I was reading the story of Jesus’ arrest this morning in the gospel of Mark. A verse I had never noticed before... never heard a sermon about... caught my eye. The crowd had arrived to arrest Jesus... Judas had delivered the betraying kiss... a servant’s ear had been cut off... the disciples fled as Jesus was arrested... and then this verse. "A certain young man was following Jesus, wearing nothing but a linen cloth. They caught hold of him, but he left the linen cloth and ran off naked". No other information is given... no resolution for his story... no names... no reason for his being there. I wonder who he was? Perhaps he lived near, heard the commotion in the night, wrapped himself in his bedspread and came to see what the fuss was about. He stayed after the disciples ran away... must not have known the danger he was in until they grabbed him. Whoever he was, he slipped away... long forgotten... unnamed... mysterious stranger in the middle of the crucifixion story.
The Bible does this sort of thing with regularity... shows you a part of the story and leaves you to fill in the blanks. God doesn’t make it easy for us... doesn’t provide a AAA triptych to heaven... no clearly marked maps... just bits and pieces... an incomplete treasure map. There is room for us to fill in the blanks and mark our own map to God.
Most of us have been curious enough... interested enough... lonely enough... to go to the garden looking for the Holy One. Most of the times I have gone searching for God have been times of great hurt, loss, grief, anger or despair just like the Garden of Gethsemane. Sometimes my search comes from a regular study or prayer practice. Once in a rare while, I see God’s face unexpectedly... Shimmering Loving Presence... revealed as a benediction... in nature... in the faces of children... in music... in the faces of those around me. I can count those times on the fingers of one hand... but they are enough.
Like the unnamed young man, the encounter with the Almighty leaves you naked... your whole self revealed... warts and all. Judgement Day... nothing can be concealed... all is known, loved, forgiven... I can be free at last, thank God, free at last. I am vulnerable without fear of hurt... known without fear of rejection... loved without fear of losing love... home to myself and to the Source of my creation. How I wish I could be that kind to myself... that honest... that open and unashamed with my deepest self. Instead, I run away from the revelation... the judgement... the forgiveness... the Love... the Life... to keep others ( but mostly myself) from seeing the real me, unclothed and unadorned.
Lent, properly observed, helps us catch glimpses of our real selves... the good, the bad and the ugly, the beautiful... gives us a ritual for preparation for death and true life... new life after the chaff has been blown away. Every year, we have a chance to start over. But one day, all this practice will have prepared us for our final Lent when we, like the young man, will stand in the Presence of God, stripped naked, our true selves, free from the bonds that have held us back... separated us from the Loving One who made us... waits for us... then and now... to come to ourselves and to come back Home.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
home places for my heart
I went home to Cloverly in my dreams last night. Daddy turned the car into the long straight dirt lane that marched through a field of soybeans on one side and corn on the other. At the end of the lane stood Grandma and Granddaddy in front of the daylily bed planted by my mother when she was a girl. Grandma is in her house dress, with her arms folded in front... Granddaddy is in his khakis, head slightly tilted, gently smiling. My sister Gayle and I scramble out of the car and we are home... surrounded by the lovely lilt of the Virginia Tidewater accent, the welcoming arms of our grandparents, and the old house waiting for us.
We bounce up the brick sidewalk built in the 1860's... laid in a herringbone pattern ... mossy and slick in places... bumpy. The yard is full of trees and shade... not much grass... a challenging croquet course. To the right is the stump with a wooden box of portulaca in full bloom in a small patch of sunlight. To the left of the house, slightly to the rear, is the old judge’s office. He built the house just before the War Between the States and like many lawyers at the time, worked from an office at home.
I stand and look at that beloved old house... two story with a flat roof (the judge ran out of money when the War started and never finished the roof)... large front porch... oversized front door... grey with dark green shutters... wavy glass in the windows. Then we race inside slamming the screen door behind us. It is all still there... unchanged... waiting for our return.
The front hall runs parallel to the front of the house. To the left, at the end of the hall is the library, now grandma and granddaddy’s bedroom. The hall tree stands next to their bedroom door... granddaddy’s hats hang on its hooks and the wooden Chinese checker board is stored underneath the seat. The hall is lined with ornately carved, infinitely uncomfortable wooden chairs. When there is a thunderstorm in the night, grandma wakes us and we sit in those chairs until the storm blows over. The curved staircase is to the right as you enter the front door, its bannister polished smooth by generations of children’s posteriors (mine included) sliding down from the second floor. Underneath the stair is a little closet that holds children’s play furniture. Lovely old prints, sepia, oval frames, landscapes and wild animals... scenes from times in the land of far away... hang on the walls.
The front parlor with the Victorian faded green plush mahogany sofa and chairs (sized for giants) and fireplace is the same. The table from that parlor now stands by my bed. In front of the fireplace is a screen... a portrait of an unknown, black haired young woman painted by an unknown artist. The vases on that mantel, that I filled with althea and daylily blooms, now rest on a mantel in my house. This room became Aunt Nina’s bedroom the summer she came to Cloverly to die.
The kitchen is the next room off the front hall... large... an ice box used for bread storage... a refrigerator... a stove... a table holding the water bucket and dipper... a table and chairs for meals... cracked linoleum on the floor... the site of our Saturday night baths in the old tin washtub... breakfasts of boiled eggs, toast and bananas... mayonnaise on my breakfast egg instead of butter if I wanted it. The little washroom/mudroom/backporch on the back side of the kitchen held a table with a basin , glasses and a mirror. Here you brushed your teeth and washed your hands with water dipped from the bucket in the kitchen. When you were finished, you threw the water out into the back yard off the steps. It is a skill to be able to brush your teeth with one small glass of water. A door at the back of the kitchen led to the old kitchen wing that was closed off. Dilapidated and filled with cast-off treasures, we delighted in exploring its dusty contents.
The dining room was at the right end of the front hall, opposite the library/bedroom. A fat wood stove, square wooden dining table, a small screen t.v. sitting on a table by the front window and two curved glass front china cabinets filled the room. The afternoon sun would fall through the back door and turn the lead crystal bowls into the source of dancing rainbows of light. One of the smaller bowls sits in my glass front cabinet now... making rainbows.
Upstairs were bedrooms filled with iron beds, wash stands, and chests. The summer I was learning how to blow bubble gum bubbles, I stored my used gum on the iron headboard of my bed to be used the next day in pursuit of the perfect bubble. A bookcase filled with books and a door that opened out to the roof of the porch stood in the upstairs hall. Stepping out on the roof was an adventure... you could see through the trees... heat shimmered off the flat tar roof in the summertime.
I saved the best room for last... the porch. Square, solid, pillars supporting it, low to the ground with an old, worn step up... our family room in the summer. During the day, the porch was the site of the Chinese Checker school, taught by my Grandma. She was a teacher by trade and loved beating us fair and square, no quarter given to children. You were a grown-up the day you beat Grandma at checkers. Many sessions of play school were held using the children’s furniture from the hall. I spent endless hours on the porch... reading, drawing, listening to the sounds of summer and smelling the damp earth... seeing the faded remnants of the people who once lived in the house. There we sat in the evening as the fireflys came out for their night time light show, listening to the cicadas as they sang their loud, rhythmical song, watching the cars go by at the end of the lane, the adults commenting on the car’s passengers... grown-ups telling stories, talking about the kinfolk, judging the state of the crops and the world while little children listened and learned.
When our cousins came to play, the porch was the launch pad for our adventures on the farm. When Grandma reached the end of her patience with her herd of grandchildren and went to the lilac bush to grab a switch, we fled from the front porch to run the rows of corn... getting lost in the tall green stalks that shaded us from the heat. Grandma’s pretend anger gave us the perfect excuse to run amok among the corn... careful not to damage the corn in our freedom frenzy... returning later to be soothed by a drink of well water out of the dipper in the kitchen water bucket.
That world is gone now. Another family bought the house, changed the roof, cut all the trees, tore down the old kitchen wing and the judge’s office. The ghosts that lived in that old house now have the company of those little children who loved it... Gayle, Peggy, Eddie, Kenny, Kay, Stuart...a home for the spirit that even though it is no longer, still provides comfort and joy in the land of sweet memory.
If going home to God is as sweet as going home to Cloverly, the trip down the lane to heaven will be a joyful homecoming indeed. "Goin’ home, goin’ home... I’m just goin’ home. Some sweet day..." Thanks be to God for all the home places of my heart... for Cloverly... for the farm in South Georgia... for our first home in Waco... for our home now on the farm...for the churches that have been my soul’s homeplace... Crescent Hill Baptist... Bruington Baptist in Virginia... Clyattville Baptist.... Lake Shore Baptist... First Baptist Asheville... First Congregational UCC... I have been home... I am now at home... I am going home... I remember and give thanks.
We bounce up the brick sidewalk built in the 1860's... laid in a herringbone pattern ... mossy and slick in places... bumpy. The yard is full of trees and shade... not much grass... a challenging croquet course. To the right is the stump with a wooden box of portulaca in full bloom in a small patch of sunlight. To the left of the house, slightly to the rear, is the old judge’s office. He built the house just before the War Between the States and like many lawyers at the time, worked from an office at home.
I stand and look at that beloved old house... two story with a flat roof (the judge ran out of money when the War started and never finished the roof)... large front porch... oversized front door... grey with dark green shutters... wavy glass in the windows. Then we race inside slamming the screen door behind us. It is all still there... unchanged... waiting for our return.
The front hall runs parallel to the front of the house. To the left, at the end of the hall is the library, now grandma and granddaddy’s bedroom. The hall tree stands next to their bedroom door... granddaddy’s hats hang on its hooks and the wooden Chinese checker board is stored underneath the seat. The hall is lined with ornately carved, infinitely uncomfortable wooden chairs. When there is a thunderstorm in the night, grandma wakes us and we sit in those chairs until the storm blows over. The curved staircase is to the right as you enter the front door, its bannister polished smooth by generations of children’s posteriors (mine included) sliding down from the second floor. Underneath the stair is a little closet that holds children’s play furniture. Lovely old prints, sepia, oval frames, landscapes and wild animals... scenes from times in the land of far away... hang on the walls.
The front parlor with the Victorian faded green plush mahogany sofa and chairs (sized for giants) and fireplace is the same. The table from that parlor now stands by my bed. In front of the fireplace is a screen... a portrait of an unknown, black haired young woman painted by an unknown artist. The vases on that mantel, that I filled with althea and daylily blooms, now rest on a mantel in my house. This room became Aunt Nina’s bedroom the summer she came to Cloverly to die.
The kitchen is the next room off the front hall... large... an ice box used for bread storage... a refrigerator... a stove... a table holding the water bucket and dipper... a table and chairs for meals... cracked linoleum on the floor... the site of our Saturday night baths in the old tin washtub... breakfasts of boiled eggs, toast and bananas... mayonnaise on my breakfast egg instead of butter if I wanted it. The little washroom/mudroom/backporch on the back side of the kitchen held a table with a basin , glasses and a mirror. Here you brushed your teeth and washed your hands with water dipped from the bucket in the kitchen. When you were finished, you threw the water out into the back yard off the steps. It is a skill to be able to brush your teeth with one small glass of water. A door at the back of the kitchen led to the old kitchen wing that was closed off. Dilapidated and filled with cast-off treasures, we delighted in exploring its dusty contents.
The dining room was at the right end of the front hall, opposite the library/bedroom. A fat wood stove, square wooden dining table, a small screen t.v. sitting on a table by the front window and two curved glass front china cabinets filled the room. The afternoon sun would fall through the back door and turn the lead crystal bowls into the source of dancing rainbows of light. One of the smaller bowls sits in my glass front cabinet now... making rainbows.
Upstairs were bedrooms filled with iron beds, wash stands, and chests. The summer I was learning how to blow bubble gum bubbles, I stored my used gum on the iron headboard of my bed to be used the next day in pursuit of the perfect bubble. A bookcase filled with books and a door that opened out to the roof of the porch stood in the upstairs hall. Stepping out on the roof was an adventure... you could see through the trees... heat shimmered off the flat tar roof in the summertime.
I saved the best room for last... the porch. Square, solid, pillars supporting it, low to the ground with an old, worn step up... our family room in the summer. During the day, the porch was the site of the Chinese Checker school, taught by my Grandma. She was a teacher by trade and loved beating us fair and square, no quarter given to children. You were a grown-up the day you beat Grandma at checkers. Many sessions of play school were held using the children’s furniture from the hall. I spent endless hours on the porch... reading, drawing, listening to the sounds of summer and smelling the damp earth... seeing the faded remnants of the people who once lived in the house. There we sat in the evening as the fireflys came out for their night time light show, listening to the cicadas as they sang their loud, rhythmical song, watching the cars go by at the end of the lane, the adults commenting on the car’s passengers... grown-ups telling stories, talking about the kinfolk, judging the state of the crops and the world while little children listened and learned.
When our cousins came to play, the porch was the launch pad for our adventures on the farm. When Grandma reached the end of her patience with her herd of grandchildren and went to the lilac bush to grab a switch, we fled from the front porch to run the rows of corn... getting lost in the tall green stalks that shaded us from the heat. Grandma’s pretend anger gave us the perfect excuse to run amok among the corn... careful not to damage the corn in our freedom frenzy... returning later to be soothed by a drink of well water out of the dipper in the kitchen water bucket.
That world is gone now. Another family bought the house, changed the roof, cut all the trees, tore down the old kitchen wing and the judge’s office. The ghosts that lived in that old house now have the company of those little children who loved it... Gayle, Peggy, Eddie, Kenny, Kay, Stuart...a home for the spirit that even though it is no longer, still provides comfort and joy in the land of sweet memory.
If going home to God is as sweet as going home to Cloverly, the trip down the lane to heaven will be a joyful homecoming indeed. "Goin’ home, goin’ home... I’m just goin’ home. Some sweet day..." Thanks be to God for all the home places of my heart... for Cloverly... for the farm in South Georgia... for our first home in Waco... for our home now on the farm...for the churches that have been my soul’s homeplace... Crescent Hill Baptist... Bruington Baptist in Virginia... Clyattville Baptist.... Lake Shore Baptist... First Baptist Asheville... First Congregational UCC... I have been home... I am now at home... I am going home... I remember and give thanks.
Monday, March 12, 2007
lenten caves and purgatory possibilities
We’ve been on a road trip to Alabama... needed to check on Michael’s 94 year old father. He is living in a small assisted living/nursing home in the community where he is remembered and cared for. His home is near one of the many interim pastorates from his retirement and we took him to worship Sunday. Two or three times a month, someone will come and take him to church. Church has always been his reason for being and at church, for a little while, you can see bits of the old pastor shining through the fog of dementia. He hugs the ladies, waves at the children, shakes hands with the men and calls out to the people he sees. While leaning on his cane, he surveys all he sees and for him, it is all good. We stay until the last car drives away, the last hug has been given and we make our way slowly to the car. The animation leaves his face and like a dark, grey cloud, the full weight of his age and dementia settle down on him once again. Being around those who are in the last part of their life always prompts my feeler/thinker/soul to ponder the ways of life and the life after.
I always thought the Catholic concept of purgatory was a little odd... good Baptist girl that I was. I have changed my mind... the concept is valid but the location and timing are off. More of us than not will have some extended time in the land of the old. We will be limited by physical constraints, mental restrictions, and we will lose some of our personal freedoms. I used to see that as a curse... much like my earlier image of purgatory. During this time of the in-between there is room for the Holy One to come and help us get ready for what is next. We have an opportunity to remember, give thanks, grieve our sins and failures, prepare for the final letting go.
I watched my dad live in purgatory for three years while he suffered with his blood disease... regular transfusions... renewed energy for a short while followed by the inevitable decline... periods of almost normal that grew shorter and shorter as the disease progressed. It was not an easy time for his soul or his body. But during that time, he became wiser, gentler, kinder... he remembered, gave thanks, let go of the done and the undone, prepared for death and new life. Perhaps purgatory is not defined so much by age or illness or after death... perhaps we have purgatory with us all our lives and we don’t know it... recognize it... claim its gifts... use it wisely.
As I survey my life during Lent, I can see periods of time that have been time apart... hard times for my soul... times when I have flamboyantly failed... times when I have struggled to keep my body and soul together... times when my life seemed to have no steady direction or course... times when I wondered what the ultimate meaning of my life was... purgatories unlimited. Always... always... there was the solid ground of God underneath my shaky feet. In times of despair and grief, anger and loss, boredom and busyness, purgatory or heaven on earth... I can see now how God was present... giving me time to work on my soul... giving me the tools I needed and the occasional kick in the rear to keep me moving.
The story of the prophet Elijah in I Kings 19 is my story... maybe your story, too. In fear for his life after killing all Queen Jezebel’s pet priests, he fled to a cave. God let him go to the desert where he complained he had had enough... he was ready to die. When he woke up from his sleep with the touch of an angel, food and water awaited him. God sent him on a forty day journey... forty days... the same number of days Jesus was in the wilderness... forty days of Lent... to the mountain of Horeb and the cave that waited for him. God asked him what he was doing there. Like many prophets I have known, he took pleasure in telling God all he had done for the cause and the price he had paid for his faithful service. God was not impressed. After a show of power on God’s part involving wind and earthquakes and fire, the true voice of God... still and small... sent Elijah on a new journey. He left his purgatory cave and moved on to a different future... with a new disciple/replacement, Elisha... company for the rest of his life on earth. Like Elijah, I need to listen for the still, small Voice in my purgatories... during Lent... for the rest of my life... listen for the assurance and direction that surrounds my soul all the day and night long... find my companions for the journey... be about the work I have been given to do. Thanks be to God for caves and purgatories... friends and family... church and community... Jezebels that drive us to the desert so we might hear God.
I always thought the Catholic concept of purgatory was a little odd... good Baptist girl that I was. I have changed my mind... the concept is valid but the location and timing are off. More of us than not will have some extended time in the land of the old. We will be limited by physical constraints, mental restrictions, and we will lose some of our personal freedoms. I used to see that as a curse... much like my earlier image of purgatory. During this time of the in-between there is room for the Holy One to come and help us get ready for what is next. We have an opportunity to remember, give thanks, grieve our sins and failures, prepare for the final letting go.
I watched my dad live in purgatory for three years while he suffered with his blood disease... regular transfusions... renewed energy for a short while followed by the inevitable decline... periods of almost normal that grew shorter and shorter as the disease progressed. It was not an easy time for his soul or his body. But during that time, he became wiser, gentler, kinder... he remembered, gave thanks, let go of the done and the undone, prepared for death and new life. Perhaps purgatory is not defined so much by age or illness or after death... perhaps we have purgatory with us all our lives and we don’t know it... recognize it... claim its gifts... use it wisely.
As I survey my life during Lent, I can see periods of time that have been time apart... hard times for my soul... times when I have flamboyantly failed... times when I have struggled to keep my body and soul together... times when my life seemed to have no steady direction or course... times when I wondered what the ultimate meaning of my life was... purgatories unlimited. Always... always... there was the solid ground of God underneath my shaky feet. In times of despair and grief, anger and loss, boredom and busyness, purgatory or heaven on earth... I can see now how God was present... giving me time to work on my soul... giving me the tools I needed and the occasional kick in the rear to keep me moving.
The story of the prophet Elijah in I Kings 19 is my story... maybe your story, too. In fear for his life after killing all Queen Jezebel’s pet priests, he fled to a cave. God let him go to the desert where he complained he had had enough... he was ready to die. When he woke up from his sleep with the touch of an angel, food and water awaited him. God sent him on a forty day journey... forty days... the same number of days Jesus was in the wilderness... forty days of Lent... to the mountain of Horeb and the cave that waited for him. God asked him what he was doing there. Like many prophets I have known, he took pleasure in telling God all he had done for the cause and the price he had paid for his faithful service. God was not impressed. After a show of power on God’s part involving wind and earthquakes and fire, the true voice of God... still and small... sent Elijah on a new journey. He left his purgatory cave and moved on to a different future... with a new disciple/replacement, Elisha... company for the rest of his life on earth. Like Elijah, I need to listen for the still, small Voice in my purgatories... during Lent... for the rest of my life... listen for the assurance and direction that surrounds my soul all the day and night long... find my companions for the journey... be about the work I have been given to do. Thanks be to God for caves and purgatories... friends and family... church and community... Jezebels that drive us to the desert so we might hear God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
