is sacred and good. Enjoy the Divine show, embrace the promise for new life, and hold onto the hope of a Divine Presence that cares enough to renew the world, one flower and one leaf at a time.

Spring. It’s worth the time. Go and enjoy it.

Tomorrow we celebrate, contemplate, consider… motherhood: moms, grandmothers, aunts, daughters-turned-moms — all part of our national obsession with celebrating categories of people, with their title, roles and characters firmly set into place by Hallmark, who has created an American pastime of sentimentalizing what can be beautiful - yes; but what can often be complex, difficult and often heartbreaking.

I am a mother and a grandmother, and damn proud of that accomplishment. I have two lovely, smart and incredibly gifted daughters who are also moms, and my heart beats in a glorious, joyful rhythm when I see just how wonderfully they have embraced and walked-out the role of motherhood.

Earlier this week, I came across a poem by Kathleen Norris, a poet and NYT best-selling author of Amazing Grace, The Cloister Walk, and Dakota, as well as numerous poems. In her poem, Ascension, this closing verse took my breath away, and gave me serious pause to consider motherhood from a different vantage-point than Hallmark:

“Now the new mother, that leaky vessel,
begins to nurse her child,
beginning the long good-bye.”

I don’t think I’ve ever read such a heartbreaking yet accurate picture of motherhood. As any mother will tell you, a mother’s journey ultimately is always about learning to say good-bye. We might not think of that when we are nursing the newborn, or changing dirty diapers, or running to soccer practices, piano lessons and dance recitals, or sparring with a mouthy teen over the current crise-du-jour; our minds may not bear the thinking of it, but our hearts are always aware that good-bye is just around the corner. Our hearts are always on the edge of breaking.

Motherhood is an amazing experience; it is miracle and mystery and paradox. The miracle of new life never ceases to amaze me. In my working years when I was involved in litigating medical cases, those cases that involved fertility, birth and newborn care were the most fascinating and the most complex. Heart and kidney transplants were nothing in complexity compared to the vast resources required to keep a 22 week-old preemie alive. The miracle of conception, pregnancy and birth is truly miracle and mystery on a level that is difficult to comprehend. Ask any woman who’s gone through the heartbreak of trying to conceive, or trying to keep a pregnancy to a healthy birth. A miracle indeed.

The amount of heart-energy, love and caring mothers pour into their children is awe-inspiring, and is likely one of the reasons that Mother’s Day evokes such sentimental responses from those of us who stand in awe of what our mothers did for us growing up. Looking back, I see now the sacrifices my own mother made to ensure that the five of us were well-fed, well-clothed and brought up as good Catholics (in my parents’ view, that was of paramount importance). That being said, having a “good mom” isn’t a guarantee. This is a broken world, and mothers fail us - some far more than others, whether due to addictions, mental health issues or past trauma struggles. For those whose mothers were abusive, absent or unloving, mothers are not a cause for celebration. For many grown children of mothers who fell far short of the Hallmark ideal, Mother’s Day simply brings back the pain and heartache of abuse and rejection. There is mystery, here, in motherhood - even in its brokenness and failures. Very often, the love of mother and child survives even the deep-seated pain of heartbreak. It makes no sense, but it’s true nonetheless. A mystery.

The paradox of motherhood is that regardless of what life is throwing my way, or what or where my daughters are, my heart is always and forever saying “good-bye” as my love continues to grow and overflow into rivers of love I didn’t know I possessed. We say good-bye when we walk them to their first day of kindergarten; we say good-bye when we drop them off at their first-ever sleep-away camp; we say good-bye when we drive away from that teeny-tiny dorm room, miles away from home. We wave good-bye at the airport when she gets on a plane for Africa on a great six-month adventure; or when she says “I do” at the altar, holding the hand of her beloved. There are a thousand good-byes - and they’re all good, and each breaks a mother’s heart a little more each time.

The paradox of motherhood is that the heartbreak of good-bye is as necessary as that newborn’s first feeding at the breast. As a new mom looks lovingly at her newborn, she is already experiencing that long good-bye. It’s the nature of things, and I’d not have it any other way.

The paradox of motherhood is that it’s messy, hard, mysterious, miraculous - and yes, glorious. It is complex and yet likely one of the most rewarding experiences for a woman, if she is so privileged. And the long good-byes are just as heart-felt for adoptive moms as they are for birth moms; motherhood is less a physical reality and far more an emotional one. It is love that transforms a mother’s heart. It is love that begins the long good-bye, because we all know that the best mothers always let their young go, with a smile as well as a tear. Good moms hold one close, yet readily let go and yes - say good-bye. Over and over and over again.

As we wish our moms a happy day and gather with family this weekend, remember: the journey of good-byes is filled with love. In the end, it’s all we need.

But there is much to be said for this liminal space, for this time when the world symbolically holds its breath between a torn temple and the renewed Promise; between pain and heartache and a resurrection that brought an assurance of life and love that is eternal and sure. There is much in this quiet day of “in-between-ness”.

What do I mean by saying Holy Saturday is a liminal space? The word liminal comes from the Latin word ‘limen’, which means threshold.  Thus, a liminal space is the time between ‘what was’ and ‘what’s next.’ It is a place of transition, a time of waiting and not knowing the future. I don’t think there was another day in history when a liminal space was so filled with possibility, so pregnant with wonder, transformation and love. Of course, Jesus’ followers had no way of knowing what was to come; they couldn’t see beyond the betrayal, torture and death. That Sabbath day was one of loss and grief. They had no clue what was to come. They didn’t realize they were in a liminal space.

The problem with existing in a liminal space - no matter how temporary or fleeting - is the very being in that liminal space. It’s the not knowing, the not understanding, the not seeing what the future holds. The very meaning of liminality dictates that sense of discomfort when we feel adrift, abandoned, alone - with no way of knowing what’s to come. And I think Holy Saturday is an excellent symbol of that liminal space all of us experience throughout our lives, at one time or another - and often many times. We all have walked through times of transition. We all have had to bury a broken dream, or tend a broken heart. We all have sat in the upper room of our lives, waiting and wondering, praying and seeking, afraid for the future, angry, grieving, bereft. We all have sat in a liminal space, in the “in-between” times in our lives. And yes. It’s hard and scary.

The good news is that the very definition of ‘liminal space’ tells us that it is not a permanent space, it is not where we are meant to stay or exist. Being in our personal liminal space is merely the threshold place, the transition time. The Good News of Easter Sunday is that Jesus rose again, and returned to his disciples to assure them the promise of the Messiah was real and true. The Good News of Easter Sunday is that the pain and bloodshed of Good Friday was transformed into the victory of Easter morning. The Good News of Easter Sunday was that the liminal space of that Sabbath day was temporary, erased by the glory of the Resurrection.

And so it is with us: the good news of our own liminal times is that they are not permanent, but merely a transition time between “what was” and “what’s next”. We can be assured that our own liminal space is always transitory, and that God will always leads us into a place of victory. That has been the pattern for thousands of years, and we can be confident it’s not about to change.

So sit quiet on this Holy Saturday, and appreciate this liminal space of in-between-ness. Appreciate the journey, count the scars, appreciate the struggles and bury the detritus. These are the markers of your transition. And be assured that regardless of the struggle, there is always an Easter morning victory. You can count on it.

Give up? Maybe some practical applications of the word might help. For instance, in religious circles, it’s not uncommon to say we “live by faith”. A preacher might ask his congregation “So, do you have enough faith to believe _____?”, and fill in the blank with whatever the topic of the day may be. I’ve been exhorted from the pulpit to “share my faith”, “live by faith”, “increase my faith”, “depend on faith” - to mention but a few. And there’s that phrase that totally annoys me: “blind faith” - a useless, and rather insulting phrase— a religious oxymoron, IMHO.

Look up the word faith if you dare. Over 2 billion entries on Google! Two BILLION! And a quick check of a bible concordance records faith and its variants used over 700 times, and in the Gospels alone, 45 times! And for all our sakes in this brief blog post, we won’t going into the nuances of the various Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek words that are translated as “faith”.

For one small word that we use frequently and in multiple contexts, it’s no wonder there’s a bit of confusion around the issue of faith; well, actually - a lot of confusion. Which brings us back to the initial question of how to define faith. If we cannot be clear about what faith is, what do we do when confronted with a very real desire to not only understand faith, but seek to be a person OF faith?

What is faith - really? And do I have faith? Do I have enough faith? Is there even such a thing as enough faith? How much is too little? And probably the most important question: Does faith make a difference in my life? Often, the greatest challenges to our life’s beliefs, to our core values, arise in the simplest of questions: and in recent weeks, this has been my own struggle: at its core, what is faith?

A quick look at Webster’s Dictionary has a few meanings: loyalty, fidelity to one’s promises; belief and trust in God, belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion; complete trust in something, an unshakeable conviction. These definitions are all well and good, but they fail to get us to the heart of the matter; these dry-bones definitions fail miserably in explaining how - for so many - faith has changed their lives.

For you see, I’ve come to realize that faith must be far more than just a conviction, or a decision we make. Faith must transcend the mind; it is far more than a thought- rational or otherwise. For those whose lives have been changed by faith, it has to be more. Head knowledge is all fine and good, but it does not lead to a transformed life.

And faith is not simply a nice warm feeling about God. Let’s be real: humans are fickle, and our passions unreliable at best. We are foolish if we believe that our lives will change simply because going to church on Sunday or working in a soup kitchen gives us “warm and fuzzy” feelings. Marriages, parenthood and faith (among other things) require far more than “warm and fuzzy”. When the going gets tough, many warm, fuzzy Christians abandon ship, disillusioned, saddened and frustrated with their religion. They abandon God, blaming Him for life’s circumstances.

Faith is not about what our minds declare is true or right, like religion often tells us. Faith is also not a feeling which will change as the wind blows, as some revival preachers might have us believe. Thoughts and feelings aren’t faith; they are transitory, like houses built on sand. Faith built on these things will fall down in the first major storm of life. (Matt. 7:26-27)

If not a decision, or a belief, or a feeling constitute faith, then what does? In my 60+ years as a committed believer in the Christian tradition, I have noted a common thread in the lives of those who have demonstrated deep, life-changing faith that has lasted throughout the years, in heartache, sickness, loss, betrayal, tragedy - you name it - one thing is common among all: every single person, including yours truly, has undergone at least one, if not several, personal, monumental, life-altering encounters with God. I’ve come to see and know, as sure as I know the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening, that it is only through such a divine encounter with God that we come to a place of deep faith - faith like a rock: unmoveable, unshakeable, withstanding all storms, all earthquakes. No matter what. Faith endures. Like a rock.

Look at the lives of the “saints” in this world - both formal and informal “saints”. Each can describe for you a moment in their lives when they experienced a Divine encounter, even though they didn’t always realize what was going on at the time. Some encounters are well known: St. Francis, St. Paul, Thomas Merton, Henri Nouwen, C.S. Lewis, Mother Teresa. Other momentous encounters aren’t so dramatic or public: the alcoholic who has turned her life around after a personal encounter with God, waking up on the floor of her bathroom, the space transformed into a holy space for a few brief moments. Or an addicted teen whose life is changed when dragged to a Christian concert by a friend, who, against all rational thought and cultural indoctrination, recognizes the presence of God and responds to that Presence, that call. Or perhaps the middle-aged agnostic who experiences a momentous Divine encounter one day while crossing the street to his office after lunch - for no obvious or rational reason; or a wealthy business man who has a personal encounter with God on the 18th hole of the golf course one glorious sunny morning. All our ‘burning bush’ experiences are unique to each of us. Each different but oh! so very real.

When asked, it’s highly likely there will be nothing “special” about those moments to those of us looking in from the outside; but God met each one in a deeply personal space, within circumstances that were particularly personal and specific to them. For each, God chose a uniquely personal moment to reach out and transform them, from the inside out. Later when asked, almost invariably they will say: “I can’t explain it; I just know that I know that I know. God is real, and as a result of “x”, I am a different person. I’m changed.” That’s not religion, that’s a personal encounter.

The miracle is always in the responding. Each Divine encounter can either meet with resistance or downright hostility; or it can result in transformation and redemption. It’s always up to us; but be forewarned. It is not possible to outrun or hide from God. Sooner or later, we WILL encounter Him; the final question always is: when will we finally respond?

If faith is the result of a personal transformation in which God does the pursuing and we respond; there is also a paradox here: we were also created to pursue God. Everything in the human heart and soul longs for Divine connection, and has since the dawn of time. Created in His image, we seek to find that ‘Divine missing piece” of the puzzle that is uniquely ours; that sense of Divine-belonging that makes us feel whole, complete. And so we pursue God - though very often it doesn’t look like that at all. Instead, we pursue other “gods”; money, achievement, fame, security, love, thinking this must be it, the thing we’ve searched for, for so long. And yet if these are our “gods”, they will inevitably fall from grace, topple off their brass thrones, and sorely disappoint. And so we shift our search and seek out God in a different place, in a different “new thing”, and the searching cycle begins all over again. And it will continue until we respond to God’s pursuit, to His invitation for a holy encounter.

The paradox is that we are created to pursue God, and yet He is the one who does the pursuing. I like to consider it the Divine Dance, the dance of two lovers seeking one another in a dark wood, each searching, each calling out, each longing for the other… never satisfied until the chase is over, until the lovers are deeply embraced in love.

I can’t say it better than Fr. Richard Rohr: “God is humble and never comes if not first invited, but God will always find some clever way to get invited.” (emphasis mine) [1]

Faith isn’t something we can quantify, but it is an experiential event that transforms. If faith is that visceral, personal, transformed inner self that is deeply secure in the knowledge of God’s love, then there is no such thing as “enough faith”. As Jesus said, you simply need faith the size of a mustard seed (Matt. 17:20), an allegorical way of saying you simply need the tiniest amount sufficient to respond to God’s pursuing, to His ever out-reaching arms. Once we respond, our faith doesn’t grow so much as it solidifies into a rock of assurance and understanding, a deep conviction within that holds us close to the Divine One, in all circumstances, at all times.. Once we respond, we simply know that we know that we know. Once we respond, we enter into a relationship with our Divine Creator, and there is no looking back. Reality shifts, our inner being transforms and we receive daily what we’ve alway been longing for: a Divine Love that fills us up to overflowing, and meets every. single. need. we have— today, and tomorrow, and the next tomorrow- into eternity and forever.

[Rohr, R. Breathing Underwater, Chapter 6, p. 71. Franciscan Media, Cleveland OH. 2021. E-book version]

Moments that are too deep for words: the lovers’ longing look, a baby’s first giggle, the fatal diagnosis first uttered - a sunrise, an ocean breeze, the sighting of an eagle soaring overhead. We’ve all had them. No words can describe our feelings, no phrase convey what resides in the depth of our hearts. And yet, our world is drowning in letters and words and signs; in phrases and text. We are being slowly choked off with words.

I don’t have statistics or deep research on the explosion of words in our current age, but any sentient being will recognize the truth that words have exploded across our globe and into our lives with frightening speed and in unimaginable numbers.  The visual, the spoken - even the subliminal messaging of today’s vast network of technology; the explosion of books in every possible genre propounded by anyone with access to the internet and its multiple forms in cyberspace; mushrooming social media platforms that cry forth and shout aloud; the frightening noise of millions of people spraying words across miles and countries and cultures - you must admit, it’s a bit dizzying.

Dizzying - and usually not very satisfying - especially when life is such that there may be entire seasons that are too deep for words. (Of course, the irony of writing about such times and seasons in this blog does not escape me, but then again, much of life is filled with irony. So there you have it.)

In this Christmas season, many will experience a time that will be “too deep for words”, whether it is the deep joy of family gathered, the overwhelming sorrow at the recent loss of a loved one, the bone-grinding grief of loneliness,, the crushing depression that settles in when life and people disappoint and there seems no way out, or the simple but lovely contentment of a quiet walk in nature’s beauty.  We may try to run away from such moments, or ignore them, unable to understand or process the joy or the pain; but ignoring these moments won’t serve us well.  I’ve learned that we need to figure out how to take these moments - the beautiful ones as well as the difficult ones - and welcome them, learn from them, inviting them into our very heart and soul. Such moments, such seasons, are important tributes to life and love, and their very significance needs to be processed and savored.

Mary, in the Nativity Story, does this very thing. As the entire scene of birth and shepherds and angels swirled about her in ways she had not the ability to control, in a time when not only her physical being was filled with joy as well as pain and exhaustion, but her spiritual heart and mind would have been in turmoil and wonderment at the miracles that unfolded around her — Luke records: “Mary treasured all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” 

Mary was in a time, a season, that was too deep for words, so she simply treasured, and then pondered. Demonstrating a wisdom far beyond her years, she withdrew internally to an intimate place in her heart where she could savor the deep joy of a rare motherhood; where she could gaze in wonder at all that was unfolding around her, where she could contemplate the sheer majesty of the birth, the night, the star. She made a conscious effort to remember by treasuring each sound, each smell - good or bad. And then, I imagine, collapsing into her makeshift bed with exhaustion, she reviewed the evening, the night, the birth, and thought about them and what they meant, what they would mean. We don’t know the exact details, but we can certainly imagine it, the gritty reality of that birth night with Jesus and Joseph. A wise woman would certainly have pondered such things in her heart.

We, too, need to take time to treasure profound moments, and to ponder in our hearts those things that fill us with joy, longing, grief, sorrow. We need space and silence to ponder the grandeur of a winter sky, the majesty of a snow covered mountain, the joyful shouts of glee from children immersed in Christmas wonder. We, too, need to cultivate deep moments of overwhelming joy and wonder, and we don’t have to wait for a miracle birth or angelic hosts. We simply need to take the time to look around us and notice what is going on in our relationships, and in our lives and around our neighborhoods. If we consciously mark within our hearts those times that are too deep for words, pondering them and treasuring them, I suspect we will become stronger and wiser humans. I also suspect our hearts will expand with the grace and love that follow our ability to treasure each moment, to mark each season that is, ultimately, too deep for words.

I was physically and emotionally overwhelmed in the two weeks leading up to Thanksgiving with the sheer abundance of food in grocery stores and food markets. Produce bins were piled 4 feet high with all manner of produce; refrigerated cases groaned under the weight of hundreds of turkeys, frozen or fresh, packaged and prepared in a wide variety of ways: organic or seasoned or plumped up with “natural juices”. End cap displays were artfully arranged with every possible grocery item one might need for an “American Thanksgiving”, including canned goods of every variety (in case one wanted to recreate the revered 1960’s Thanksgiving tradition of green bean casserole and pumpkin pie). The sheer abundance available in American grocery stores seemed almost obscene when I contrasted it with the stark reality of war, hardship, hunger and suffering that is daily life in many other parts of the world; and yes - even in areas of our own nation.

Of course, there were many who gave thanks with sincere hearts, who shared their abundance with those less fortunate, who used the day as an opportunity to reach out to a community of those less fortunate and demonstrate a heart of gratitude with actions of giving and generosity. You see, I think it is important to seek to understand why gratitude and giving thanks is so critical to a vital spiritual life.

There’s been much written about gratitude; some are pithy quotes intended to spark a social media ‘like”; others are ancient and true, proven over the centuries to be wise in showing what heart-felt gratitude is and what it can be. But I don’t want to spend these precious moments to simply spout off a platitude to remind us to “give thanks”; I want to uncover what I sincerely believe happens in our hearts when we are truly grateful, when we practice an ongoing and daily pursuit of gratitude.

I have come to believe (and I have personally experienced this) that gratitude is not just a schmaltzy sentiment expressed once a year around a laden dining room table, or a fleeting “thanks” upon the receipt of a gift or service rendered. Gratitude is more than a Hallmark card - far more.

Gratitude is a decision I make, a mind-set that draws a line in the sand and states with full and conscious intention that I am going to be grateful for everything I have. Yes. Every. Thing. Gratitude cannot be relegated to only when everything is going my way,, when abundance and plenty surrounds me on every side, when I’m getting everything I want. That kind of gratitude is flimsy, shallow, fleeting… and does nothing to or for my soul. Gratitude expressed only in the good times is - I believe - revelatory of a basic immaturity, a child-like wonder at life that won’t last when the going gets rough, when the odds are stacked against you.

Being able to be truly grateful when a loved one dies, or when a job is suddenly gone, or when a terminal diagnosis is pronounced, or when a family is shattered by divorce sounds ridiculous. Seriously? What’s to be thankful for in those situations? Certainly, if I give thanks only when the good times roll, it does seem outrageous to give thanks when life happens, when I’m down and out. But the wondrous thing about living with ongoing gratitude, though, is that I can see through the darkness of the moment to a reason to be grateful even in the worst of times: the sweet memories of how that loved one made me smile or her wacky sense of humor which always brought joy; the ability to recognize that the lost job has taught me what NOT to do in the next one. Being thankful in the face of the most difficult of circumstances expands my heart to embrace all that life has to offer - the difficult and tragic and painful as well as the good and the joyful.

Impossible, you say. No way, you think. Crazy woman! and you know it … right? Well. Maybe - but I have seen the golden lining that is encapsulated with each intentional stance of gratitude regardless of the circumstance: the golden gift of grace. God’s great gift to us in the face of our gratitude in all things is the grace to walk through that difficult time, that war-torn landscape that is our heart, to sift through our personal detritus of failures and heartaches and disappointments. A lifestyle of gratitude brings abundant and unending grace and changes us from the inside out:

• The grace to be grateful is given only when we choose to be grateful - no matter the circumstance. And with that grace, our hearts begin to heal. With that grace, our eyes are opened to other gifts and opportunities and we are set free to love more, to see more completely, to live more fully - and yes, to get even more grace. With each step taken in gratitude, God gives us the grace to continue our journey regardless of circumstances.

• Gratitude shifts the focus away from our pain, and opens our hearts to God’s love, giving us the wisdom to see that no matter the circumstance, there is always something to be grateful for, and in return, God provides us with a tangible grace that we can embrace and hold on to through any storm.

• Choosing to be grateful in all things shifts your mind and heart into a place that is far more acutely aware of God’s ongoing blessings. Focusing on gratitude will give you a life-perspective that will shift your stance into a place of grateful receiving, no matter what is happening in your world.

• When we are grateful in and for all things, our peace and joy no longer depend upon life’s circumstances, but come from deep within, from a wellspring of grace that is constantly being renewed by our choice to be grateful, no matter what.

A lifestyle of gratitude will change your heart, free your mind and bring you joy. It will change your life. Give thanks no matter what, and see what happens.

How does one maintain a spirit of hope in this present world? How can I possibly even think about being hopeful when terrorism strikes into the very heart of innocent citizens; when men seeking more and more power bomb hospitals and schools; when panicked people are struck down on the very path of their attempted escape? What does hope even mean in this world that seems intent on a path of self-destruction, surrounded on all sides by injustice, violence and destruction?

Where is God in all this? Where is hope? Are we delusional in even believing that there is such a thing as hope?

Maybe. ….and yet- I hope. I cannot help it; my hope might sometimes be a mere flicker, like a small weak candle in the wind, but it doesn’t go out. I won’t let it. I’m far too stubborn to let go of my hope, and I truly do believe in a hope that is undergirded by faith and love. I’ve walked too far and too long on this path to even contemplate leaving hope behind in the dust. And this is why I won’t let go of hope now, and with God’s grace, not ever.

For I know, in the deepest core of my being, that hope is not an illusion, nor is it a flimsy concept that tricks us into believing in a better future. Such an understanding of hope fails to recognize it for what it truly is: a very present and real way to help us process what is going on now, in our lives at this very moment. I cannot have hope that only exists in a future dimension; hope is real only when it is present in the moment, now. Hope allows me to embrace what is going on in my world today, and in contemplating the possibilities of what might be, understand now that my God sees them all, and is intent on the ultimate course that is good and true.

As St Paul wrote centuries ago: “Hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?” (Romans 8:24). I hope today for what I cannot see; for what will come tomorrow. I cannot know what will come; I cannot determine tomorrow’s outcome by today’s disasters. A true and holy hope is only possible within the context of faith, for each strengthens the other. My faith in a good God gives me hope in the present moment for a blessed future. My present hope builds my faith for a future to come that is good, and that allows me to carry on.

Hope does not mean that I need to understand everything that is going on; I don’t need the why’s and the wherefores, and the constant deconstruction and reconstruction of arguments; of haranguing and postulating and suppositions. Hope is not rational; it is not intellectual, and often, it’s not even sane. True hope is grounded in faith, springing forth from my soul - from deep in my bones. True hope builds up my faith so that I can continue to have hope.

This type of hope is not fantasy, nor is it a ‘feel-good” panacea to get me through a difficult time, though it may seem so to those who have no faith. Those who don’t believe in a divinely present God may struggle to perceive the very real power of hope; yet hope has always strengthened the people who’ve maintained their hope in extremely difficult times. Hope has woven its way through cultures and civilizations since the dawn of time, providing a real and holy platform upon which to stand as people triumph through and in spite of multiple trials.

People who’ve been treated unjustly, cruelly and viciously know deeply the power of hope. Indigenous peoples have survived in the aftermath of inhumane treatment and cruelty because they’ve maintained hope as a people, bound together by thousands of years of shared wounds, of sacred culture. Black Americans have survived centuries of ongoing racism and injustice because, as a culture, as a people, they’ve kept their hope alive in their faith, in their traditions, in the very core of their souls.

Marginalized peoples around the world, and throughout multiple centuries have kept their hope alive for a better, gentler more loving world, even in the midst of repeated genocides, wars, and injustices. Hope is the fire that kindles the spirit to keep on going, to find the good, to ultimately live and love as best we can.

So yes. These are difficult times, but in all honesty, this is nothing new; we have struggled as a human race since we drew our very first breath. But just as ancient and just as true is hope. Hope has fueled the constancy of our existence; the deep faith of our fathers, the belief in God’s promises for an eternity of better tomorrows.

My faith tells me that our God is a God of hope, the One Who promises that tomorrow will come, and maybe - just maybe - it will be a better day for me, for you. For the world.

I am not a politician, and I don’t follow politics either at home or abroad; it’s simply too difficult, disruptive, sad. I learned years ago that being too close to these stories of world violence and struggle for domination saps me of my hard-won peace. That’s not to say that I ignore it all together; I read certain publications in a measured quantity. And I pray. I pray often.

And I do what I can to live a life that eschews power struggles, having learned to walk away from the temptations that come from asserting power and control over others. I came to understand, especially in the last few years of my life, that power and control are not good bed-fellows with a life aimed at peace and grace and love.

I‘ve come to realize that in our own lives, we can easily become little despots in our own small kingdoms, wielding power with abandon, inflicting harm and exerting control in order to make ourselves feel powerful and secure. We all play our own versions of “King of the Mountain”, until hopefully one day, we awaken from our power-filled stupor to realize that we really aren’t in control of anything, and we have gained nothing of value by insisting on being in control. Being in control is illusory at best; destructive at its worst.

I came across a quote from Henry Nouwen (1932-1996), a Dutch Catholic priest and theologian well known for his own journey of giving up control and for his writings on spirituality, social justice and community. After serving as professor and scholar at several well-known universities around the world (including Harvard and Yale), he eventually ended up serving at L’Arche Daybreak in Toronto, a community caring for the severely disabled, where he found new purpose and a renewed, deepened faith in personally serving the residents there. He discovered in a deep and personal way that giving up power and control was the best (and maybe only?) way to personal and lasting peace:

“As fearful, anxious, insecure, and wounded people we are tempted constantly to grab a little bit of power that the world around us offers, left and right, here and there, now and then. These bits of power make us little puppets jerked up and down on strings until we are dead.” Nouwen went on to say that it is only through powerlessness that we can rightfully make a difference; only through serving from a place of weakness, and only in a life lived with little or no control can we ever hope to effectively love others.

Nouwen wasn’t the only person who served from a place of powerlessness; St. Francis, Mother Teresa - and yes, Jesus himself - as well as thousands more throughout history and into our own modern day, have understood the indescribable (and counterintuitive) beauty of giving up power in order to make a difference. For you see, regardless of our own position in society and in life, there is something silently, grandly and overwhelmingly powerful in someone who, of their own volition, with humility and full knowledge of the consequences, gives up their own power and wealth to serve.   It is a rare and beautiful thing — though probably not as rare as we would imagine.  Surely there have been countless thousands over the centuries who have willingly given up power and wealth and prestige in order to assist those who have nothing; millions who have walked away from being powerful and become powerless so that they might make a difference.

But it is not a popular position.  Our society does not understand powerlessness in its most elemental space; it does not see the true value of powerlessness but instead craves, like an addict, their substance of choice, the graven image of being a powerful person, a person of prestige, of wealth, of fame. Of power. If you don’t think that’s true, turn on your device of choice and read the news or view the images of the violent power struggles in far flung places in the world; or if you’d rather stay close to home - in Washington DC.  Listen to the vitriol spewed forth in the power-laden halls of government where men and women wrestle and fight with vicious words and untruths, distorted images of power and greed ever the goal, ever the worshipped-god to be appeased in numerous smoke-filled back rooms around the globe.  Or if you think that too depraved to consider, cast your eyes, instead, upon the board rooms of Wall Street, and Main Street — in New York or California, or London or Beijing - in fact, pretty much anywhere around the globe you choose, and observe the powerful and power-hungry wanna-be’s struggle for power and more power; for money and wealth. For absolute control.

I’ve come to understand a deep truth, one that has been clear to all those who have given up their own power over the centuries: powerlessness is not weakness. Oh, no. In fact, it is only in giving up our illusion of power that we can become strong. Acknowledging the inability of power itself to change lives, to improve the world, to make any difference whatsoever is truly the key to developing an inner strength that is fully cognizant of the deep inner core of true power, which is love. The only strength, the only power that truly transforms is love - pure and simple. If anything, history has taught us that violence and war do not bring about change or peace or lasting transformation; they simply destroy. True power is found in loving. It’s as simple —and complex— as that.

There is one thing, then, we can all do; one thing that will make a difference - maybe not on the world stage, but certainly in our own world, in each of our lives. We can daily choose the path of love, peace and harmony in our own relationships - whether spouse, child, family, friend, or coworker. We can choose to forgive others, even when we are convinced we are in the right; forgiveness is an active giving up of control in the name of love. We can choose to apologize first, even when we have been the victim; this kind of apology brings about the humility we need to continue to give up power and control, the need to always be right. We can abdicate strong opinions and loud arguments when we come to understand that ultimately, those opinions and arguments really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things; it is only our egos that care who wins.

If we choose to let go of power and control in the small things, we will begin to learn what it’s like to be powerless. If, in the small decisions of each day we choose the lesser way, the way of letting others decide, letting others choose, letting others “win”, we will learn a little bit more about the power of love. These choices, though small, will be hard at first, (and frankly, it will likely always be hard…) but letting go wields great personal peace, teaching us that truly, the least powerful, the meek, will truly inherit a Kingdom.

We first encountered the word ‘pono’ our way to Kauai early in September. It was part of the description of the islands on the Hawaiian Airlines flight as they reviewed the safety features of the aircraft (which features and instructions were filmed throughout the Hawaiian Islands - it’s the only time I ever truly watch the “mandatory safety instructions” on any plane - they are mesmerizing and beautiful, if you can believe that!) The narration included several references to “living pono”, and I was curious. Based on context, did it mean to live environmentally responsible and aware? Did it mean to stay safe? To be polite? To treat others kindly and fairly? It was hard to know… so I researched the definition, but more than that, I also observed the natives - the Hawaiians who were our hosts while we were there. And I came to a revelatory conclusion within days of our stay: living pono was far more than any of those things. Pono has come to encompass not only a way of life, but an attitude towards life and living that is heartfelt, genuine, reflecting a deep spirituality that is uniquely Hawaiian.

A google-search reveals that the word pono is part of the Hawaiian state motto, attributed to King Kamehameha III: “Ua Mau ke Ea o ka ‘Aina i ka Pono”, or “The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness”. Here, the word means righteousness, but as is true for many Hawaiian words, pono has many more meanings and nuances than simply ‘righteousness’. The meanings listed in the Hawaiian dictionary are overwhelmingly numerous (goodness, uprightness, moral, correct, proper, excellent, well-meaning, successful, beneficial, in perfect order…) and that’s just a small sampling of the FIRST meaning! It also can refer to the proper stewardship of property or possessions of any kind; or to hope; or to the proper use and purpose of a thing or task.

But even more than a definition, the term has evolved to actually encapsulate the very spirit of life, an approach that underscores a way of living that maintains harmony and alignment with one’s surroundings and one’s community. Stemming from ancient Hawaiian culture, this sense of pono focused on the importance of living in spiritual harmony with each other, in balance with the land and the sea. Living on an isolated chain of islands, such an attitude was critical to survival, and living pono underscored the culture’s commitment to maintaining that balance of life and love through respect and honor; through conservation and care of land, of sea, of each other.

For two weeks, my husband and I watched people living pono, and unfortunately it was rarely the tourists who exemplified that sense of balance and respect, but our native Hawaiian hosts who were gracious, kind, joy-fillled, relaxed. Main-land “transplants” who’d been on the island for many years also exemplified a spirit of pono. It seemed as if a commitment to living in such a beautiful place caused a shift of focus, a gentling of soul and heart, an encompassing of the spiritual and physical beauty of the place they call home.

On Sunday afternoons, we watched families gathered at a small local beach, playing, eating, socializing, filled with laughter and kind words. Children were indulged; older siblings patiently engaging little ones with games and surfing lessons. Food was shared amongst all - between groups of families and strangers alike, and laughter was the order of the day. The peace and harmony of those gatherings was palpable, and did much to bring peace to my heart; here were people who understood love and life in a sweet and powerful way.

One afternoon as we sat and relaxed on an isolated beach, a native Hawaiian stopped to engage us in conversation, full of smiles and questions about where we were from, who we were, and about how we liked his home. He freely shared his love of the island, and asked us about what we liked about his beautiful home. He exuded a peace and calm that enveloped my husband and I as if we were one breathing entity. In that moment, I came to understand living pono in a profound and yet still mysterious way. As he continued his run down the beach after our talk, we couldn’t help but feel we’d shared a special moment with someone who was truly living pono; his sense of peace, respect and honor for all was palpable.

As a general rule, I don’t shop for souvenirs on my trips, (though I did bring home some Hawaiian print fabric for a future quilt!), but this time, I brought home far more than a trinket or object d’art. I returned with a desire for this deep sense of pono, of a way that I want to live my life in the months and years ahead. I want to cultivate that sense of pono in the areas of my life that will not only improve my attitudes and outlook, but that will also help me leave a sweeter, kinder, more respectful imprint on the people around me - family, friends and strangers alike. I want to live pono with respect for the environment and the earth, with intentionality in stewarding resources in ways that will honor future generations.

It’s also not lost on me that living pono is much like living a simply sacred life; there are many things about the two concepts that intersect and meld. Yet, I also recognize that living pono is truly a way of life for many Hawaiians, but that living a simply sacred life is somewhat counter-cultural in this fast-paced mainland culture of ours, and requires us to be somewhat radical in following in those simple, sacred footsteps. Living simply (or living pono) is not a value in our loud, crazy, contentious post-modern world. If we truly want to walk in the steps of the Simply Sacred, I believe we have much to learn from the living pono of our Hawaiian brethren. It seems to me they’ve got it figured out, and are all the better for it.

Limen is the Latin word for a threshold, a doorway in between two rooms, or even between the inside/outside of a space.  In the same way, the concept of liminal space incorporates this sense of a “heart and soul space” that exists in the “in-between” times in our lives when we are in transition, whether it is an intentional transition, an unintentional one, a welcome opportunity — or even a time of change that is confusing and unsettling.  

We’ve all had those liminal times. College, graduation, marriage, parenthood; moving from one home or community to another. Job loss, death of family and friends, divorce; children growing up and away. Serious illness. Transitions in our world and in our lives are a given, but all too often, we resist the change, we turn away, we hold on to what we have with tight fists. We refuse to acknowledge the change in circumstances, refuse to let go of what once was - and thus never move forward.

It’s a reflexive action, this “hanging on for dear life”, and a pattern of thinking and behaving that is hard to change. So what?.. you say… “I like my life just the way it is and I don’t want to change!” Ironically, the problem, of course, is that change is constant. Times of transition are often not of our own doing; we don’t choose to have illness and death; we don’t choose to be laid off, or experience the pain of divorce or the ravages of a pandemic, or the disintegration of family and friendships. But sadly, many of us refuse to acknowledge the change before us, or perhaps even the need to change, and attempt - at all costs - to hang on to our present life, holding onto broken circumstances with tight fists. We get stuck, and in that “stuck-ness” lies inertia; there is no good thing in this space. We either move on, or wilt and die within.

So what to do, then? How do we change our mind and heart attitudes regarding transitions? How do we embrace the change - and if we do - what will that mean? How do we learn and grow from enforced or unwanted change? I believe (through years of experiencing transitions in my own life) that the key to using times of transitions as an opportunity for growth, maturity and wisdom is to recognize them as a “time and space” of liminality. With recognition comes the conscious movement into the unknown, “in-between” time so that we can enter into it fully, acknowledging the discomfort, and even the pain, of the change. If we see this time as a threshold between one phase of life and another, as a positive experience of growth and change, we’ll understand better who we were then, and how we are being called to evolve and change now.

I’ve known this for years; that uncertain and often scary time of liminality - that “in-between” time and how it has cycled back to me again and again throughout my life.  As I’ve walked this journey of life, I’ve noted these doorways, the “lintel” between one phase of my life and another.  Many times, these were difficult liminal spaces of change: our move to another city when I was first married, which signaled a forced time of growing up and out of the nurturing nest of my childhood into full adulthood; times of difficult work situations that pushed me into different and exciting (though scary) challenges; the death of dear family and friends, each loss searingly painful and heartbreaking, but so pivotal in my understanding of suffering, love and healing. 

And as difficult as those times were, I didn’t fully realize what was going on, and how God was transforming me in the midst of all that, until I looked in the rear-view mirror of my life. It was only in that rear-view mirror that I could see how God had reached out, held my hand, caressed my soul, breathed hope into my weeping heart. It was only months and years later that I noticed the beauty of the transformation, the steadfastness of a God who never left my side, even in those times that I could see nothing but my tears. It was only from the vantage point of a more mature, wiser person that I could make sense of what had happened, of what God had wrought in me.

Nothing makes sense in the midst of transition. Letting go of the things held close and dear is painful and hard - it’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise. However, when you see things from the vantage point of elapsed months (or even years), you see the grace that God has provided in all moments of your life. It’s not until you’ve walked “through” that time, until you’ve walked through that liminal space from one heart-room to another that you truly come to understand and appreciate the road walked, the journeys completed.

I’m in a liminal space now; transitioning through another time of change that is impacting me in several ways: new directions and challenges in my faith; changes in church, in work expectations and approaching retirement; an acknowledgment that this body of mine is starting to wind down, to creak and moan and ache.  This time, though, I recognize the liminality of this space; and in this space, I am at peace because I know, for sure and certain, that yet again, God is the One leading me through this time of growth and change.  In this liminal space, God has granted me the grace and wisdom to understand what I must, and to let go of the rest.

In acknowledging this liminal space, I give it permission to breathe and radiate and mold and transform me. I relax into its unknown reaches, and lean into the Spirit who will guide me, heal me, and bring me that unlimited and sweet peace that only comes from God.  I don’t know where I’ll land; nor do I know when- but someday in this space, my two feet will have fully entered into the possession of a new reality, and I will sit for a time at God’s feet, enjoying the fruits of this new time and space, until He brings me to another.

But. Sometimes one simply has to tell it like it is - hyperbole or no.

Easter, which was observed by the Western Christian church last Sunday (Eastern Orthodox believers will be celebrating this coming Sunday) is always preceded by Good Friday; the Holy Week commemorations of the passion, death and resurrection of Christ are well known and accepted in our culture, even if some of the holiday’s paraphernalia stray rather far afield from the origin of the feast. Bunnies and eggs and marshmallow chicks seem rather bizarre to celebrate what was a violent death and miraculous resurrection.

Plus, it’s a bit late to talk about Good Friday; Easter has come and gone. Jesus’ passion can be laid to rest until next Good Friday, when we’ll again take a few moments to meditate upon and ponder the death of a man who rose again three days later. It’s become so much a part of Western religious culture, its occurrence rarely merits a hiccup in our daily routine.

But something Jesus uttered in His last minute before dying hasn’t left me for days; and when that happens, I know I’m onto something; something deep, personal, and wholly holy. If one can think on His words for just a few minutes - to deeply and consciously sink into those last words He uttered, to really understand what He was saying, it would change everything.

I’m not kidding. Everything. Every. Thing. Every. One. Every. Where.

Moments before he breathed his last, Jesus said “It is finished.”

Done. Over with. Completed. Accomplished. “It is finished.'“

What was finished? Over with, completed, accomplished?

Jesus accomplished what we never could, and never would, on our own. He redeemed mankind for all eternity, taking on evil and sin into His own person and body so that we would be forever freed from condemnation and punishment. God executed the perfect plan of reconciliation through His son Jesus, the Christ, the Messiah. God’s longing was to be reunited with His people, with His created ones; to let His people know just how loved and precious they were.

And His plan of reconciliation through Jesus was a one-time deal. Once for all. No need to repeat. Once and done.

When Jesus said “It is finished”, His intent was that we would no longer have to “work” our way into God’s good graces, or beg for His blessings. We would no longer have to earn His love. In essence Jesus said, “Mission accomplished”. The plan all along was that Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice would usher in the Reign of God on earth, showing us how to love each other, in peace and joy.

But in looking over human history for the past 2000+ years, mankind seems to have forgotten those words; we just don’t get it - it seems we never have. Over the course of history we decided we had to “add on” to the plan, to perfect it. We made lots of rules, we built big churches, we created complex hierarchies and institutions, we waged wars and created all manner of “in” and “out” groups. And if our rules weren’t obeyed, if the right words weren’t said, or the right clothing worn, or the right foods eaten, or the proper prayers said, or the right books read, we had no problem with violent coercion and destruction. Read it for yourselves: the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Middle Ages, the Protestant Reformation, the religious infighting and divisiveness right within Christianity itself for over 1800 years.

Good grief, we are still doing it today. American politics has become a new religious war.

Did we forget what He said? Or maybe we’ve just never accepted that Jesus’ work was really finished. For 2000 years, we’ve tried to add on to God’s plan, to finesse and fine-tune it to our own needs and desires. We’ve used the language of faith but the weapons of war. We’ve pretended to share love and “good news”, but only to those we’ve considered worthy, never accepting that ‘worthiness’ is not ours to decide. We took the very simple message of God’s unfailing love for all of mankind, and turned it into a theological quagmire of philosophies and works that do nothing but fuel discord and discontent. It’s no wonder so many have turned away.

It’s time to return to that one-liner, “It is finished”, and see if we really believe it IS finished. If so, then what a burden is lifted! Jesus already reconciled man to God, so all I have to do is love others as He did. It’s all that’s asked of me.

The cross turns on one concept: love. My life depends on one virtue: love. My future requires one commodity: love.

What more need be said? It is finished.

How do you write about contemplative prayer, or its close cousin, centering prayer? (Not easily, I assure you, at least based upon my own recent efforts). There are others who have written about this practice far more beautifully and skillfully than I will be able to; I am a “newbie” in this practice, and can share what I do and how it’s transformed me, but I am far from being accomplished in the practice. Not that I haven’t studied up on it; my bookshelves groan with the weight of the volumes I’ve accumulated on the topic. [1] The irony, of course, is that the only way to understand an experiential practice is to do it. Studying about it points the way and gives helpful advice, but the only way to fully benefit, mature and become transformed by the practice of contemplative prayer is to do it.

We begin at the beginning; at the very beginning… even before the beginning - with God Himself. In the Jewish Torah, God revealed Himself to Moses as “I AM Who I AM”, just one of the English translations of “YHWH”. [2] YHWH as written in Hebrew had no vowels, and if spoken (which was not allowed) sounded like the exhalation of human breath. God was breath, the very air we breathed. God was so holy, so sacred that even His name far surpassed man’s poor efforts at grasping His holiness. The moniker “YHWH” was a “non-word”, an attempt to identify that which was beyond words. The boundaries of His sanctity and glory could not be contained, never mind understood or discussed. It was made clear from the beginning and continues to be clear to those who take time to ponder it: God is far beyond words.

We’ve lost the “more” of God— His “beyond-ness”. For if God exists beyond words; if He cannot be contained by words, or be fully apprehended or understood through words, then we must acknowledge that there must more to experiencing God than through spoken prayer. Prayer is good. It is necessary and vital to our faith and well-being (studies have proven as much). But, there is so much more! If God is beyond words, then we need to seek Him in ways that also go beyond words, and into experience. If God must be experienced, then we need to seek Him through experience, with a form of communication that goes over and under and around words, transcending what words may attempt, but never achieve. If God is beyond words, then communication that does not use words skips the “middle man” of words in the transaction, and provides us with a deeper connection, a more honest experience, a more fulfilling encounter with the “I AM”.

Praying with words is good. Praying directly from your heart, beyond the words, is life changing.

Contemplative prayer, or more specifically centering prayer, provides just such an opportunity to experience God beyond words. One word is used- not to pray, but to center us in a quiet space and time (usually 15-20 minutes). One word to remind the busy brain that thoughts are not welcome in this space and time; only the silent heart-gaze of Lover to beloved, and beloved to Lover. When the brain attempts to usurp the space and clangs for attention, the word is repeated to return to the center. (I use two words, mad rebel that I am: “be still”.) “Love”, “Trust”, “God”, are all good choices, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter the word used; it matters only how that word centers the heart and helps one to dive under the ocean of words and simply be.

Again, for details? See resources suggested below. [3]

Although not an expert in the process, I can speak grandly about how it has changed me; how it has transformed me. Spending time in a quiet centered space before God helps to turn off the brain that is usually filled with all kinds of negative-speak; reminders of what I’ve not done, or what I must do, or how I’ve missed the mark. Turning off the critical voice brings a peaceful calm; an inner acceptance of who I am, warts and all. Turning off the self-aggrandizing, ego-soothing voice brings a cleansing humility and honest reflection. Turning off the guilty voice brings relief and joy, allowing the true light of God’s love to settle in and around my heart. After some time in centering prayer, those shadows that have lingered deep in the soul start to shrink - the light of grace and love smudging their lines, erasing their existence. After time in heart-silence, with one’s gaze simply focused on the Lover, deep gratitude bubbles forth in the middle of the day, unbidden. Tears of humility suddenly creep in while I cook dinner, and I wonder - where did that come from? Waves of charity and love crash up on my heart and I am undone in the midst of my morning shower. What a wonder!

For me, centering prayer has turned prayer into a wild ride of unfolding joy and love. It is not always easy; it’s often a struggle to sit still for 20 minutes, mind intentionally not thinking, repeating a word in order to focus. But it does get easier; and the Spirit is often at work within, sometimes most especially in those difficult times, sifting through our hurts and sorrows, healing deeply buried wounds; convicting, soothing, loving. The Spirit clears away the rubble so that the love of God settles in anew, stronger, brighter and sweeter than before. It is the rhythm of that daily experience that matters, the turning of heart to Father, of soul to Spirit.

The transformation is real and true, and of such deep beauty that I don’t think I’ll ever cease to sit, each and every morning. Twenty minutes... being still.

[1] ] For more study on this, I suggest writings by ancient mystics Julian of Norwich and Theresa of Avila. More easily consumed modern authors Thomas Merton, Thomas Keating, and Cynthia Bourgeault are excellent resources, especially Keating and Bourgeault who offer practical advice and know-how.

[2] Also translated as “I will be what I will be” or “I am the One who is”.

[3] The Center for Contemplative Outreach (online) is an organization dedicated to the study and practice of centering prayer; also, Thomas Keating’s “Open Mind, Open Heart” is an excellent primary source.

It’s now become commonplace to see people with the ever-present ear-buds plugged in, music or podcasts precluding any stray chance for silence to peek through. It’s not unusual to have beachgoers blare music loud from portable speakers and phones, from some inexplicable need to drown out the quiet of surf and bird and breeze. Even those dulcet sounds of seashore rhythms are too silent for some; there must be a note of discordant sound introduced; it’s as if they cannot tolerate what might percolate up from within if the noise were silenced - even for a few short hours at the seashore.

For some of us, silence is intolerable; for many, it’s simply uncomfortable and unwelcome, because we are afraid of what will bubble up from within in the silence of the moment, or heaven forbid - over the course of an hour. The fear of what monsters might lurk within our very souls is far greater than we understand; we simply know that we must not let down our guard lest we come to a silent place in which we need to face the inner turmoil, the false self-image we’ve crafted for ourselves to thrive and survive. We don’t want to face our dark and wounded shadow-self, and so we make very sure there is no space in which that can happen. All addictions, all intentional distractions - these are all ways in which we erect our defenses and pretend we are fine. And we are not. We are simply dancing with our shadow-self. (See last week’s blog for more on the shadow-self: https://simplysacredlife.com/blog/shadow-dancing)

So - if I’m using noise to avoid the discovery of my shadow-dark self, then perhaps - if I really do want to stop the “shadow dance” - I need to screw up the courage to willingly embrace the silence and acknowledge the fear - and simply enter into the fray. As most things, once we face our fear, and engage actively with what we are afraid of, the fear dissipates; there’s nothing left to feed it.

Silence is a powerful tool; there’s a very good reason that all major world religions embraced silence as a very real, very effective and compassionate spiritual discipline towards self-discovery and joy. Silence has proven itself invaluable in giving us the spiritual strength and resilience to face our shadows, to face our weaknesses and failings and the things we don’t like about ourselves, and provide us with the inner space, resources, and strength to overcome, to conquer; simply put - to become better, happier and peace-filled human beings.

Initially, embracing the practice of regularly being silent is hard: it’s hard to walk away from any addiction, and the addiction to noise is no different. And as with any addiction, we are pretty skilled at dressing up our motivation as something “good”, and not as our means of self-soothing, as a means of facing our demons. We turn on the TV of an evening to relax after a stressful day (no matter that our program choice may provide more stress in one hour than what occurred at work in our entire day!) We put on worship music to keep out the silence, and feel good about it, rationalizing that - after all - I’m worshiping! That’s good! Or we put on a podcast or an audiobook, and feel good about expanding our knowledge and understanding. Or we tune in to our favorite piece of music and for a few moments we are carried away in the memories they evoke, or their beauty and richness. These distractions are not bad in their own right, but they cannot replace our deep need for silence in which the only sound we hear is perhaps, the quiet beat of our hearts, or the whisper of the breeze through the trees.

I speak from years of experience of attempting to shut out the silence; of coming up with beautiful distractions, healthy and good in and of themselves, but also oh! so effective in keeping the silence at bay. For years, I “played” with entering silence, thrusting and parrying between sound and silence like a macabre play between light and dark - so I know whereof I speak. It’s human to try and avoid pain; but in the end, if we want to enter into a greater space of peace and wholeness, something’s got to give, and we have to begin somewhere. I suggest we begin with silence; it’s simple and effective. It’s free; it’s nondenominational. It’s flexible and accessible at any time of day or night. It’s forgiving - if we only give it a chance.

Silence is rich and filled with promise; it is a fullness in itself. Silence removes all the externals we surround ourselves with, stripping away all our “shiny pennies” until all we are left with are the thoughts in our minds - which in and of themselves can blare loud and discordant - more distracting than a heavy metal band blaring at 95 decibels 10 feet away. Silence strips away our defense mechanisms. It creates a space in which we must confront the very fact that we are running from our own thoughts, thoughts that tell us we are broken; that proclaim our inadequacies; that remind us of our failures and losses and countless mistakes. In the silence, they all come rushing forward. In the silence, they stand in judgment, and we feel the shroud of failure that they drape upon our hearts. There’s a reason silence is scary for most of us; it can be a dangerous place.

Initially, silence truly is a “fullness of itself” - full of all we’ve pushed down and hidden away. But over time and with practice, silence eventually becomes the “fullness of God”. Like most good things that come our way, we must be willing to do the hard work needed to get us to that place. In order to confront that shadow-self, it’s necessary to allow those negative thoughts and feelings to come forward so that they can be wrestled with - and yes, conquered.

If you are on a spiritual quest to discover your True Self (you are not alone; think of all the fables and tales of noble quests throughout the centuries and across all cultures; they are each a morality story that gives context and reality to every person’s quest to find their “True Self” in some fashion), then silence is your first weapon; and that weapon must be yielded in prayer and trust - trust that God is with you in the process of this self-discovery.

Begin with a short prayer to settle your mind. My favorite is “Be still and know that I am God”, but anything works that will help to quiet your mind. And then, be quiet. That’s it. Be quiet. Begin with whatever amount of silence you can tolerate: five minutes? ten? thirty? It doesn’t matter how long; all that matters is that you begin. And begin again. And again. And keep at it. This is not intended to be a time of prayer, but of simply being quiet, remaining silent before God. No engagement, no whispered confessions. Just the silence.

If you need to be doing something, be silent while walking outdoors, or while doing a gardening task. Be silent yet aware of the natural sounds around you. If you can, sit still in a chair and simply “be”. This is not meditation or prayer, this is simply a quiet time to be peaceful. It’s harder than you think. But it’s also easier than you think - especially once you get started. More likely than not, your new “addiction” just may become these times of peace-filled silence.

And next week we’ll move to the next phase of refusing the Shadow Dance. Till then, find - and then enjoy - some quiet, silent, peace-filled times.