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.

Grace: A Beautiful Punch in the Face

My word of the year is grace. I’m living this year trying to understand what it means when we say that God is gracious, that we are transformed and renewed by grace, that grace is free and present and abundant all of the time. One thing I’ve been learning is that sometimes the working of grace in my life looks like a punch in the face—it shocks me, hurts me, makes me take a look around and reconsider my expectations. But other times, grace is like a warm hug, a spicy samosa shared with a friend, a cup of Earl Grey, laughing in the midst of a field of poppies, an infant’s little fingers wrapped around my pinky, breathing.

God gives us grace, in the packaging and dosage we most need, at the times when we most need it. I’m learning to recognize the presence of God in the everyday. I eat a strawberry: its sweet redness, its heart-shaped perfection, reminds me that God is good.

And then there are those other moments. The moments when what I most want is to just walk out of the room, out of the door, into nothingness, because existence feels futile, and frustrating, and impossible to bear. Then I think grace is like a sharp slap across my face, because it makes me remember that I have been created for something more: for something good, and true, and lovely. The me who was satisfied wandering around in circles pretending to live is more desperate than the me who is sitting on the ground, rubbing my sore jaw and wondering what just happened.

Grace is supernatural. That means that grace intervenes in nature—in the ordinary, the mundane, the status quo, the expected. Grace is wholly unexpected, wholly undeserved, and dearly needed. My natural self cannot get anywhere without God’s cosmic karate chop. I need God’s power not just to make all of my dreams come true, but to shatter the dreams that are built on false and shaky hopes, and to build new dreams on substantial foundations.

Grace meets me where I am, and then, like a whirlwind, it picks me up and whirls me around until I lose my bearings—leaving me somewhere else. The land may look barren—broken rocking chairs strewn about the desert, someone’s dazed cat stalking by on wobbly feet, but it is here, in this place, that I can meet God, because there is nothing else I expect to see. I have been taken out of myself to meet him. To meet God on his own terms, in his own timing, on his own fruitful soil.

To find one’s self in the economy of grace is to find that you do not have enough money for the journey. In fact, you are a thief and a stowaway and you have been found out. But instead of being tossed off the train, with your raggedy carpet bag tossed behind you, you find that you are invited to dine in the first class coach, provided you admit to the other passengers that your fashionable clothes are borrowed, and that your fare has been donated, not earned. It is in grace that we learn how poor we are. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. This means, blessed are you when you can’t pretend anymore that you have anything to give, anything left to bargain with, anything to cover the fact that left to yourself you are only naked and mean and ugly.

Grace takes this ugly unkindness and dresses you up, beautifully, generously. Suddenly, you are the belle of the ball, and you remain here—in twinkling crystal slippers and a blue gown—until you forget that your carriage is really only a winter squash and that rodents alone will befriend you. Then, here comes grace, like a clock chiming twelve, to remind you that all you can claim for yourself are rags and woes and a bed made of ash.

Thank you, God, for the punch in the face that reminds us of how good you are, and of our poverty without you.

As Anne Lamott says,

“Remember, God loves you exactly the way you are, and he loves you too much to let you stay like this.”

A Certain Strangling

      I have lost my voice. Spiritually, I mean. I intended to spend 2013 writing and contemplating voice, in order to regain the part of my own voice that has weakened and been lost.  This did not happen, however, and I can’t say why, though I can talk a little about what has happened to it. When I was younger, in my first few years of college, those truly, purely idealistic years, I took a risk. At the time, I believed that God wanted me to take my voice to the ends of the earth, and to recount his story of love to those who had never heard it. But when I tried to do this, when I embarked on a big, scary overseas adventure, I found that the journey was too hard, the task too large, and I failed. I discovered that I lacked the courage to live boldly every day.

            Since that time, that tragic moment of epic failure, over seven years ago, I have been walking under a sky of shame, and the weather does not change. This is important in our conversation about voice, because it was shame that silenced me. It hushed the part of my voice that spoke boldly, that took risks and chose adventure. I am trying now, after all this time, to release some of that feeling of shame. It is hard, sometimes, for me to be gracious with myself. But God is gracious, more gracious than I understand.

            I was recently describing my feelings of condemnation toward myself, and the judgment I feel emanating from God, when someone wise spoke to me and said, “No, God is kinder than this.” And, “You need to show yourself more grace.” She doesn’t know, of course, that I desperately want to feel permitted to show myself more grace. I want to be kinder to myself, but I feel that I don’t deserve it. Such kindness is unwarranted, unearned. But that is the point of grace, isn’t it? It is never about what is deserved; grace gives, lavishly, what is most needed.

            I need to feel this grace extended to me, from me, because God’s grace in this same matter is already given. Sometimes, I can see the light of grace falling from his open hands: little golden daffodils of grace wholly gratuitous. I’m going to climb inside one of those glowing yellow cups and sit a while.

            Essentially, to regain my voice, I need to remove my hands from around my own neck, until my face is no longer blue and my eyes sink back into their sockets.  

“And the ransomed of the LORD shall

            return

     and come to Zion with singing;

everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;

     they shall obtain gladness and joy,

     and sorrow and sighing shall flee

             away.”