The Girl in Yellow: Behold, You are Loved!

Dear Reader,

There are two things I want you to know today:

     1) God makes room for himself inside us.
     2) You are loved.

Pt. I
This week, I've been trying to think about dwelling in the middle of nowhere. I'm learning to be comfortable waiting, and I've learned waiting is often more about the formational process of waiting than about the things waited for.

For the last 2 1/2 years or so, my life has neatly paralleled the Israelites' wandering in the desert. After several months of examining this metaphor, I've learned that feeling lost, being in-between, having questions but not answers, living in the still barrenness of winter, is OK. I've learned that the wilderness is a place of preparation, a place that disabuses you of former treasures, visions, and joys. The wilderness creates a longing for the Promised Land, that is, walking through the wilderness results in a deeper desire for God.

I have learned that even Moses' time tending sheep in Midian, all 40 of those years before he became the champion of his people, before any bushes burned, were not wasted. God doesn't waste time, he uses every second of it, even when for us each second feels like Chinese water torture. Moses slowly learned to tend sheep, and then he slowly led a stiff-necked and wayward people through the wilderness. Even in the desert, God provides and leads: there are pillars of fire and cloud, piles of manna waiting on the ground, and the law, lovingly revealed. God never, ever goes away.

I have heard God say to me, over and over again, "Have courage, and say yes." I have often felt, reflecting on these words, that God is preparing me for something big, something that will take a lot of courage to face. This new thing is something that will require absolute, full, trusting obedience: the kind that dwells in furnaces of fire and lions' dens and does not let the cup pass.

My perspective is focused on earthly measures of success. It's as though I'm waiting for God to make me richer, or prettier, or more widely loved. But really, as I've been walking through this awful wilderness of being, or my twenties, I've learned that one of the most important things to have is an open, empty heart.

We think of emptiness as a bad thing. It's bad when your fridge is empty, when your wallet is empty, when your brain is empty, when your schedule or womb or stomach is empty. We are so focused on being and staying filled. In the short span of time I call my Grown-Up Life, the most important thing I have learned is that God is carving out a big space inside of me for Himself.

At least, I used to think this big space inside of me was for Himself. Sometimes I think that the big, empty space is just for the sake of emptiness. All I know is that this big, empty space is one of the most important things about me. I've become a large receptacle, and I'm waiting to be filled.

Kathleen Norris, in Cloister Walk, though married, writes about celibacy from the perspective and insight of her monastic friends. Norris writes about how, in celibacy, the heart grows large and opens; there is room enough for the entire world, because there is no room designated for just one person or one exclusive type of love. I don't know if I'm going to be celibate my entire life, but I am celibate now. And I do find, when I look deep inside myself, that there is all this room and space, waiting for something. Sometimes, being empty inside feels horrible, and I run around frantically, trying to fill that hole with something  anything  that will remove the feeling of hollowness I bear. But more often, I feel and know that this space is good; it means that there is room in my heart for lots of people, it means that there is a lot of room in my heart for the love of God.

I want to be a person who is comfortable with space and silence. When you think about a cathedral, or a chapel, you think about empty space. Those spaces we call sacred are nothing but concrete cavities for love and worship. If there is one thing I know about God, it is that he loves it when we make room for him. I have become a room entirely. It is not that I have room for God, but that I am room for God.

"Aubade for a Friend" was written by Fr. Gregory Elmer, O.S.B. of St. Andrew's Abbey. You should read the entire poem, it's wonderful. I'm copying the relevant parts of it here.

Whoever excavates a deeper bay
In your heart, so that you can the better
Yearn to love Him more, Who carves
Out this most precious space in
Your soul, a wound that curiously
Comforts you, a cave of the heart
Now being painfully excavated to
House more God, more love, to build
Within the middle of that heart, not
Only a more capacious pilgrim hostel,
On the shores of your spirit, but digs
Deeper the secret pilgrim road to the
Bottom of our heart, where. . . .we pass
Over the world, and set forth to cross
The wilderness. . . .We stumble down a way ever more interior. . . .
which leads on, in this life. . . .to the life eternal.

Becoming a temple of the Holy Spirit is painful and takes time.

&

Pt. II
Today I went with my roommate to Urth Caffé for breakfast while her tires were being replaced. Over our multi-grain waffles and tea lattes, roommate and I talked about the weeks we'd had, both of which were full of unpleasant people doing and saying unpleasant things, to put it mildly. While we were eating, two deferential, hipsterish twenty-somethings approached our table and apologized for interrupting us. They said they had a word from God for a woman in yellow, and that I was the only person matching that description in the restaurant (I was wearing a yellow cardigan). I can't remember every word they spoke, but by the end of that encounter, both roommate and I were wiping tears away.

The content of their message was that God sees me and wants me to know a new season is being ushered in, that a lot of changes are coming all at once which will be hard to understand. But God is leading you, they told me, like Dorothy down a yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz. And, speaking even to this wilder-wandering time, they said that God has seen me in the shadows.

Every time God speaks it is always good news. I keep forgetting this, but it's true. Every time God speaks, it is always good news. 

The pinnacle of encouragement is to hear another person say that God loves and delights in you. God sent someone today I didn't know to just the right place at the right time, because he wants me to know I am loved. I am dearly loved.

Roommate bought me a Rifle Paper Co.-esque art print to commemorate the day. Do you know what it says? It says, "You are loved."

Dear Reader, you are becoming room for God, and you are dearly loved.


Oh! How he loves us! 

The Valley of Vision: On Desire

O Thou that hearest prayer,

Teach me to pray.

         I confess that in religious exercises

the language of my lips and the feelings

of my heart have not always agreed,

that I have frequently taken carelessly upon

my tongue a name never pronounced above

without reverence and humility,

that I have often desired things which would

have injured me,

that I have depreciated some of my chief mercies,

that I have erred both on the side of my hopes

and also of my fears,

that I am unfit to choose for myself,

for it is not in me to direct my steps.

Let thy Spirit help my infirmities,

for I know not what to pray for as I ought.

Let him produce in me wise desires by which

I may ask right things,

then I shall know thou hearest me.

May I never be importunate for temporal blessings,

but always refer them to thy fatherly goodness,

for thou knowest what I need before I ask;

May I never think I prosper unless my soul prospers,

or that I am rich unless rich toward thee,

or that I am wise unless wise unto salvation.

May I seek first thy kingdom and its righteousness.

May I value things in relation to eternity.

May my spiritual welfare be my chief solicitude.

May I be poor, afflicted, despised and have

thy blessing,

rather than be successful in enterprise,

or have more than my heart can wish,

or be admired by my fellow-men,

if thereby these things make me forget thee.

May I regard the world as dreams, lies, vanities,

vexation of spirit,

and desire to depart from it.

And may I seek my happiness in thy favour,

image, presence, service.

Keeping the Sabbath: The Infant Christ, Lemon Meringue Pie, and One Honorable Bird

I love Christian art. I love it the way I love monasticism, liturgy, and trees. Christian art helps me sense the reality of the depth of the faith I profess. It connects me to the Church throughout time and space. I love that I can say the words "Christian Art" and conjure up images rendered long before the advent of Thomas Kincaid. I love that people have long been using art to wrestle with and build their faith. I love that art can be prayer, worship, scholarship, and contemplation. I love that beauty and creative expression are long established components of Christian worship.

Today I stayed home from church for a solitary sabbath: I slept in, had pan au chocolat, tea, and strawberries for breakfast. I compared 4 different versions of Psalm 91: in the ESV, the Message,  the Book of Common Prayer, and the Louis Segond French translation. I re-read bits of Lauren Winner's Girl Meets God, read now in the solemn mindfulness of her latest work, Still. I tried to pray Psalm 91 for a few people I've been feeling worried about, and for myself. I asked for an increase of faith.

 "His huge outstretched arms protect you—
      under them you're perfectly safe;
      his arms fend off all harm."

"Il te couvrira de ses plumes, Et tu trouveras un refuge sous ses ailes."

"He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe under his feathers." 

 "He will cover you with his pinions,
    and under his wings you will find refuge."

My faith is not what it ought to be. I often find it hard to pray. I often don't want to pray, and when I do pray, I find it overwhelming; I want to stop, because there are so many things to pray for.
I went to the Norton Simon, because it's only a 30 minute walk away (I took the bus) and because I imagine myself as a person who goes to art museums all the time. It involved strolling through the water lotus gardens, watching grey-green tadpoles flit and gold-orange dragonflies gleam. It involved the kid's meal: grilled cheese and a fruit salad. It involved sunshine and shady trees and lemon meringue pie. It involved trying to pick up snippets of conversation made by French tourists (vous connaissez?). It involved an attempt at deep contemplation of Christian art.
After walking the museum over, I returned to a few paintings that especially spoke to me. I realized today that I have an official favorite painting at the Norton Simon. It is "St. Joseph and the Infant Christ", by Giovanni Battista Gaulli. I think I love this painting because it radiates relationship. The whole painting is about the deep love which exists between the Christ-Child and St. Joseph, it's beautiful because St. Joseph manifests such tender love for his adopted son. It's meaningful because it reminds me of the Book of Ruth, of the Book of Revelation, of spiritual adoption, and of God's complete and substantial love for me, his adopted daughter.

But I love this painting in a sort of ironic contrast to the rest of Christian art. I realized that the most important thing about Christian art, about beholding a Christian painting, is being made to see what is not visible.
I spent a long time looking at Francesco Bissolo's "The Annunciation", a painting which depicts Mary receiving the angel Gabriel' s words into her heart, and the Christ-Child into her womb: the birth of our salvation and the Magnificat. It's a warm and lovely painting. I stared at it for a long time before realizing that the most important visible thing in that painting is an Honorable Bird: the Holy-Spirit-as-dove hovering---radiantly and slightly---at the top of the painting. The presence and power of God is often hard to see, it is even invisible sometimes, as was the unborn Christ dwelling within Mary.

This painting struck me because, as I gazed at it, I realized that the Dove of Primal Importance, the Honorable Bird, resides in me. I am the visible element in the painting, imbued with the often intangible presence of God. Wow.

But there is one more painting which today brought me closer to the contemplation of the invisible. It's "Madonna and Child with Book" by Raffaello Sanzio.

This one, while showing the incarnate body of Christ, actually points to the eternal, invisible reality of God. Mary and the Christ-Child sit reading a prayer book. Here is Christ, the one who created Mary and the entire landscape behind them, sitting in his incarnate form, reading about his future death and resurrection. Here is God, the God who always IS, rendered in the past as a child, contemplating his own future acts. At the time of the painting, all the work of redemption had been accomplished--Christ was seated on the throne in heaven, interceding for us: it is a meditation piece concerned with the constant presence, the constant being, of God. It is eternity past, present, and future all in one. Here is Mary, teaching her son about his own nature, as he sits in her arms, the arms that he himself created as the "Firstborn of all creation". God very God, here with us as creator, redeemer, and word. Here is the description given with the painting:

"The inscription in the book introduces the ninth hour, or Nones of the Canonical Offices, recited daily by all monastic communities. The Nones commemorates Christ's Crucifixion and Death. With eyes turned to heaven, the Christ Child contemplates His own sacrifice as man's Redeemer."

I need to see Christian art. I need to present my eyes with things that invite them to believe and worship: it's so good for my soul. So today church was held in an airy museum, and the Eucharist was a slice of lemon meringue pie, imbibed under the acrylic gazes of penitents St. Francis and St. Jerome.

The Fullness of Absence

What is life, but to be near you?  

If God is perfectly happy, then he must act in ways which tend to his, and our own, happiness. This brings me to the subject of the Ascension. During Advent, or any other time of the year when the church reflects on the incarnation of Christ, we dwell on the wonder of his humanity. Jesus had ears, and he ate fish, and he took walks with his friends, and he cried, and he laughed. And he touched the sick and blessed them. After such pondering, we sing a hymn and go home. But this is just what frustrates me. If the wonder of God-With-Us moves us to worship, how are we to feel about God-With-Us going back to God, leaving us here all alone?

I'll tell you how it makes me feel. It makes me feel lonely, and sad. Angry, too. Sometimes, it seems that it would be best if Jesus could come over for tea, or sit next to me in church, or be one of my co-workers, or walk with me to the library. He can't though, because he's gone. His physical presence, the thing we celebrate so often--the catalyst of our redemption--is absent. That is an ache.

And it aches. I want him to come back, because I'm lonely without him.

So, I struggle with God's physical absence. God-With-Us isn't (physically) with us anymore. How can there be good in this? So much of my struggle is walking in the reality of the life of God. It's easy to forget that God is who he is (Ever-Present, Faithful, Loving, True, Happy, Real) when he doesn't drop by for dinner.

There are a few things I've been reading lately that have helped immensely with this angst:

• One, this blog post: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/the-ascension-christs-kind-absence/
• Two, the gospel of John, chapters 14-17
• Three, thinking about Pentecost and the Ascension
• Four, thinking about the Trinity's relationship to Itself, made clearer to me by re-reading bits of The Deep Things of God.

Christ said that it would be BETTER for us if he went away, because the Holy Spirit is just that good. He said that though he, our Tender Pioneer, was leaving us, he was sending The Holy Spirit to be our Friend in his place.

What's more, Christ's primary allegiance is to the Father. Jesus went back to God, his Father, and he sat down beside God in the place of honor. He deserved to go back to God: think of all he endured. It was owed to him.  I forget to ask myself about what Jesus is doing at the right hand of the Father. I'm so concerned about what he isn't doing here, that I forget Christ might have any work to do in heaven. I also forget that it might interest the second person of the Trinity to pick up all his former glory and spend time with his Dad. What would God be doing if we, if all of creation, were out of the picture? God is eternal, but what does he spend most of his time doing? Is that a stupid question? I think the answer is that God needs to spend time with himself. His own Triune priorities come first. Since he is the most Real, Important, and Eternal being, his main goal is to glorify himself, without creation he would still have plenty to do, basking in the light of his own glory. And this is as it should be. But still, creation does exist: up in heaven he also intercedes for us, prepares a place for us, and loves us. 

And so Jesus left.
But the disciples' response was that of worship, they didn't sit around and cry. They rejoiced and they waited. Hear this:

"You're the first to hear and see it. You're the witnesses. What comes next is very important: I am sending what my Father promised to you, so stay here in the city until he arrives, until you're equipped with power from on high." He then led them out of the city over to Bethany. Raising his hands he blessed them, and while blessing them, took his leave, being carried up to heaven.And they were on their knees, worshiping him. They returned to Jerusalem bursting with joy.They spent all their time in the Temple praising God. Yes.

Pentecost (which was a really big deal) brought with it a sense of universal presence: God reaching out to the ends of the earth, drawing all peoples toward himself. Do you hear that? Pentecost--the presence of the Holy Spirit and the absence of Christ--made God available to everyone.  . .not just in Nazareth, not just two thousand years ago. . .but even in our own time. . .even to the ends of the earth. The Friend brought, and continues to bring, presence, truth and fullness.
  There are some practical realities to be considered here as well. One, Jesus didn't speak English. Would we be able to communicate if he were still here? Two, Jesus lived in Israel, but I live in America. Plane tickets are expensive. Three, if Jesus were still on earth, why do I think he'd have time to hang out with me when every other Jesus-follower & Jesus-hater would be clamoring for his attention? I mean, really. Who says I'd be one of the disciples in Jesus' inner circle? Plus, he'd be so old. He couldn't die, since death has no authority over him, but what would it be like for Jesus to walk around, 2,000 years old? Clearly this speculation is ludicrous. I'm glad of it. It's good that he went away. It's best.   So, it aches. But it is better so. Ascension is followed by Pentecost. And Pentecost is a big deal. "You Galileans! - why do you just stand here looking up at an empty sky?"
  "You've heard me tell you, 'I'm going away, and I'm coming back.' If you loved me, you would be glad that I'm on my way to the Father because the Father is the goal and purpose of my life."   Not as I will, but as You will. 

Icons of the Real, pt. 2

I'm still mulling over the Mother Theresa prayer:

"Though you hide yourself behind the unattractive disguise of the irritable, the exacting, the unreasonable, may I still recognize you, and say: 'Jesus, my patient, how sweet it is to serve you.'"

Seeing Jesus in the faces of others is not, perhaps, a panacea to making you more loving toward them. At least, not yet.

I've been trying, these last few weeks, to see Jesus in the faces of people who try my patience. But, I've discovered a PROBLEM: people sin. Jesus didn't. How does one see Jesus in the face of a child throwing a tantrum, for example? Or in the face of some creep who drives slowly beside you, offering you a ride as you walk home?

I've been trying this out at work. I think the principle is that a Jesus-follower strives to treat Jesus with all the glory, love, and attention He deserves. Therefore, if I see Jesus in the faces of roommates, family members, or the displaced, I will treat them with loving esteem and attentiveness. But, it's sort of easy to esteem Jesus. He doesn't annoy me, he doesn't smell bad, he doesn't talk back, he cleans up after himself. How can I honor Jesus through a person who sins, or who sins toward me?

I don't know.

But, goodness, think of how holy I'd be if I could do that! I'd be like God. Isn't that just what God does? He looks at my ugly sinfulness and sees Jesus. On that basis, we're friends. How does God do it? It seems impossible.

". . .All the other Distance/He hath traversed first—/No New Mile remaineth—/Far as Paradise—. . ."

Did Jesus look at "tax collectors and sinners" and see his own face?

Icons of The Real

To see Jesus in other people you have to first see Jesus in himself, I think. If you would treat a person with reverence and kindness because you see Jesus in them, you first have to become a person who treats Jesus with kindness and reverence.

To see Jesus in the faces of the sick, means that to see Jesus in the face of God is already meaningful.

What would you do if Jesus was physically present at your workplace? In your home? Maybe the answer to these questions is not as straightforward as I used to think.

I can ignore him while invisible, so why am I certain I'd pay attention to him if he was close enough to poke in the arm?

I want to treat Jesus with love and hospitality, and then I want to see Jesus in the students I work with.

Lent: Bad at it

To know you only
my soul disappears.
I tire of glimpsing you
in dusty mirrors.
The beauty in the world I know
is only ugliness to me
if you I cannot see.
pregnant with your love,
I climb.
But on this narrow stair,
I recall how fair,
the vanities of this world are.
And I find the path too steep,
the pain too deep—
to keep on looking for you.
I tear my hands—clutching
at blossoms—truly,
only—thorns in my side.
My pride
woos me to stay,
while fears
—heavy iron spurs—
slacken my steps,
protecting me from truth,
making my cup—a pulsing star—
overflowing with your joys,
bitter and black,
—gall and tar.
Drop!
Drop!
Your blood in my cup.
Shine
Shine
(your light in my eyes).
The water of life rushing
in my ears
the currents rise,
and carry me along,
so strong your rivers are.
Your song now
palatable—I float
my ascent, swallowing
mouthfuls of your words.
As the earth revolves
so I spin, turned by you
the One who moves.
Sugar and sadness in
my hymn, I begin to tune
my lips to your unchanging
symphony.
Clutching to the drifting sun,
I wash up on your
golden shore—
and I can't remember anymore
anything brighter than your face.

Streams of Lenten Conciousness. . .

I'm keeping Lent this year. Really keeping it. Not in the usual sense where I think vaguely pious thoughts to myself about the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus.

For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.

Two years ago, when I was in England, I went to a truly beautiful Ash Wednesday service in the chapel at Magdalen College. I'll confess that it was beautiful to the point of being distracting and disorienting, but the memory of that night serves me well. I must say that it was an achingly beautiful service. Candlelight, incense, a boys choir, stained glass and statues of saints, British people, liturgy, participation, religious vestments--all things I love. I heard sung for the first time the Allegri Miserere, which has become one of my favorite musical pieces. It's Psalm 51, sung in Latin, which is currently my favorite psalm for Lectio. I love this Psalm and the Miserere because they make me feel like it's OK to stop and simply recognize my sinfulness. I spend most days concealing sins or trying to immediately fix them. I love the darkness because my deeds are evil. These songs help me see the value of sitting with my transgressions in full awareness of my own wretchedness. It's freeing I think, and the first step to genuine repentance. I remember how later that night I returned to study at the Bodleian, the wispy grey cross on my studious brow as I researched rewarded virtue in the fairy tales of George MacDonald. What a beautiful life.

This Lent, I've decided to give up all food that I eat only for the sake of pleasure. So dessert, eating out, and sugar are off the list. Not just for the sake of foregoing pleasures, but for the pursuit of greater ones. Giving up "pleasure foods" for Lent mentally reinforces that Jesus is the source of happiness. It's an idea worth thinking about. If I reward myself in the midst of reading Hume or memorizing French vocabulary with a pan au chocolat, or grab Thai food with a roommate after church, I am easily satisfied. This isn't bad. But it's another matter after a long day of researching a paper on cross-cultural literacy development or preparing grad school applications to simply sit back and not attempt to satisfy my desire for reward. It's good sometimes to simply feel the lack of something.

Self-denial really is it's own pleasure. It slows one down and allows for the space to reflect. If, as Pascal says, all men are distracting themselves because what we most fear is being alone with ourselves in a quiet room, then it's good for me to brave the simplicity of emptiness. It's good to shake off the noisy demands of the body in order to hear the quiet, pensive pleas of the soul.

Generally, I love having the space and time to reflect. But it's easy to forget to do this in the midst of finishing up my last semester of college, straining with all my might to run with elegance the last leg of a difficult race.

I want Lent this year to be about feeling the lack. I think I've forgotten the good in feeling that I'm missing something. It's amazing how possible it is to live with unsatisfied desires. This has become especially important because my biggest fears right now are concerned with being able to make ends meet after college. I'm fearing only the things Jesus commands me not to fear. To feel, even in a small way, that I can be OK without is a great boon to my soul.

I'm also trying to be unselfish. I'm so morbidly selfish it's a wonder anyone wants to be friends with me. The practice of going without for Lent is meaningful then, because it reminds me that my primary goal shouldn't be my own comfort. I always provide rationale for self-centeredness, claiming that I must ensure my own needs are met because no one else will do so. But again, if God is our Father and if he bid even Jesus to wander in the desert with him for 40 days, then I can trust him to care for me while I seek to love others first.

All this because I'm not eating pancakes for breakfast? Yes. I think so.

I want truth for food.

Today

Today I'm sitting in an armchair listening to the wind blow through the weeds in the driveway. It's nice, sitting here, momentarily believing that nothing I do matters. Right now I don't want anything but to be here, in this room, in this house, wearing these clothes, and enjoying this weather. I am content just now; but in about five minutes I will be grumpy again.

Sometimes I wish I could be free of all desire. Sometimes I think living would be better if I didn't have any vested interest in my own existence. I've been thinking about the verse that says "and this is eternal life, that they may know you the only true God and Jesus Christ who you have sent". It's hard to think about life in terms of relationship with a person, especially with the Poet of the Cosmos. I want to pursue real life and seek after real love, and live with a full awareness of the glorious inheritance that is mine in Jesus. I want to enjoy what is temporal and tangible, but I want to love and recognize with my whole self what is eternal and invisible.

I learned to pray in French class two days ago. I'm realizing that what's important for me in language learning is developing early on a spiritual/emotive/religious vocabulary. It's all well and good to memorize the words to "La Vie en Rose", but it's better to be able to speak to God straight from the heart in another tongue. The most beautiful thing I learned about speaking to God in French is that when we pray we use the informal second person "tu" as opposed to the more respectful but distant "vous". This is lovely because it means that when I speak with God, I speak with him as someone close beside me, not far away.

Notre Père Céleste,

Nous te remercions
pour ta grâce,
pour ta bonté, et
pour ta fidélité.

Nous prions,
pour la joie
et la paix dans le monde

Nous prions ceci au nom de Jésus.
Amen!



O Lord, open thou our lips
and our mouths shall show forth thy praise.