Happy Poverty

When I was brought low, he saved me.

I have a few quotations taped on the side of my desk, next to my bed. It's a couple of Bible verses, a Rumi poem, a few notes to myself about things I want to remember, a poem by Mary Oliver, a Psalm. I keep them there so that when I wake up in the morning, I remember the important things, and when I'm feeling especially low, I remember the good.

The smallest quotation, written in Sharpie on a tiny orange post-it note, is taken from the Beatitudes.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. 

Today, this is the most important sentence in the entire world. I've had two weeks off for the holidays. This always seems so good to me, time to spend with friends, time to wander, time to bake and read, time to sleep in, time to color and binge watch Netflix. But no matter what else I'm involved in, no matter what activities my body is devoted to, these long breaks always leave time to my heart for thinking, and that means all the topics I've been avoiding suddenly, silently resurface.

There is something about Christmas and New Year's that makes me evaluate my life. Stringently. Part of being around so many loved ones means that I am constantly comparing myself to them: everyone seems to be smarter, prettier, holier, more successful, inexplicably happier. And part of it is that I'm forced to judge my life over the past year. Am I, compared to myself 12 months ago, any holier, smarter, prettier, happier, or more successful? Somehow the answer is always the same: No, you are not. No, Self, you are the same Self you were last year: equally jealous, lonely, angry, weary, pitiable, selfish, fearful, unsuccessful, and sad. This reality always hits me like a sack of potatoes in the face: it hurts.

I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to let go of the fact that other people are better than me. I know God is better than me, this is an un-troubling idea, but even while I write this, I feel annoyed and upset because I have friends who have blog posts that are better written than this one will be.

I want to be a glorious unicorn, but I know I am a worm.

But I want someone to call down from the sky, No, you are not a worm. You have been a glorious unicorn all this time! You are sparkly and you are lovely. You are worthy of love and goodness. 

I hate being spiritually poor.

I googled "What does it mean to be poor in spirit?" and then skimmed a couple of articles from what I thought might be opposing viewpoints. The answer seems to be the same across the board. Spiritual poverty is the inheritance of every human since the Garden of Eden. But to be poor in spirit is to admit and recognize one's spiritual bankruptcy, and to throw one's self upon the mercy of God.

When I look honestly at myself, all I find is spiritual poverty. And it is so discouraging. I don't want to be poor. I want to be good enough. I want to hold up my head in a crowd. I want to feel proud of my accomplishments, of my whole being. But I'm not. I'm ashamed, and I'm sad.

Charles Spurgeon's sermon on this Beatitude emphasizes that the word "blessed" as it appears in this self-effacing maxim is the same word used in the Beatitudes I'd more willingly claim: "blessed are the peacemakers. . . .blessed are the pure in heart. . ." There is no less goodness or happiness in accepting one's spiritual poverty than there is in being a person of righteous reputation. Everyone who is pure in heart, who is persecuted for the sake of righteousness, who hungers and thirsts for goodness, takes their first step on the same road: blessed are the poor in spirit. 

But it is not enough for me, 89% of the time, to be told that God loves my awareness of my own poverty. It is not enough for me to be told that when God looks at me he sees Christ. I don't want him to see Christ! I want him to see me, and love me for my goodness. This is, of course, impossible.

Something that God has been hammering into my head over the past few years, is that it is blessed to receive. We are so good at giving sometimes, having been told by our Lord that it is the better option, that I think we have forgotten how to receive.

Being a spiritual pauper means being a recipient of grace, and being a recipient of grace is the best possible outcome for humanity. But it is hard to receive sometimes. I love being given presents, but it's always easier for me when I give in return a gift of equal value. It is easier to take with one hand while I am giving with another. It is very, very hard to be the person with both hands open, being the vehicle of blessing for someone else who wants to share their blessing with you. It is hard to say, "I accept this gift, knowing that I can in no way give back to you in equal or greater amount. I take, accepting that this gift is by no means fair, because it is unearned, unmerited, and cannot be recompensed."

It's hard to accept good without feeling guilty. Without feeling that you need to make up for it somehow, that you need to balance the scales. But that is entirely what being poor in spirit means. Our hands open to God, our mouths open like ugly little squawking bird-babies, waiting for God, our Nourishing-Mother, to dump sustenance into our impatient, starving mouths.

Bah. Blessed. Happy are you when you realize your hands are empty. Happy are you when you let someone else fill them. Happy are you when you take what you have been given, and glory in the fact that you have nothing of equal value to give in return. Happy are you when you gladly receive all good gifts, whether from God or from man, and are simply happy to have them.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven, and they have done nothing to deserve it but to hold out their empty hands. Happy Poverty.

Mary Oliver's "The Poet Dreams of the Mountain"

The Poet Dreams of the Mountain

Sometimes I grow weary of the days with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old grey mountain, slowly, taking
the rest of my life to do it, resting often, sleeping
under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
that we have smothered for years now, forgiving it all,
and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency!  Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.

Lent: Oh! The Sweetness of Reality!

I am moved to blog about Lent. Though I didn't attend an official Ash Wednesday service, I had my own little inaugural ceremony a few nights ago. I'm trying to spend Lent understanding its purpose, and what it means to be in the desert. But, today, I realized that I've recently left my own wilderness. The last seven months were spent wandering through my own wasteland.

Now, with a new apartment, a new job, and a life that matches my own wishes with startling exactness, I find the terrain wooded and green. This has forced me to rethink my Lenten practices. I've decided to keep the fast by giving up things that distract or deaden; I'm taking a break from movies, TV (no Downton Abbey), and fictional narrative. I've given up these things because sometimes I use them as an opiate; I use them when I want to be removed from the Real, and in those moments I lose awareness. I'm resisting the urge to curl up with a good book and shut out the obvious.

I'm trying to learn to focus and to notice: primarily with poetry and the Bible. Poetry is important to this process because I can't read it in a hurry, and though I do get lost in a poem, it's not an inattentive absence.

This week, I've been reading Mary Oliver's The Leaf and the Cloud. I'm going to read it over and over again, though it's a 55 page poem, until I absorb it wholly. It's a helpful piece, so far, because in it Oliver roves through the glories of existence.

This Lent I'm working on two things: 1) Thankfulness, and 2) An awareness of the Real. Sometimes I forget how beautiful the world is. The Leaf and the Cloud has been helpful because it reminds me that there are things like swans, grass, and foxes. Oliver reminds me that there are, even on this broken planet, wonders like the "first egg with a tapping from inside."

A Lenten devotional I recently read said that after desert wandering comes thanksgiving. Therefore, one should either be holding on to God in the desert, or bursting with praise for being brought safely to the oasis on the other side. It's time for me to say thank you.

When I think of reality, I think of sad, prosaic things. No one ever says, "you need to face reality, come and look at this sweet little bird chirping on this branch." We use the word reality to represent the harshness of life. All is bitter, acerbic, acidity. But do you know what? Today I waited for the bus underneath a beautiful tree. It had a smooth trunk, curvy branches, and bunches of pink blossoms. Huge, black bumblebees were drinking its nectar, and the sky above it was so blue. That's reality.

Most importantly, if God is the Fount of Existence, and he is, then I need to be most aware of him. Most of my consciousness is spent on things that are not real, things that do not matter, things that don't push me to abide in God. Work, and public transportation, and grocery shopping, and checking my email, and filing my taxes, and getting up early every morning, and taking out the trash is not real. Clothes shopping, and grading papers and, balancing my checkbook, and reading Charles Dickens is not real. God is real. I don't think it's wrong to escape into film or literature, but the Beautiful is always in the room. What if, sometimes, I was more hospitable?

“Then the devil left him, and behold, angels came and were ministering to him.”

This is where I am, I choose Lent because I want to see ministering angels and birds newly hatched. I want to be familiar with the vigorous habits of bumblebees. I want to see it all and say thank you.

THANKS
W.S. Merwin
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things, and give me life in your ways.