Lighten Enlighten

Coverings

Jeff asked me this weekend what morsel I was gleaning from Easter this year, and I told him "coverings."

Something our pastor said in church on Palm Sunday reminded me of the quietly growing obsession I have with skin, shame, and coverings in scripture. (And yes, that's "skin" not "sin.") He referenced the people of Jerusalem welcoming Jesus into the city during Passover as a tradition from the Orient that was used at the time to honor the entrance of a king. Commoners would take off their own robes and lay them out in the road to be soiled and trampled in deference to the higher honor of the one riding over them. And that's what these people were doing. They were welcoming the one they thought would come in and make all wrongs right, overthrow the millstone of the Roman government from around their necks, and bring the shining glory of the kingdom of God into fullness then and there (in exactly the manner they wanted him to). Don't we all want that sometimes?

But, of course, God often behaves contrary to what we expect. Despite the fact that Jesus never took over in the manner they were inviting him to, their actions of laying down their cloaks nonetheless symbolically foretold the truth of what he was actually coming to do, whether they recognized it or not. The idea of laying down one's coverings made me start thinking about the reasons we take up our coverings to put them on in the first place, which reminded me of the original reason we were covered at all from day one - shame. Adam and Eve were ashamed they were naked in the garden, once their eyes were opened after they  had sinned, and the immediate urge was to cover their own nakedness. [Enter the iconic fig leaf, extremely insufficient though it may be.] Then came next, of course, the more suitable, yet still insufficient, animal skin that God provided after the very first death on this earth - the animals that died, sacrificing skin for skin to cover human shame. Over time, of course, coverings and clothing then adapted and evolved alongside human culture, necessity, and personal taste, which then, brings me full circle centuries later back to the exuberant crowd at Jerusalem's gate, willingly de-robing and laying down cloaks in the stone roads in honor of the coming Christ.

I think what amazes me this year about this story and this seemingly simple act of the people is how visually prophetic it is. When we welcome the Christ into our "kingdom" to do his work, we take off our cloaks and lay them in the road, rendering ourselves in some sense naked before him, exposing our shame and depravity in child-like trust. He then takes those very skins up and rides with them up the hill to Golgotha where he, with them, is nailed to a cross that was not meant for him, but for us. Once Justice is satisfied and Love has reached as far as it can possibly reach to save, Christ dies, rises from the grave, and we are once again given back coverings to wear - this time of his own skin and his own righteousness. Robes that were once named Sin, Desolation, and Shame are replaced and named anew, given back to us as Righteous,  Holy, Cherished, and Redeemed.

I drove home late tonight from a dinner with two of my closest girlfriends, once again amazed at how relationship (and God in relationship) does miracles in our lives. I love these women so much. They have a profound ability to hold in a delicate balance seeing my depravity, speaking into it, embracing my dignity, and loving and enjoying me right through all of it. And then I looked back on the rest of my weekend, smiling at the full and wonderful collage of other faces I was blessed to encounter, too. I haven't enjoyed people this much in a long time; my heart feels alive and hopeful and at peace. Birthday parties, dinners, games and conversations around the dinner table, swimming, laughing, Red Robin, Guitar Hero, my boys, my girl, my husband, and all my other friends who I was blessed to spend time with these past couple of days... Thank you for the gifts you gave to me this weekend. I'll carry them with me into the week.

Words of God

You know that feeling when you first step in the shower and the warm, steaming water hits the top of your scalp for the first time and starts to roll down on all sides of your head? I love that feeling. Love. Just like I love it when your hands are really dry and you put on a really thick hand cream and start to work it into the cracks and crevices that need soothing and moistening. So good. Or as they say nowadays: "So. Good." I sat down to read in Colossians this morning and realized that sometimes the Word of God is like that for me. Sometimes I study it and try to dig deep into its meanings and histories, doing what I can to get a decent academic, theological read on it. Other times I read it intuitively, trying to figure out the intentions of the writers and the underlying motivations of its stories and characters. And admittedly too, sometimes I read it just to read because I know its good for me, like bread and water, staring at the words but not expecting much in return. But once in a while, I come to a familiar passage that I've read a hundred times, and I just sit there and bathe in the comfort of the familiar language seeping into my soul, letting the rhythm and beauty of ancient words do their primal, healing, everyday magic. This was the passage that did that for me today:

"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by him all things were created, things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities, all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church, he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy. For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him,  and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross."     Colossians 1:15-20

Amen. "The word of God is living and active..."

Denial

IF ONLY I could explain to people truly, exactly, precisely how I feel every time I reach out for comfort, I would never have to feel the pain of being missed or misunderstood by them. I can make people love me in exactly the manner I want them to.

IF ONLY I could change the people in my life who hurt me the most by behaving in exactly the right way or saying the right things, they would never hurt me again, and we would have healthy, happy relationship. I have the power to manipulate others inside their own minds and skins.

IF ONLY I could control all external factors and avoid being stressed ever at all, I'd never have to experience the anxiety that rises in me or the anger and suspicion I then feel toward others as a result. Or the shame that comes when I lash out at them. I can re-create the Garden all on my own.

IF ONLY I could keep in perfect balance with perfect emotion and response, never too much, never too little, I would not have to experience the humiliation that comes from my mistakes or the disappointment that comes from others'. I can be sinless, and I expect others to do the same.

IF ONLY I could give myself full-time to fulfilling all my personal cravings and satisfactions, to music, to art, to intellect and creative thought in relationship, I could sustain a state of being perpetually sated and full, never feeling the emptiness of hunger or want. I hold in myself the potential to satisfy all desire.

IF ONLY I could do so many things, my world would be set right and my interactions with others made blameless. And I would have no need for... well, no need at all really. So much that I do, say, or unwittingly feel says so much more about what I actually believe deep beneath the surface. And of course, what I don't believe, too. My "if onlys" speak volumes about how I would frame my world if I could. But truth says I can't. Can't do much to frame my own world at all. You don't even need to read the Bible to see that. I have no physical capability for doing so many of the things my "if onlys" say I can, and yet I thrash around in them anyway like some kind of lame-legged commoner touting a tattered cape, trying to be a superhero. A frame is already set, and I believe in its Maker. I know I believe because sometimes I choose to rise above my "if onlys" and trust in his reality. When I, at other times, surrender my heart or my actions to them, I deny the reality of His frame and that it is good for my life. I wonder sometimes about other people's "if onlys" and what that might tell me about their internal worlds and beliefs. We fly through life ignorant we are captured by our denials. If you listen closely, sometimes you can hear them whispering between the lines of what people so auspiciously say and do. The challenge is to listen. And to be willing to be heard.

Home

There's a lyric from a song we sang this Christmas at church that for days kept coming back to me, many times out of the blue, and it's funny because the words come mid-song, kind of out of the blue, too,  an awkward yet appropriate little bridge piece. It popped the word "Emmanuel" for me this season. The song is "Sing!" by Josh Wilson, and the lyric is this:

"But we could never get back home with broken hearts...                                                                  ...so home has come to us."

If we're raised in church, we've been taught that Emmanuel means "God with us." It's appropriate, right? Makes sense that we would name him as the God who is with us, particularly at Christmastime when we celebrate Jesus the Christ-child, the God-child, Divinity birthed into human skin and bone. What I loved about the lyric was this feeling of Emmanuel in it, the feeling of God reaching into our brokenness and want - not from a distance, but actually giving Himself into it to be with us.

I like the "but" at the beginning of the line, too: "But we could never get back home with broken hearts..."

"But."

A disruptive word. Most of the song was a pretty jubilant exhortation to worship and sing, so in that context, the "but" felt somewhat out of place to me, like there was no reason to interrupt. Made me stop and wonder why and what it had to tell me next. Why disrupt all the celebration with something negative? Yet there is so much and disruption happens so often; there's always a "but" in our lives. Even in the midst of our greatest achievements and fondest memories, there is a "but" in our story and often many. No one escapes it. Joy is not complete in this life, and grief is a guarantee. "But there was the time this happened or that happened. But so-and-so got sick, or lost a loved one, a job, a friend. But you don't know how much it hurt." Life is laced with sorrow and betrayal. We live broken lives with broken hearts, our souls fundamentally broken when sin entered the world and our hearts still reeling in heartache all this time later. Hm. I guess that leaves us broken on two counts: broken-hearted and broken in our ability to do anything about it. We are entirely unable to make all wrongs right on our own; there is no human way back to perfection.

And the ache that's left is an ache for Home. For Emmanuel. For God with us. Or us with Him maybe. For perfect relationship and all those wrongs set right. It's an ache to return to the place where we are fully known and fully loved anyway, where we are loved for simply being, where pains are ceased, the table is set and hearth kept warm by a loving Father who waits for us to return, prodigal though we may be. And in the meantime, he sent Home to us. To be born a baby, live a perfect life, walk in our skin and our sorrow, then die and resurrect in power over sin and death. To give us life so that we may have eternal life, eternal Home.

Home. Funny-lookin' word spelled out but a wonderful, aromatic word lived out. Home has come to us. How do we receive Him?

More bread crumbs... We were thinking and praying last week about whether to take the house off the market for the holidays and put it on again in the spring or if we should just keep it listed and stick it out. Crazy! We ended up having 5 people come by this past week! (In December!) So... looks like we'll be leaving it on the market. Love clear direction... Thanks you, Lord!

Boundaries

How is it that my kids already know more about boundaries than I do? After 36 years now (almost 37), I feel like I'm only just discovering how to say yes and no to people, how to balance my needs with others', and how to draw a healthy line if someone is hurting or threatening me. My tendency has always been to be polar: to either just roll over and submit, choosing to stuff it internally, or to snap at them and release my inner angry girl. Catch this conversation that arose last night while I was prepping dinner. I heard the boys talking in the other room about a mystery book Mac is reading where the villain turns out to be the creepy uncle. He brought me into his story, as he often does, reading a part of it to me, and we started playing the "what if" game.

J (who was also listening) says: Your brother's not really that kind of uncle, Mom...

M jumps in: But what if he was?

I said: We'd get a new uncle.

J: Mom!!... No, we wouldn't.

M: He's your brother.

J (in a very practical, instructive tone): We just wouldn't go visit him and stuff. We wouldn't invite him to nothin'. Then he'd be sad, and then he'd be more nicer.

M (kind of as an afterthought): If he's more sad, he's more angry.

I stood there smiling and amazed at the fundamental understanding they had of how things work and what to do. "How do you know all that?" I said, loving the impromptu slice of "life skills" that was arising in our everyday moment. "It's from school," J said, "Because it's like, if there's a bully, we know what to do." Love their public school... Public tax dollars paying off! I go back to my cooking and listen in as they continue to discuss in the other room.

J: First thing you should say is 'stop.' Second thing is try to talk with them or something, and if they don't or they're really, really mad, then you should just wait for them to stop. And if that doesn't work, you tell the playground supervisor. The playground supervisor is a hero. She helps people.

M: Her name is Rocky.

J: One time she saved my life.

M: Really? How?

J: Remember? I got hit in the face, and she brang me to the nurse's office.

M: Ya know what I do in a case of bullying nowadays? Just ignore it. Psh... Psh! Psh! (Making punching sounds as he bounces around, making air-punches.) But it's hard to ignore punching.

And I smile.

Art, Chaos, and Redemption

Was reading this week from one of my favorites I go back to from time to time and thought I'd post this excerpt. The book is "Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art" by Madeline L'Engle, and the excerpt is regarding the artist, chaos, and redemption. It made me think of all the many conversations I've had the past few years with so many different people about pain and struggle (chaos), so many different stories of suffering - whether told or untold, and the longing you can hear in each voice that their suffering would be truly seen by those who walk with them and then redeemed by their Maker. One of the things I read from her here is that artists, maybe more than anyone else, are willing to recognize both chaos and redemption in the Gospel (and artistic) process and that they are constantly striving to "see," or overturn, the hidden chaos in life for the sake of exposing it to redemption. So I guess this post goes out to all those in this life, artists or no, who are willing to admit to the chaos both in their own lives and around them, those who know that church is not a clean and pretty place for clean and pretty people, those for whom growing up and family were not places of safety or haven but mazes of confusion or abuse. It is brave to be willing to see and name. Depravity must be named before redemption can occur.

I was outraged a number of years ago to read a book by an eminent Freudian analyst whose theory was that all artists are neurotic, psychotic, sado/masocists, Pepping Toms; that not one is normal.

At this moment I do not know why it bothered me so. He means one thing by his labels; I would call it something quite different; but there is no denying that the artist is someone who is full of questions, who cries them out in great angst, who discovers rainbow answers in the darkness, and then rushes to canvas or paper. An artist is someone who cannot rest, who can never rest as long as there is one suffering creature in this world. Along with Plato's divine madness there is also divine discontent, a longing to find the melody in the discords of chaos, the rhyme in the cacophany, the surprised smile in time or stress or strain.

It is not that what is is not  enough, for it is; it is that what is had been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place. Perhaps the artist longs to sleep well every night, to eat anything without indigestion; to feel no moral qualms; to turn off the television news and make a bologna sandwich after seeing the devastation and death caused by famine and drought and earthquake and flood. But the artist cannot manage this normalcy. Vision keeps breaking through, and must find means of expression. (p. 143)

For those who "cannot rest" until all things are set right and for whom "vision keeps breaking through." One day Redemption will win out in fullness, but for now, we continue to ask the questions.

Sometimes I feel like the process of raising kids (and by that I mean instilling in them discipline and diligence, teaching self-control, facilitating compassion and emotional honesty) is a bit like that old Kenny Rogers song: "You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run, you never count your money when you're sittin' at the table, there'll be time enough for countin' when the dealing's done."

It's an art, a science, and a bit of a gamble. You do the best you can, but they'll always have free will, and that's the wild card.

And so then...

...I have found my people. It would appear that I am, by nature and by nurture, a personal essayist.

Found a great new quarterly journal online tonight called The Pedestrian that publishes essays on a variety of topics by established authors the likes of Lewis, Woolf, White, L'Engle, and also supports aspiring writers as well. The idea of a pedestrian writer is one who meanders through life, exploring the everyday, the mundane, the "un-remarkable" things of this life that most people would miss on their hurried way to whatever might be their destination. Loved this piece on the charm of the personal essay and this page of related quotes. Wind your way around a little if it piques your interest. Looks like it's a pretty new endeavor, but it drew me in; their current issue is on Empathy. Looking forward to checking it out from time to time (and submitting a few myself). I've chided myself these past few years that I can't keep my nose to the grindstone long enough to write a larger work, but doggone it - maybe this is what I do: essays. For now anyway.

Thought I'd leave you with this nugget, a quote I borrowed from their quotes page:

The familiar essayist [in the genre's heyday] didn't speak to the millions; he spoke to one reader, as if the two of them were sitting side by side in front of the crackling fire with their cravats loosened, their favorite stimulants at hand, and a long evening of conversation stretching before them. His viewpoint was subjective, his frame of reference concrete, his style digressive, his eccentricities conspicuous, and his laughter usually at his own expense.

                                       ANNE FADIMAN, "Preface" to At Large and At Small

I would love it if I could do just this for the rest of my life.