spiritual direction

Recently, I completed a two-year course of study to become trained in a centuries-old practice known as spiritual direction. In case you’ve never heard of this before, I define spiritual direction as an intentional process whereby one person helps another notice, honor, and respond freely to God’s presence and activity in their life. As a spiritual director, I seek to cooperate with God in nurturing an open space where others can come to God just as they are...to experience what it means to be the Beloved of God.

I love the simplicity and the process of spiritual direction because I see a lot of playfulness in it. Did you know I happen to be passionate about play?!

Though the phrase “spiritual direction” might not sound very playful, time and time again, I have seen the spirit of play embodied in our midst as the person seeking God’s direction experiences freedom, grace, joy, and openness in their relationship with God. In spiritual direction, we engage our imagination and become more childlike (trusting) in our faith.

Like play, spiritual direction is not a pre-planned program. Each session has an improvisational feel to it as we simply listen to what is being said and as we open ourselves to what God might want to say in the spirit of love, just love. We bring the stuff of our real life to the interaction and attune our hearts to the very heart of God, bringing Scripture to bear and applying the gentle, compassionate, and gracious way of Jesus to our lives.

In the midst of such an interaction, we cultivate the spirit of self-forgetfulness (which is also a characteristic of play) as we attend fully to God’s presence in our midst right here...right now.

I’ve become convinced that these kinds of interactions are sorely needed in a world that scarcely slows down long enough to really listen. It saddens me that in our society today we have become increasingly violent towards one another in thought, word, and deed. In that light, spiritual direction is a countercultural way of being with one another, so I am looking forward to practicing it more and more with those who may be interested in it.

I wonder if you sense that spiritual direction could be a help to you in your life? If so, I’ve prepared a sign-up form where you can find out more details about it. If you have any questions or want to talk with me more about it, feel free to reach out via a private message.

In any case: may God’s love and joy, grace and freedom flourish in your life!

practice grace

 

I believe the road of true holiness is the pathway of love. Since God is love, we can only be loved into the way of becoming more like God. A harsh rebuke does little to change anyone. A judgmental spirit only makes matters worse. Love has a gentleness about her. She is companionable. She knows that growth takes time. We do not become mature by cold fiat, impersonal declaration. Friendship transforms us.

God is our friend. If I can be a friend, I will be more like God. You might say, “Yes, but sometimes a friend needs to say hard things to their friend.” And that is true. But if the hard sayings of friendship begin to outweigh the simple acceptance and affirmations of friendship, I dare say it will not be long before you will lose the friendship. If history teaches us one thing, it teaches us this: judgment is so destructive because it is addictive. Once we start, it is hard to stop.

God is not like that. God is not some frowning person always reminding us of how we are constantly falling short.  If that is your image of God, it is not an accurate image. God is the one who not only loves us but God is the one who /likes/ us, imperfect as we are. After all, we are God’s children. How could God not like what God has made?

Because God is love, God is patient with us as we respond to the ways in which God is inviting us to grow. As one author puts it: God has "a surplus of warmth" towards us. God believes in us; that is what Jesus showed us. Jesus showed us that “sinners” become “saints” not by condemnation but by grace, acceptance and true friendship.

“I no longer call you servants…Instead, I have called you friends,” Jesus said. This is an appeal to those who desire to follow Jesus. Let God renew within you this way of grace…not only towards others but also towards yourself. God does not bring down the hammer on you. Let’s not bring it down on others. Practice the way of grace.

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 practice grace

reflections by troy cady

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*Photo by Josue Michel via Unsplash. Creative Commons License.

why the Abbot left with the brother

At a certain monastery, a certain brother was found out by the other brothers to have sinned.

They deliberated: “What should we do with this brother who has sinned?”

They determined: “Throw him out. He can no longer dwell with us.”

And, as the offending brother was leaving, the Abbot went with him.

Surprised, the brothers asked the Abbot: “Where are you going?”

The Abbot replied: “I am leaving with my brother—for I, too, am a sinner.”

…………………………………………

We long for justice and, thus, we are quick to condemn. “What they have done is wrong. They must be punished. They must be called out and cast out.”

But we forget that to act justly is to love mercy and to walk humbly. That is what the prophet Micah of antiquity said. That is what the Abbot understood.

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When Jesus called Levi the tax collector to be one of his disciples, he echoed Micah’s words. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” The Pharisees condemned Jesus for keeping company with Levi, whom they regarded as the worst traitor—a thief, a despicable criminal and a cruel oppressor.

They questioned Jesus’ response to Levi’s treason. “Why does Jesus eat with such a person? How can he even stand to sit with him? We will have nothing to do with such a person. It’s not right!”

But Jesus chose to befriend sinners like Levi. He knew that, in doing so, he would be counted as one of them. After all, to abide sin was to be a sinner. “Mercy is for the oppressed, not for sinners. Sinners need punishment; that is the only way they will learn to stop oppressing.”

……………………………………………….

The Pharisees were not entirely wrong. Wrong does need to be put right. What Jesus showed them was that wrong can be put right by mercy. Punishment can only do so much to change the situation.

But mercy seems risky and foolish. Why show mercy to a sinner?

Perhaps Jesus showed mercy to sinners because he knew like no other how sin itself oppresses both the sinned against and the sinner. Sin enslaves the sinner’s heart before it enslaves others. If the sinner is to be free of sin, they need someone strong enough to free them—and Jesus’ strength was his mercy, the risk of mercy.

And the substance of mercy was presence. Jesus showed mercy by coming close to sinners like Levi, sinners like me. Jesus came so close and spent so much time with sinners he was labeled “the friend of sinners.”

Jesus was humble enough to accept this label, for he was NOT a sinner, to be sure. He gave up his heavenly title to take on an earthly one. Remember: to be a friend of sinners was to be a sinner, to be counted as one of them. If you side with a sinner, you are no better than them, you are just part of the problem. To refuse to do what is right (to withhold punishment from sinners) is just as bad as doing what is wrong (sinning).

But if Jesus shows us anything, he shows us that those who practice humility show mercy, and that mercy makes a way for things to be put right (justice). Jesus, in his humility, came close to someone as despicable as Levi, befriended him. And Jesus, in befriending Levi, showed mercy, saw Levi with enough love to see that Levi the oppressor was himself oppressed by his own sinful heart. And it was by such mercy that Levi’s life was changed, wrong put right. And countless others since then have known first-hand that same life-changing mercy, mine included.

Thus was fulfilled the words of the prophet—that to act justly is to love mercy is to walk humbly.

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For Jesus, the practice of humility involved coming close to those he was not like. For me, it means coming to grips with what I am like. And, humbly, this is what I must confess:

I am a sinner.

That is what the Abbot knew about himself. He knew he was a sinner. And this knowledge was the source of his humility. And this humility was the source of his mercy. Knowing he was a sinner, the Abbot went with the brother as he was being expelled by the others. And, in leaving with the brother, the Abbot showed mercy.

With his example in mind, I must confess: I too often side with the Pharisees and the brothers who are quick to see sin in another but slow to see it in themselves.

Just who do I think I am?

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The spirit of Pharisaism runs rampant today. The Oxford dictionary defines it as “the quality of being self-righteous.”

Our self-righteousness is often manifested in our propensity to call out sin when we see it another but not to call it out when we see it in ourselves. Worse: we do not even see it in ourselves. We are so oriented to spotting it in others that we fail to look in the mirror.

I am mindful just now of how we exhibit such self-righteousness today when it comes to race relations. Too often, we are quick to condemn another as racist while neglecting to confess how we ourselves harbor racism in our own hearts.

But I must confess: I am a racist.

To clarify: this confession rises not out of a desire to be politically correct, to say something as a white man in such a way that others will now think I am virtuous for confessing such a thing.

No: this confession is to really, truly tell you that I am a racist. I gravitate towards circles of comfort with those who are “my own kind”—other white people. I am sometimes suspicious of Black people and other people of color. I have neglected to listen intently and to learn from people of color. I have rolled my eyes when I’ve heard something that many Black people would want to be done to help this world become a more peaceful, equitable place. But: why should I so quickly disparage the wisdom of such a desire? Why am I so reluctant to listen and really try to understand? What twisted sense of security am I protecting and preserving over against the wellbeing of other human beings?

No doubt, some might say that there is nothing in what I have just said that warrants the label of “sin.” But I recognize these dynamics as sin because they reflect an inner disposition that fails to fully honor the image of God in another human being, to love others as I love myself. And, even worse: I recognize these dynamics as sin because they spring from a perverted view of others, a view that distorts the reality of everyone’s beauty and beloved-ness in the sight of God.

This is sin at its root. And, as long as I harbor such dispositions, I am a racist and a sinner.

To that, some might grant me my confession and respond within: “Thank God I’m not like that. There’s no racism in me.”

And, I must confess: I have thought the same thing about myself. “I’m glad I’m not like that person. How can anyone be so hateful and racist?”

And then I take this thought as something which grants me permission to call out others about their racism, without realizing that when I do so I am siding with the Pharisees in my own self-righteous hypocrisy.

This is not to say we should not stand for truth and justice. It is just to say that when we do so we do well to also acknowledge that we are no better than those we are prone to accuse. This is simply an invitation to stand on the ground of humility as we call for justice. And to make our appeals for change out of mercy, knowing that sin enslaves the sinner even as it oppresses the sinned against. We appeal to sinners like ourselves on the basis of mercy through and through—mercy for those we have hurt by our sin, and the chance of a new start for the sinner, the hope of change.

On such a foundation Jesus sought to break the stronghold of self-righteous hypocrisy. Jesus’ strongest words were for those who failed to recognize their own sin while pointing out the sin in others. “Judge not lest you be judged. With the same measure you use, it will be measured to you.” This is why he said that one’s righteousness needed “to surpass the righteousness of the Pharisees.”

Theirs was a self-righteous righteousness. Theirs was, truly, no righteousness at all. Do we recognize in ourselves the same self-righteousness that simply adds sin to sin as insult to injury? I wonder…

The irony is that Jesus took the side of the sinner, though he himself had never sinned—whereas we like to claim we are sinless, though we ourselves have gravely sinned.

It is for sinners like you and me that Jesus, in his humility, extended mercy. It is by such mercy we are changed and set free to work for truth and justice. In this way, and in this way only, may truth and justice endure. May it be so.

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why the Abbot left with the brother

reflections by troy cady

grace and ungrace

Photo by Ross Elder via Unsplash
Creative Commons License

It is through lack of grace that destruction comes. How easily we can write off others: how quick we are to judge and how slow to wonder. We can find many reasons to push others away but it only takes one reason to justify our judgment. We think of one person as greedy, and another as self-absorbed. Or: “That man is attention-grabbing” and “His wife is driven by image.”

We can label others as stubborn or hypocritical. When we encounter a new idea we might be prone to classify someone as heretical. We think, “That family is too busy” or “I wish they took better care of their yard.” If someone finds a new job, the boss may call them disloyal. We get irritated if we think someone is disorganized and we can feel smug about ourselves if someone is, according to our standards, incompetent.

And the list continues. In a culture of judgment we could line up ten people and come up with a label for each one:

1. disrespectful
2. superficial
3. thoughtless
4. eccentric
5. too pushy
6. too passionate
7. too talkative
8. too quiet
9. too blunt
10. too nice

The problem with this is that judgment only compounds more judgment. Once ungrace gains a foothold, it opens the door wider for more ungrace to make a home in us. It becomes easy to welcome only those who measure up to our liking and dismiss those who do not. In a household of ungrace the standard of perfection is determined by personal preference. In ungrace, the basis of friendship is arbitrary, so even those who are welcomed for a time can easily become unsure how long they will be welcome.

In a household of grace, nobody is expected to be perfect and we are freed from the slavery of appearing to be so. In grace, we do not need to be thought of as smart or well-spoken. We do not need to impress others with our connections to famous, wealthy or powerful people. We do not need to impress by our degrees, career, or accomplishments. We do not need to be thought of as right all the time, creative, helpful, wise, fun, or easy-going.

In grace, there is an indifference to what others think but this indifference is neither smug nor dismissive of others. Instead, it is an indifference that is also (paradoxically) open to critique.

Ungrace says, “Screw you and leave me alone! I am who I am and if you don’t like it, tough.”

Grace says, “Well, I am who I am…imperfect, still growing. I hope my imperfection doesn’t drive you away, but if it does, I hope that one day you will find your way back to accept me as a friend again, imperfect as I am.”

In grace, we can be anonymous. Others do not need to know if we are generous or kind. It’s not about us.

In grace, we do not attack others if they say something that seems “off.” Instead, we approach them gently and ask them to tell us more, to help us understand, to wonder about the very thing they said that rubbed us the wrong way. In grace, we try to see things from the other person’s point of view. Grace is humble, open and gentle. Grace gives others the benefit of the doubt, looks for common ground. Grace inclines itself to accept, to welcome, to make room for others. Grace is expansive; in grace, our hearts become wide open spaces, vibrant, filled with life.

Grace and ungrace: the difference between life and death. May we grow in grace.

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Grace and Ungrace

reflections by Troy Cady

what Grace says

Is there anything more refreshing to a weary heart, more enlivening to the tired soul, than the simple experience of no-questions-asked grace?

Grace is that person who says to you: “I am not going to ask you what you’ve done or what you are going to do. I just want to be with you, to enjoy you. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to be anything other than who you really are. I love you, no-questions-asked.

“When I think of you, I only think well of you. I have no agenda. I’m not here to get something out of you. I’m not here to convince you to think a certain way. I just want to offer you friendship, to be glad together or to share your sorrow, whatever will help you best. I’m here to listen if you need to talk; I’m here to keep silence, if you have no words.

“I’ll keep hoping when you feel hopeless. I’ll see you when you feel overlooked and give you solitude when you feel scrutinized.

“You don’t have to measure up when you are with me. I know you’re imperfect—and that’s okay because God’s unrelenting love is able to be your perfection.

“I see you crying inside. I can see you are hurting and in need of a breather. Let me be your breath. Just let me breathe new life into you. I’m here. Grace is here. It’s going to be okay.”

what is my worth?

What is my worth? We live in a culture that prizes worth and worthiness. Some stories:

Late last year and early this year, I passed through several tiers of a vetting process in applying for an executive level position for a Christian organization with more than 850 churches across North America. In January, my application process reached the stage where it was clear the selection committee was seriously considering me as a viable candidate for the post.

To be honest, I was shocked my resume even piqued their interest. My educational background was sub-par, I was relatively new to the organization (hardly anyone knows who I am in this organization) and my most recent role with them was about as low on the vocational ladder as you can get.

Nevertheless, in the interview several stages later, the key decision-maker actually said to me: “The fact that you have made it this far in the process means we can see you doing the job. Even if we don’t offer you the job, we will be calling on you so we can draw on your expertise.”

The experience was a source of both exhilaration and tension; so, to help myself remain centered, I reached out to a few trusted advisors to learn how I could present my best self to the selection committee. Significantly, each one said to me to just be myself. After all, if I try to be someone I’m not, it will end in frustration for me, for the team and for the organization as a whole.

I trusted their advice, so I decided I was going to make sure to be true to my deep-seated convictions about…the nature and value of playfulness. I have come to think of play as my “voice.”

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The paradox of play is that we don’t do it to “get something out of it” but rather we do it “just for the fun of it.” Play is wasteful.

But it is so, so valuable.

As a Christian minister, I am in the process of articulating a theology of play. I’m not the first one to try to do this, to be sure, so I’ve been reading other scholars on play and faith. One of the key components of a theology of play involves creation. The Bible opens with a portrait of a God who makes the world a good and beautiful place: light and color, sky and sea, land and plants, sun, moon and stars, animals and people.

One scholar (Jürgen Moltmann) delightfully engages this text by asking the question all children ask about it: “Why?” Why did God make all this?

And the child’s answer (which is the best answer, I do believe) is, quite simply: “Because God wanted to do it. That’s why.”

I feel this is the best answer because it reminds us that God’s happiness about creation is not dependent on what it can do for him or how he can put it to use…but rather just because it is good. In fact, many Christians often miss the fact that God does not call the creation good. He simply sees that it is good. He notices its intrinsic value, apart from its usefulness.

The implication: God loves people not by how they can be put to use but just because they are people. Everyone, no matter their level of skill or intelligence, is valuable just by…being. All life is precious.

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Recently, a friend of mine (whom I will call Derek) posted what I assume is something he learned at the Global Leadership Summit which is running today and tomorrow. The Summit is an annual conference that attracts almost half a million people in various locations around the world to learn how to be better leaders from many of the world’s top-notch leaders. To give you an idea: in the past, the Summit has hosted leaders like Bill Clinton, Melinda Gates and Patrick Lencioni.

My friend is attending this year’s Summit at a satellite location and here is what he posted: “Your core values are what make you valuable to others.”

His statement both resonated with me and repelled me. Here’s why:

His daughter (whom I will call Lisa) replied to his statement about our “value” with these words: “And also that you are my dad and you are awesome!”

In other words: “Dad, you’re not valuable because of your values—you’re valuable to me just because you’re my Dad.”

Spot on.

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What is the true worth of a person? What is it, truly, that makes someone “valuable” to another?

My experience in applying for a job confirms what my friend originally posted. Organizations tend to value those individuals who have clear values…a clear sense of “self.” Employers want employees who are self-aware; they want employees who know what their strengths and weaknesses are and individuals who bring something distinctive to the group that truly adds value.

So, yes: “Your core values are what make you valuable to others.” Be true to yourself.

But there is a limit to this. If we only value people because of their (presumably, shared) “core values,” we need to do some soul-searching as to whether our values are really very valuable, after all.

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Last night I was in Indianapolis with a small faith community called Diakonos  (meaning, Servant). I admire the people of Diakonos because they are particularly skilled at befriending folks who are homeless (and those who are vulnerable to homelessness).  In fact, when Diakonos holds their weekly meeting, they do so in a particular place so they can be close to where some of their friends without homes live.

Before the scheduled part of the evening began, I had the privilege of visiting with a young man (whom I will call Tim). Tim lives in a house-group setting now and he is on the road to recovery.

Prior to this, he lived in one of the camps in Indianapolis where homeless people gather to set up a makeshift village. While there, he was using heroin and he suffered from alcoholism. Life in the camps can be okay, he told me, if you are living with the right kind of people who know how to get along. But sometimes people show up who just want power, so they make overtures to become “mayor” or “president” of the village. Often, violence erupts in the scramble to secure power.

Tim told me that sometimes he’d get so drunk he’d wake up in the morning with blood crusted on his face and not remember who (or why) he fought the previous night. Thankfully, he said he was doing better now that he was pursuing recovery.

I asked him, “What has helped you change?” And he told me that the moment he tried to kill himself was one of the big turning points.

He felt worthless, so he tried to hang himself. He said that as soon as he made the move to do it, he instantly thought: “I don’t want to die.” But it was too late. The rope was tightening around his neck as gravity was doing its inexorable work.  

He said he doesn’t know exactly what happened because he blacked out, but when he woke up he was on the ground and it appeared the tree branch had broken.

While he was lying there some people came by and took his wallet and some other personal items—until, finally, someone called for help and he was taken to recovery.

My friend Leon visited Tim while he was recovering and Tim credits Leon with his commitment to recovery today. Leon had known Tim at that point for at least a year because Leon visited Tim in the camp when he was still using heroin and getting drunk. Tim says he remembers Leon telling him, “You’re a smart guy. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

In Leon, Tim saw unconditional love—because, in Tim, Leon saw a value beyond mere “values.”

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In my work with children I have become keenly aware that they just want to be loved, to be seen and heard and respected. Children learn surprisingly early the sting of rejection, what it feels like to not “measure up” to the expectations of others.

I have dedicated my life to Christian ministry because I am convinced there is inside all of us a yearning to be loved not because of anything we have said or done but simply because we all have intrinsic worth that can never be diminished.

In a world where we often have to “sell ourselves” to others, I experience the unconditional love of God as my saving grace—a great relief when I feel like I don’t measure up or can’t measure up.

While it is true that I do well to live by my values (to be true to how God has made me), I am thankful that my ultimate value is not dependent on my values.

Is there any greater gift we can give to someone than to value them just for who they are, just because they are?

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Last night, with Diakonos in Indianapolis, I told a story that portrayed God by several metaphors: a Gardener, a seed, a Shepherd, the bread of life and the light of the world.

When given the opportunity to respond freely to this story, Tim chose to respond by drawing a picture. He picked the image of the Good Shepherd and I feel it is little wonder he did so.

Is there any better news to someone like Tim than to know he has a Good Shepherd—than to know someone like Jesus-in-Leon came searching for him in the wilderness? Is there any better news than to know God wants you to live just because you’re valuable—just because you’re loved?

There is no better news and we really need nothing else.

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I must be honest: I am growing weary of all the talk in Christian ministries that borrows language from the business world and corporate culture that stresses a person’s value boils down to their values. I can think of little else that seems to me now so antithetical to the Gospel: God loves you just because he loves you just because he loves you—not because of any so-called “values match” with an “organization” he is (probably not) building. If the Church is to truly be the Body of Christ, it is time for us to reckon with just how counter-cultural the Gospel is. Grace is prophetic: the Good News of grace disrupts the corporate system that measures a person’s worth by their skills, experience (and values).

When the deepest cry of the human heart is to be named worthy just because every person is loved, I have to wonder why we put so much stock in mere “values-assessment”?

We can never look in the face of another human being and not see the image of God in them. That’s why God only has one measure for us: the measure of measureless love. People are not to be classified in terms of  “valuable” or “not valuable.” People are to be loved. My heart’s prayer is that we would just learn to love as God loves. Amen.

everyone suffers loss

Everyone suffers loss:

work and health,

relationships and security,

certainty.

Loss often strips us of joy.

Sometimes loss makes us feel powerless.

It raises frustration.

Feelings of futility may surface

and seem to control.

Anger and sorrow commingle.

Something’s amiss.

Everyone suffers loss.

Most people you meet

are just trying to find their way in life

as best they know how.

Every day is a day to show mercy.

Every day is a day to offer grace.

Every day is a day to listen well.

Every day is a day to remember

there’s more than meets the eye going on.

Every day is a day to be the friend that’s gained

when someone is suffering loss.

"once, there were two sons..."

In the first century C.E., if you were a Jewish person living in Israel and heard someone begin a story by saying “Once upon a time, there were two sons”, you’d go “uh-oh” inside. Stories about brothers don’t turn out well. In Israel’s rich tradition-history you have stories like Cain & Abel, Ishmael & Isaac, Esau & Jacob to prove it.

Jesus draws on this tradition of rivalry in what is perhaps his most famous parable. We know it as “The Parable of the Prodigal Son” but it is really a parable about two brothers, whom Jesus refers to as “the younger son” and “the elder son.” We are most familiar with the first part of the parable where the younger son asks for his inheritance, moves away from home, squanders it on wild living, comes to the end of himself and begs his father to take him back.

The father welcomes him back with open arms and throws a party for him, saying “My son who was lost is found!” The song Amazing Grace borrows its most famous line from this parable.

What we often leave out is what happens next. The parable isn’t over. While the party is going on, the elder son (who has been working in the fields) hears music and merry-making going on in the house. He discovers that his younger brother has returned and their father is throwing him a party.

He gets upset. It isn’t fair! He never left, he never insulted his father and he has labored faithfully all these years. And he has never had such a lavish party thrown for him.

He refuses to join the celebration. But his father comes out to him and pleads with him to come in the house and welcome his brother back. The parable ends with a repetition of what the father said earlier: “My son who was lost is found!”

We don’t know how the story ends because we are left wondering: Will the elder son finally join in the party? We hope he will. We hope he will find it in his heart to extend grace. We want joy for the elder son just as much as we smile at the undeserved joy the younger son has received. We realize that, if the elder son can find it in himself to extend grace and join the party, the extension of grace to another will prove to be a reception of grace for the elder son, too. Everyone wins!

Instead, we wonder if the elder son will persist in his bitterness…if the elder son will insist on winners and losers. The parable invites you and me, each of us, to supply the ending. What will you choose?

I am writing a paper on this parable and I wanted to share something with you that grips my conscience. The elder son’s heart does not line up with the father’s heart. He is so filled with self-righteousness he cannot bring himself to extend grace. The father is also righteous—but his righteousness is a righteousness of grace. The parable reminds us that grace is right, true, good and lovely.

Born-again Christians often point to this parable as a story of conversion. We celebrate it because we sing the lines from Amazing Grace in the first person. We are the younger son, we say. We are like the younger son who once was lost but now is found.

But sometimes I feel like Christians who have received the Father’s grace become like the elder son. We begrudge the Father when he gives his grace to those we think don’t deserve it. Too many Christians today are prone to look down their self-righteous noses at others. Such self-righteousness stems from a posture of ungrace. This great parable of Jesus teaches us that the Father’s grace is the Father’s righteousness. The Father’s grace is not extended in spite of the Father’s righteousness; rather, the Father is righteous because the Father is gracious.

The irony is: Christians who were the younger son but have become the elder son need to be converted all over again. Come back to the Father.

We need to remember that it is God’s grace that makes someone righteous, not judgment. Stop judging and join the party, already.

quit. stop. take a break.

Sabbath is that special time when we come to the end of ourselves. It is a time when we realize we are not the master of our own fate. We are limited, finite, contingent. We cannot make a perfect world. We cannot acquire the perfect life. We are dependent on something outside ourselves. So, God invites us to enter into a place where we give all our doing—including all our attempts to make things just right—a rest.

That is what the word Sabbath literally means: quit, stop, take a break. The paradox of Sabbath is that we do not practice it by more doing; we only experience it by not doing. That is a hard truth for modern day American Christians to apply.

Sabbath is not something that we master by tweaking the way we hold church services. You don’t get Sabbath by having a perfectly decorated sanctuary space. You don’t get it by sermons that are just the right length. You don’t get it by a band of musicians playing a balanced complement of instruments, mixed well by a sound technician.

Sabbath is not something we practice by doing better at our usual doings. It is the time when we come to admit the futility of our usual doings, a time for being still to let God show us that God is God and we are not. Sabbath says, “You don’t meet me by more doing. I am only met by being received.”

Sabbath is like grace which Frederick Buechner describes as saying,

There is nothing you have to do.

There is nothing you have to do.

There is nothing you have to do.

There is nothing you have to do.

God desires that each person would have a unique, personal experience of Sabbath. Sabbath cannot be received by insisting that the world conform to our liking. Sabbath says, “Just give it a rest. Reality will not be refashioned in your image.”

So, the beauty of Sabbath is that she meets us in our uniqueness. That is why Sabbath for you may be different than Sabbath for me. We do not all receive Sabbath the same way. And that is okay. The question that’s put before each of us is: “How does Sabbath appear to me?” That is a question I cannot answer for you and it is a question you cannot answer for me. If you don’t find her in the same place I find her, where do you encounter her? My hope is that each of us will have a sense of where and how we meet Sabbath.  

Sabbath reminds us that there is a God who made all things so wonderful that even his making was restful. Because God is the maker and we are those whom God made, we are dependent on him. Sabbath is that special time when we come to the end of ourselves. What do you need to lay down to rest?

a fool's hope

Yesterday I posted a thought to my friends that went like this: “I’d rather be hopeful and wrong than despairing and right. Anyone with me?”

A friend wisely responded: “They’re not necessarily mutually exclusive are they?”

Now, that’s the kind of hope I like! Peter, thank you for saying that. It is a good reminder.

That made me realize: hope never lives in a vacuum. There is a context.

In one instance, there is a hope in (and for) enduring qualities like grace, forgiveness, joy, and justice. When we hope in those things, we don’t have to wonder: “Is this hope right or wrong?” We know it’s right. And, whether those qualities win the day (they always do, in the end) we don’t have to wonder if it’s right to take a stand for them, to bank on the hope of them.

Another friend quoted Erasmus, reminding me that, if we face difficulty in taking a stand for what’s right and true, we should not relent. Yes, that is true and good. That is hope.

But hope sometimes resides in another context, and this is what makes the second kind of hope more risky. It is the instance when you are hoping for some kind of outcome, but you are unsure if it will come to pass. You really don’t know. Stepping out into this kind of hope takes faith and you might fail.

The choice to battle cancer is an example of this kind of hope. We don’t know what the outcome will be. We might choose “wrongly.” Cancer might kill us anyway after a grueling course of chemo. Why hope, then? Why subject oneself to such pain and agony? Well…

…what is the option? To resign oneself to death and despair? In some cases, that choice is accompanied by a kind of true peace and, yes, hope. But in those cases where the choice to die is simply a form of hopeless resignation (“I give up”)…well, that is just despair. The despair might be “right.” The person might be right: “I’m going to die anyway.” Well, yes, but…I’d rather be hopeful and wrong than despairing and right.

That is the kind of hope I had in mind. And here’s another instance where hope might “fail”:

We put our hope in other people and I believe this is a good thing. To be sure, some “Christians” out there will raise their eyebrows at such a statement. They will think, “We should only put our hope in Christ.”

But the same Christ who calls us to put our hope in him also asks us to, in a very concrete way, learn to extend hope towards one another. We cannot love one another without working towards trust. To work towards building trust is to work towards the horizon of hope. You can’t separate the call to love from the practice of hope.

And that’s risky, because…people might fail you. You might be proven wrong to put your hope in that person, to trust them, to give love to them. It might hurt you. So, here’s the deal: I’d rather go on hoping, with the risk of being hurt or let down (“wrong about them”), than live isolated from others, mired in despair and be “right” because…”people will hurt me.”

That is no kind of life for anyone.

These days, that is the kind of hope I’m practicing. I have been scrutinized and analyzed by others these past few weeks and, quite honestly, it hurts. A handful of naysayers have very little hope in the hopes God has given me. “He is on a fool’s errand,” they think. Holes have been poked in the idea that God might be a dancer. *Gasp*  Wouldn’t that be simply awful and wrong? “It’s not biblical. Prove it.”

Other friends who have known me for more than a decade begin to question whether I am walking away from “the Good News”, as Christians like to call it. “What does play have to do with that?” they wonder. Some are withdrawing the trust I’ve enjoyed over the years.

I’m the same me, only more so. The new adventure I’m on is because of hope and the God of hope. So, I have no choice but to go on hoping.

I might be wrong and they might be right. But that is no kind of life to live. What’s more: I know in my heart that what I am on is right and true and good. There is nothing bad about it.

But we might fail. We could fall flat on our face; our little experiment could go nowhere. So, yes: I could be “wrong.”  It’s a risky hope.

I love that scene in The Lord of the Rings where the good guys are about to be slaughtered by the bad guys. The question of hope comes up and Gandalf notes: “There never was much hope. A fool’s hope, perhaps.” In spite of that, what are they prepared to do?

Fight and die for that fool’s hope. Because it is right and true and good.

I would rather be hopeful and wrong than despairing and right. Right now, I know in my head that the two are not mutually exclusive, but in my heart it sure feels like they are. I trust to hope that, in the end, this fool’s hope is seen for what it is: right and true and good.

Thank you for understanding. And, I humbly ask, if you have a counter-argument, extend me some grace and keep it to yourself because I'd rather you not try to put out this fire in my gut--even if you're right.

i wish trust was easier

Here’s what I really think: I wish trust was easier. I don’t like this feeling of risk. I want to choose safe paths, something both good and certain. I don’t mind abandonment, as long as it isn’t reckless. I want a guarantee to match my commitment; that seems right and fair, a karmic equalizer.

But trust is a fruit of grace. There is no quid pro quo in either. Trust is as uncertain as grace is undeserved.

There is no way of knowing how it will all turn out. Will I win or lose? There is no telling. Yes, grace is as certain as gravity, but that does not mean “success” is assured. Grace can be failure, too. Grace is as much in kneeling as standing, and so is trust.

So, where does this put me? On my knees in dependence, I suppose. Trusting someone.

I don’t like this. I want to go places.

But, you say, “Peace, be still.”

Here’s what I really think: I wish trust was easier. Right now the only trust I can muster is honesty. I pray that’s enough. Thank God, grace assures me it is.

what we find in rest

Jesus only had hard words for those who had hard words…whose hearts were harder to till than a field of clay…whose work was to add burdens to souls looking for rest.

There are people today who are lonely, who are in search of friends. There is the man who is worried and the woman who doubts. Jesus was the rabbi people like this followed because he promised that if they came to him he would give them rest. He was unlike the other teachers whose commentary created lists to keep.

Jesus only has one thing on his list: “Come to me.” He only has one burden on his heart: rest.

True, it is only one thing...but in his rest we discover so much more: freedom, grace, joy, friendship and strength. He gives nothing less than a new lease on life. Wonder of wonders.  

chosen and precious

Stop a second, just long enough to hear something good. 

First, take a few seconds to just breathe in and out. 

Familiarize yourself with the unforced rhythm of it. 

Now...hear these words as if they are being spoken to you right now.

............................... 

“You are my child, my beloved. I adopted you, chose you. You are precious to me.”

...............................

Thus is God’s heart for you in this moment and in every moment to come. 

Remember. Spend some time with this thought. 

Make yourself at home in it.

a foreign brand of justice

The rub of forgiveness is that it always runs counter to instinct. But, remember: we are human so we either need forgiveness or we need to forgive.

In the former case, I am reluctant to admit I have done wrong. Confession shakes my confidence; it feels like losing face. If I can muster the courage to ask forgiveness, however, I will soon discover that the temporary humiliation I suffer gives way to the enduring beatitude of humility. The truth sets me free.

In the latter instance, extending forgiveness feels unfair. “They have clearly done wrong. They should get what they have coming to them, for goodness’ sake!” Forgiving feels like letting the offender off the hook. We do not come by such an act naturally. It can only be offered by choice. And it can only be chosen by grace.

We weigh the options in the balance. “If I forgive, then what’s to prevent them from doing the same thing all over again?” That is right. Nothing. Except the captivating power of grace. The soul gripped by forgiveness is, in fact, freed by such a bond.

But it will take trust to relinquish the power of rightness—trust that there is a God who is behind and before, to our left and right, shielding us in his foreign brand of justice we call mercy.