Jerome Daley's Blog

Return.

Have you ever thought of a breath as delicious?

One of the practices we use at the forthcoming Vining Center is called The Three-Centered Meditation, and it opens with these words, “Begin by taking two or three deep breaths. Full, enjoyable, delicious breaths.”

Try it for a moment. Pause in your reading of this post and take a few conscious breaths. What’s it like to be aware of the oxygen being drawn down deeply into your lungs, enlivening and energizing your body? Almost like a glass of cool water after a sweaty workout.  Absolutely delicious. Hold that thought.

Another practice you’ve heard me reference before is called Centering Prayer, and if you ever attend a training in this practice, you will undoubtably hear the story of an earnest nun who was trying to still her mind and let go of the thoughts intruding upon her meditation. She complained to Thomas Keating (the monk who gave form to Centering Prayer), “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m just doing this so badly. My mind gets invaded by a thousand thoughts every time I try.”

Reportedly, Keating smiled broadly and exclaimed, “How wonderful! A thousand chances to return to center.”

The first few times I heard the story, I was like, Okay, I get it. Meditation isn’t a performance, a proving ground, or a competition. It’s a practice…and it takes time to grow our capacity for inner stillness. And after being a practitioner of Centering Prayer for almost a decade, I can attest that it does indeed take time to grow our capacity for stillness.

But something has shifted for me in meditation recently—something that has brought me great delight: I’ve begun to savor the return. The typical direction for Centering Prayer is, “When you find yourself drifting from presence into thought, simply let go of the thoughts and ever so gently return to center.” I used to find myself drifting…and “ever so annoyedly” return. But now, the return is sweet. The return is delicious. The return is quietly exhilarating… It’s worth the wander to have the chance to return.

And that’s the reason Centering Prayer (and similar practices) are so instructive in the journey of spiritual formation: because it’s all about The Return. We could even characterize the entire spiritual life as one continuous act of returning. Which is why the parable of the prodigal son strikes such a resounding chord for most of us. It is the quintessential story that tells us who we are (some combination of older and younger brother) and who God is. And the plot is (spoiler alert) all about the Return. Returning and celebrating.

If this is true, then woven into every facet of life—going to work, loving your spouse, attending your small group, volunteering at the homeless shelter, paying your bills—is this overarching concern to get really comfortable with the Return. Don’t resist it. Don’t let it get hijacked by disappointment or shame. Returning is the deal!

So what is it that we’re returning to? We are returning to the point and purpose of the Three-Centered Meditation: an open heart, a quiet mind, and a grounded presence. A place where our thoughts aren’t hammering incessantly, where our emotions aren’t being hooked and jerked around, and where our spirituality is integrated with and grounded in our physical bodies. It’s a way of being that rises above all our small agendas and identities to something more fundamental and essential.

For now, I’ll leave you with this overarching encouragement to savor the Return. Not just in prayer but in the course of daily life. When you feel yourself getting hijacked by anxiety, frustration, or insecurity (symptoms of our core human needs), it’s time to return. Return to the place of belovedness, abundance, and surrender.

 

Contemplate

What are the small stories, the dramas that are spinning through your life right now, trying to hijack your attention and your peace? Name it, hold it, and then release it into the hands of God for safekeeping. And then return to that centered place: an open heart, a quiet mind, and a grounded presence. Feel the freedom that flows from that exchange.

 

Takeaway

The Return is sweet. 

Center.

Last week I wrote about the challenge of loving our enemies and how the genius of loving the difficult people in our lives is related to our intrinsic connection as humans created in the image of God. Both the best and worst of humanity share this kindred DNA…so when we love the other, we are truly loving ourselves. And fulfilling the Great Commandment.

Well, the heat got turned up this week.

My daughter and her family live a mile down the road from us, next door to two of our Airbnb houses, so we have a casual relationship with a couple of the neighbors there. A few days ago, one of those neighbors told me to never talk to him again (because of a very minor dispute over noise), while the other neighbor went postal yesterday on Ashley and Jeromy (because of some construction on their property) and threatened legal action.

Man, I’m telling you: This loving your enemies thing is hard! Especially when people think you’re the enemy. And then again when their actions make them actually feel like an enemy.

This morning I went into Centering Prayer feeling a little beat up by the last episode, and it was predictably harder than usual to let go of my raging thoughts and simply be present to my union with God. And that’s okay, our spiritual practices aren’t a performance; they are a way to keep recalibrating our souls toward what is most real and true. But I was reminded of the classic passage in James 1 where he uses the metaphor of being blown and tossed by the wind and waves of circumstance. Yep, sounds about right!

Sometimes our circumstances come with an emotional violence that leaves us gasping for air. Stunned, disoriented, angry. It’s as much of an assault as a physical blow…and James challenges us to “consider it pure joy.” I have to say that I’m not there yet, but if I can dial that bar down a bit, I can say that I can occasionally appreciate the trials and tests of personal conflict because I want to grow in my capacity for love.

As we discussed in the last post, love is the name of the game. Love is the point and purpose of our human journey—and our only hope for redemption in the world. So this means that I have to get better at it, and the only real way to do that is to have these kinds of turbulent opportunities for love. Especially in the face of injustice and meanness.

I try to remind myself that these two neighbors aren’t bad people. They are just acting badly out of their own fears or need for control or past injuries or whatever. We’re not so different, them and me; I have my own fears, control issues, and hurt history. So how can I love these people?

I imagine myself driving down the dirt road between our house and theirs and seeing this woman out walking her dogs. What will I do? What will I say? Will I stop and try to engage her, or will I ignore her? If I speak, what words should I use. I feel anxious just thinking about it and would prefer to just never see her again. And this woman clearly needs to experience the love of God. I just don’t really feel up to the task…but I know that Christ in me is.

I did feel a little more “centered” after finishing Centering Prayer, but I know that these thoughts and concerns will continue to dog my thoughts for a while. James says something about this scenario that I’ve always found a little troubling: “That person (the one in the wind and waves) should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.”

Feels a little harsh at first read, but here’s what I think James is trying to say. It’s not that God looks at us and says, “You really suck at this so I’m out of here.” No, James has already described God’s character the way we intuitively know to be true: God is “generous,” and not “fault-finding” (v.5). But when we find ourselves battered by the waves of emotional turbulence, we often lose our center. We lose our single-mindedness of security and perspective…and we ourselves shut down the channel of God’s provision. Until we remember what is true. Remember who God is for us. And receive that centering reality back into our souls.

This is the fundamental work of spiritual formation, and it really is a gift. That’s why, when we’ve survived the storm, we can look back and say, Okay God, that painful experience brought me something beautiful. And I’m grateful. And maybe I can even approach a bit of authentic joy over your faithfulness in my life…and, beyond me, in the collective human experience. Love wins.

…………………..

I paused writing this post for a couple days, and over that time, two things happened with these neighbors. The guy I was able to catch in his yard and was able to engage in a very conciliatory conversation, so I think we can at least be neighborly again. In contrast, the lady on the other side made good on her threats and instigated legal action against my daughter’s family that is distressing to say the least.

Last night Kellie and I met with Ashley and Jeromy and my parents to pour out our hearts in prayer, listen in silence, and then discuss things. And even though we really don’t know the right path yet, there was a sweet sense of God’s presence and comfort. So while we wait and pray and take baby steps forward, I’m carrying these truths in my heart:

Just beneath the turbulent chop of circumstantial waves lies a still, peaceful reality of well-being… and God invites me to occupy that space where, as St. Julian of Norwich says, “All is well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” That is true center.

Forgiveness is often a repetitive motion that softens our hearts over time. Loving my enemies is an art that mystifies me, but I’m counting on the Holy Spirit to be my teacher and guide me into this beautiful truth (Jn. 16:13).

 

Contemplate

How do you deal with the turbulence of wind and waves? Most spiritual practices essentially invite us beneath the waves to that stillness and silence that lie at the heart of reality, at the heart of God. I find that Centering Prayer is a great way to tap into that space, and you may have other ways that lead you there. Back to presence, back to singleness of mind and openness of heart. What situation in your life finds you needing to re-center? And how will you do that?

 

Takeaway

Hold your center in the storm.

Enemies.

Who is the hardest person in your life to love?

Kellie and I were in Wilmington for two weeks last month, primarily to savor the gorgeous wedding of our son Thorpe with our new daughter Cailyn, and secondarily to enjoy time with extended family, many of whom we hadn’t seen in a couple years. It was awesome! Getting to be the wedding officiant was an added bonus.

In a quiet moment alone one day, looking out over the tidal creek and enjoying the presence of God, I began to think about a guy who’s on the periphery of my life—a guy I find hard to love. (And if you’re reading this, I can assure you that it’s not you! ) This guy is pleasant enough, but his lack of character has hurt people that I care about…and I noticed that I was carrying strong feelings of resentment.

“O God,” I breathed, “Help me see this guy the way you see him. I know he carries the fingerprints of God on his soul; help me see that and feel compassion instead of judgment. Show me how to love him whole-heartedly.” For the next few days I was keenly aware of how easy it is to justify feelings of lovelessness toward those I experience as obnoxious or self-involved or shallow or whatever. (Sure am glad no one ever experiences me that way, right?!)

In his kindness, God kept my heart really tender over those days, and I found myself longing deeply for more capacity to love…and more humility to ground my heart against pride and reactivity. The prayer for a soft heart would rise unbidden and earnest at various moments—jogging in the humidity, watching my grandson on the playground, kayaking the Intracoastal.

There’s no question that love is the “prime directive” for Jesus and the crux of the Kingdom he invites us into. The entire Old Testament, he told the Pharisees, is encapsulated in this one act (Mt. 22:34-40). Paul picks up the refrain that love is the fulfillment of the law (Rom. 13:10) and the greatest of all character qualities (1 Cor. 13).

So how are we doing with actually loving people? Especially the ones that are harder to enjoy?

When I am inconvenienced, dismissed, or challenged, I have to admit that love is not my instinctive response. “Fight or flight” is more my impulse…but humans have been fighting and fleeing for millennia, and that has not helped usher in the Kingdom of God. No, only love—extravagant and uncontained—can heal our fractured world and bind up the wounds of fear and violence that ravage us.

Jesus only raises the bar: “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’” he declares in the Sermon on the Mount. “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven” (Mt. 5:43-45). Loving enemies, hmm. Sometimes I convince myself that I have no enemies, that I’m so easy-going and welcoming that everyone loves me, and I love everyone. A nice fantasy. All it usually takes is a Floridian driving 15 mph on our mountain road—or a local taking blind curves across the yellow line—to pop that bubble!

My reflection on loving enemies took me to the Great Commandment: “The most important [commandment],” answered Jesus, “is this…. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these” (Mk 12:29-31). Okay, gotcha. Love is the gig. The epicenter of the gospel. Both the means and the end.

But what if Jesus is saying even more? What if he’s not telling us to love our neighbor as much as we love ourselves, which is how we generally read it…but he’s actually telling us to love our neighbors as ourselves? Catch the difference? What if he’s saying that we are all so connected in the fabric of humanity, so bound together by the act of creation, so interpenetrated as the “body of Christ” that to love my neighbor is actually to love myself? (Now my head is exploding.)

And maybe this is even why God connects our receiving forgiveness in the Lord’s Prayer with our extending it (Mt 6:12)—because the very forgiveness we offer to one of our brothers or sisters is the same forgiveness we wind up receiving! We really are that joined together.

This is what Jung called the collective unconscious and the mystics often call unitive consciousness—the awareness of how connected we already are…on spiritual, physical, and metaphysical planes (which, quantum physics now tells us, are not actually different). I have often written about Jesus’ High Priestly Prayer, his final declaration of intent as he prepared to leave the earth: Oneness was his overarching theme (Jn. 17). He prayed for a radical unity among disciples (and those who would later believe)—unity with one another and with him, just as he was one with the Father.

We rarely see such unity expressed at the visible level, but love seems to operate on a Kingdom wavelength often unseen, both validating the connections that already exist and extending those connections in ways that abrogate fear (1 Jn 4:18) and redeem humanity (Rom 8:38-39).

Let me try to bring these heady ideas back to earth. The guy I find hard to love—he and I are already connected. We share the DNA of the cosmos, both brought into being by the divinely spoken word. My dis-love, even if never articulated, generates dissonance, running contrary to our divine design, distancing us, not just from one another, but from ourselves. Love, on the other hand, even if never articulated, affirms our innate bond as “heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ” (Rom 8:17) and brings us into spiritual harmony.

When I love him, I am loving myself. And I cannot love myself well without loving him. And somehow, on a subconscious level at least, we experience the healing effects of unspoken love as well as the dis-ease of unspoken dis-love. So, we have our work cut out for us. And grace is the power that drives it all.

 

Contemplate

I asked you at the beginning: Who is the hardest person in your life to love? Love doesn’t mean denying what’s broken; it simply means to embrace a belovedness beyond brokenness. To see the holy embedded in the fragility of our humanity, to honor that divine core, and to reach for it. How can you do that today for this person you have named? How can you hope, pray, and believe for that one? How can you advocate for him or her, both in the seen and the unseen? What will you do to love your enemy?

 

Takeaway

It’s more important to be loving than be right.

Remodel.

Three years ago I got my first chance to remodel a house. Have you ever remodeled a place before? It’s a lot of work—more than you think—but it’s also an unparalleled opportunity.

In April of 2019 Kellie and I (with a little help) bought an old log house that perches just above the Watauga River in Valle Crucis. Build 40 years ago, it had lain empty and neglected for a long time. The “bones” were good, but the “skin” needed a lot of work.

I won’t drag you through the specific blend of blood, sweat, and tears our remodeling adventure entailed. Suffice it to say that the usual adage applies: Twice as long and twice as much money as you think. It involved a lot of unprintable language, trial and error (heavy on the error), but also moments of deep joy and satisfaction.

Am I glad we did it? Unquestionably. Would I want to do it again? Not so much.

It’s much the way I feel when it comes to what is now widely termed “deconstruction.” We might call it faith remodeling. It’s an often traumatic but ultimately rewarding experience for many these days, and Kellie and I are increasingly providing a safe space (in coaching, spiritual direction, and small groups) for folks to work through this particular challenging experience of pain and renewal.

When it comes to our faith stories, most of us inherit a “house” from others: Whether we fell in love with Jesus as a child or an adult, we were instructed in the way. Someone ahead of us in the faith passed along the constructs and narratives that circumscribe our budding relationship with God. That person likely instilled some basic theological paradigms in the process.

Maybe it went something like this: God is good. You are bad. But when you believe in Jesus, God makes you good again. Maybe you were shown a diagram that had God on one side of a chasm, you on the other, and the chasm bridged by a cross. Maybe it was the “Romans Road,” a tour through several Bible verses beginning with "For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God," and concluding with “If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved."

Whatever the storyline, it was compelling! It offered us something that our souls craved most deeply: Reconnection with our heart’s true home. A place of belonging in the family of God. A larger redemptive story that now included us! That message changed us forever, reshaping our understanding of life, death, and the meaning of everything in between. There’s nothing better in the entire world, until…

…until the construction of that story begins to crack in the drywall and we wonder if there might also be cracks in the foundation.

Usually it’s not disappointment with God directly that initiates the deconstruction; more often it’s some disappointment with those who represent God. A teacher, a pastor, a mentor… Someone we trusted lets us down. Or we begin to ask certain faith questions that are minimized, superficially answered, or outrightly forbidden. We may begin to experience the long-term effects of cognitive dissonance around biblical tensions. Or we run into a level of personal loss or grief that can no longer seemingly be sustained by the house we’ve lived in.

Maybe a teenager “comes out.” Or we develop a friendship with someone with a thriving faith, but it happens to be another faith! Or maybe we realize that what we supposed to be our own faith was more the aggregate of other people’s faith with whom we enjoyed close fellowship. The possibilities are endless, and everyone has a story uniquely their own. But the effects of the deconstruction are often similar: disorientation, anger, isolation, anger, shame, and did I mention anger? It’s an extremely vulnerable place to land…and by and large, the church doesn’t know what to do with people in this predicament.

The message, usually implicit and unintended, is, You’ve gone off the reservation. You are in a dangerous or even disobedient place. We love you, but if you can’t pull it together, you don’t really belong here anymore. Very few Christians in deconstruction feel like the church remains a safe place to process their authentic distress or evolving belief system. And this is a crisis: If the church can’t find a way to welcome the disenfranchised, they will of course go elsewhere. And some who do go elsewhere never find their way back to faith at all.

The point of disconnect between the church and “deconstructors” is often tied to a static faith paradigm, where spiritual leaders equate salvation to receiving a body of belief that is established and contained…a body of belief that’s not supposed to change or evolve. Go deeper, yes, but don’t migrate so as to leave certain faith perspectives behind and uncover new perspectives. (I’ve explored the evolving faith paradigm in this previous post.)

Consider for a moment the faith evolution of an early church leader named Apollos. Described as a man with “a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures” who “spoke with great fervor and taught about Jesus accurately.” He had been “instructed in the way of the Lord,” Luke attests in Acts 18. In other words, he inherited a house of faith, a good house, only to find that it needed remodeling. It was Priscilla and Aquila who heard him teach, took him under their wing, and “explained to him the way of God more adequately.” Apollos’ story might stop short of deconstruction, but it certainly points toward the necessity for movement and progression in the faith journey.

Some, however, can’t move forward until they first move backward. Some find that they can’t build a second level on top until they replace the foundation underneath the first level. This is incredibly disturbing, both for the person in existential crisis as well as those in the faith community who may feel that their own faith story is being called into question. But it’s a necessary stage in the journey, as Janet Hagberg describes in her insightful book, The Critical Journey: Stages in the Life of Faith. Often, this “wall,” as Janet calls it, becomes the access point to the final and most rewarding stages of faith. I’m beginning to wonder if we can even reach the fullness of our calling without it.

I carry a hope that the church will find its way to being a community that welcomes the hard questions without rushing to canned answers or well-worn platitudes. If faith really is meant to grow, in dimension as well as depth, the most honest thing we may be able to say is that we don’t know. We don’t have an answer. Or that an old answer isn’t working for us anymore.

If that’s where you are right now, you haven’t been betrayed. God still has you firmly in hand, held in love. It’s okay to be angry. Anger is often a flag to show us where part of the house needs to come down so it can be rebuilt. Stronger. More authentic. Ready to sustain you in a new and delightful season of faith. This is hard work, and you don’t have to do it alone. With the faithful support of God and God’s people, I believe you’ll wind up with a remodeled house that serves you and the kingdom of God beautifully…just like we did on the banks of the Watauga River.

 

Contemplate

How do you feel about those in “deconstruction”? Can you be with them in their disorientation without feeling at risk yourself, without needing to defend your faith posture or criticize theirs? Without needing to rescue them but simply listening and loving…in confidence that God is big enough to carry them through to the other side? Who needs this kind of friendship from you right now, and how can you extend yourself this week?

 

Takeaway

Sometimes you can’t build the new thing until you tear down the old thing.

Recover.

Freely and Lightly series, #6.

 “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

~ Matthew 11:28-30 msg

 

I have a complicated relationship with time. See if any of this sounds familiar to you…

I spend a lot of time managing my calendar.

I often find myself trying to fill every block in my calendar with activity.

I feel driven to try to get as much done as possible.

I often feel anxious that I’m not using my time to best advantage.

I periodically re-structure my approach to time management to try to “get it right.”

I’m often late to appointments because I’m trying to fit in one more thing.

When I’ve had a productive day, I feel approved and worthy.

In this zone, I find it hard to relax, be still, notice beauty, or savor quiet moments.

Anything there resonate for you? Even though I work hard to moderate the influence of these voices, I know them very well. Last summer my busyness and stress led me to burnout (you can read that story here), but God gently and graciously renewed my soul during some time away by myself. Rhythms of retreat and sabbatical have become an essential practice for my spiritual and emotional journey: sometimes to repair burnout, more often to prevent it. Here are a couple things I’ve learned about time.

The virtue of our preoccupation with time is an admirable motivation to live purposefully, to “number our days” as the Psalmist said, or to “make the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil” as we read in Ephesians. Virtue is Godward, connecting our sense of time with our sense of God’s presence and leading. This is precious and holy, bringing life to ourselves and to others. My bullet points above, however, describe a very different posture in relationship to time.

This other posture is me-ward. Self-centered. Self-seeking. The vice of our preoccupation with time shows up many ways: trying to earn our sense of worth, fearing lack of spiritual guidance, inflating our own importance, striving to control our environment…experiences of this sort. It’s very human, so if you relate to these proclivities, as I do, you don’t need to beat yourself up. Instead, let’s simply respond together to these words from Jesus: “Get away with me…and you’ll recover your life!” Oh yes, Lord, that is my heart’s great desire! There are definitely some things I need to recover.

The word recovery is often used in connection with addiction. Urgency, worry, distraction—these misuses of time form a kind of addiction. And like all addictions, they feed our legitimate needs for approval, security, and empowerment in illegitimate, unsatisfying ways. They over-promise and under-deliver. In the midst of those deceptions, God offers to lead us into the freedom of living Freely & Lightly.

What is God’s idea of recovery? Here are a few points I’m musing on these days.

It seems to me that recovery begins with renewing our awareness of God’s heart. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full, Jesus says in John 10:10. Do we believe God wants our lives to overflow with goodness and abundance? This is hugely-promising…but not over-promising. There is no measure of goodness that God does not want for us; we can trust this.

The next step I’m thinking involves right-sizing our relationship with our own heart. Another insight from Jesus: Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it (Mt 10:39). Striving to “find our lives” makes time a tyrant and us its anxious, driven minions. Surrendering our lives in trust of God’s care and provision, on the other hand, cuts right through that addictive compulsion. God calls this kind of recovery humility.

From this centered place, we can be reaffirmed in our personal identity and calling. Yes, Lord, I remember who I am… I am your Beloved. I am secure in this place, so I can engage the work you’ve called me to with faithfulness rather than drivenness, with joy instead of fear, and I can stop and rest without shame. Sounds like recovery to me!

I find myself wondering how God sees time. Certainly, time is God’s servant and not God’s master. I imagine that God occupies an eternal present within all of time as we know it, that God stands outside of time yet fully within it. That God is never anxious about time even when good things are delayed and evil things allowed. If your head is starting to explode about now, then I think you’re doing it right.Truly, time is a mystery to us, and God’s place in it beyond reckoning.

Consider how time is playing out in your own life from 10,000 feet. You’re twice as old as you used to be. A generation or two above you is starting to die while a generation or two below you is being born. Time gives and time takes away. And while every day moves us closer to the end of our run in this world, each day brings the priceless now with its many gifts and opportunities.

“Recovering my life,” to me, means the freedom to fully occupy my life. To not try to slow it down or speed it up, but to savor all that is with gratitude. To wake up to it and be fully present within it.

Contemplate

How would you describe your relationship with time… A congenial partnership? A harsh task-master? An enemy? A gift? A necessary evil? A stage?

What would have to change, or at least shift, for you to occupy your life today with maximum presence?

Takeaway

Be all here.

Icon.

In the deepest relationships, lovers do not turn each other into idols, but recognize one another as icons, leading them through their love into the very bosom of the Godhead.

~ Tessa Bielecki

 

In my contemporary charismatic church upbringing, I learned to appreciate the “now-ness” of God. Skeptical of tradition, we wanted to know God by direct connection. If it was old, it felt irrelevant; if it was new, it felt authentic. New worship styles, new building styles, new leadership styles. I still value those things, especially the priority on encountering God personally and intimately, for which we might now use the old word mystical.

I am also learning more recently to value spiritual practices rooted over time in the traditions of Godward men and women. To feel the gravitas, even the authority of the ancient. Ancient prayers, ancient places, ancient methods of worship. There is a groundedness, a substance and stability within the timeless that beautifully intersects and complements the modern. At least that’s how I experience it.

Five years ago I was introduced to a practice so ancient as to seem perhaps antiquated: worship through icons. Dating back to the fourth and fifth centuries, icons were hand-painted images of Jesus and the saints that rose to a high art in eleventh and twelfth century Russia. Resistance to icons (iconoclasm) was pervasive in the western church (and echoed in the Jewish and Islamic traditions) out of concern for their potential as idols, but were embraced by the eastern church as a means of genuine, artful worship.

Two icons hang in our personal prayer room: Kellie’s favorite, the widely-loved “Trinity” by Andrei Rublev (15th c - in the top banner), and my favorite, “The Good Shepherd,” originally found in the Roman catacombs among the early persecuted Christian community (below). For us, icons are portals, conduits. Immanent representations of transcendent truths: the first inviting us into community with the Trinity; the second offering us tender nurture and divine care.

As Bielecki noted in the epigraph, icons have the power to draw us into the visceral embrace of God. Can you taste some of that right now? Take a single minute—60 seconds—and gaze on this image. Let it speak its truth into your heart.

What was that like for you? What was its gift?

Did you know that it’s not only icons that serve as “icons”? Other images can mediate the presence of Christ and invite us into divine embrace. Consider these pointers to the Holy:

Creation, the “first Bible,” calls us deeply into divine encounter…offering us a finite glimpse of infinite beauty, whimsy, and aliveness. “Deep calls to deep,” the Psalmist cries.

Scripture is a familiar icon, a means of gazing upon the Beloved.

Our emotions, as reflections of God’s nature, invite us into the divine heart. Feelings, both light and dark, beckon us to intimate communion. God occupies each, speaks through each, longs to meet us in each.

The face of a loved one is an icon. Even that of a stranger. Can you see the face of God etched into the human visage? CS Lewis mused that “it is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship.” That potential lies just beneath the surface right now.

Yet the very images that can mediate the Holy can, in truth, become counterfeits of the Holy. Idols. When we mistake the medium for the source, we attach ourselves addictively, sucking the life out of them, trying to satiate legitimate human needs in illegitimate ways. Human love, precious as it is, cannot substitute for divine love. Financial abundance cannot substitute for poverty of spirit. Even scripture cannot substitute for worship. One may mediate the other—but cannot replace it.

Mark Twain once said that the difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lighting and a lightning bug. As a writer, I value the distinction! And as one trying to follow Christ in the world, I don’t want to confuse the right way to hold these precious means of grace from the almost-right way. One fills the deepest longings of the soul while the other teases and leaves us empty, disheartened.

The difference between love and lust in the difference between iconography and idolatry.

 

Contemplate

Look at your life and your environment with fresh eyes today. What icons surround you in this very moment? There are easily dozens! Imagine the myriad ways God longs to reveal God’s very self through each. Choose one to meditate upon all day. Look through the portal to the source…and savor the Holy.

Takeaway

All is inherently sacred. All can be corrupted.

Voices.

I was having an email conversation with my 80-year-old father when he voiced the honest musings of every parent of adult children: “One thing I have been praying about for some time is for God to show me how He wants me to be a father to my grown children. What responsibility do I have? When I see a possible danger, should I speak up?” What a beautiful, honest question!

If you have entered this season of life, you know the dilemma well…and you know that the answer isn’t always simple. By personality, every parent has an instinct: the instinct to lean in with advice or the instinct to hold back. As Christ-followers, we also know that instinct is a starting point, not necessarily the ending point. Sometimes being a good father or mother means we have to either push past instinct or reign it in a bit. And generally we do it wrong before we do it right, which I know because I am also the father of adult children!

How do you know if you’re doing it wrong or right? Don’t worry, your kid(s) will probably let you know.

One of the things I will tell my dad when we go hiking next is that his “voice” is always in my head. Whether he feels prompted to actually speak up and offer counsel or not, I am always being consulted by fifty-five years of history with him as my father. I’m not sure if he knows this or not because I’m not sure if he has his father’s voice in his head. But here’s what I’ve come to know about every one of us: We all have a lot of voices in our heads that come from somewhere! And these voices, for better and worse, constantly inform our self-talk and decision-making.

Classically, this is called the Inner Committee. And therapeutically, this is related to something called Internal Family Systems. IFS describes how different “parts” of us develop early in life to protect us from various threats. None of these parts are bad, but they get stuck with certain messages that can hurt us unless they get healed. Here is a simple process for starting that inquiry.

It can be enormously helpful to name the voices in your head. Have you ever tried? The next time you feel conflicted about anything, pull out a blank piece of paper and see what voices appear. They might wear the faces of real people—like a strong parent or a parental figure or a spouse—or they might be qualities like The Bully, or Mr. Ridiculous, or Mrs. Reassuring. Whoever they are in your head, you get to listen to their voices all the time. Sometimes it’s hard to turn them off! So here are some useful steps to helping them say their part and play nicely with each other:

1.         Name the Voices.

Being able to name your voices can help you feel less crazy and help you begin to actually manage the conversation rather than letting the conversation manage you. I’ll introduce you to some members of my Inner Committee. You might recognize these, but you’ll likely have some of your own.

The Achiever: This my muse, my inspiration, my creative drive (that got me out of bed at 4:30am this morning to write this post after I had spent the last hour writing it in my head). This voice can both fuel my passion and exhaust my energy. This is the voice that says, Do more. Do it now! Be impressive. Sometimes it’s the voice I need to listen to, and other times not so much.

The Anxiety Monster: I suspect that every personality type has its own expression of anxiety, but as a Type Six, mine is highly attune to all threats, real and imagined. Anxiety can offer valid, needed perspectives, while at other times it merely activates my fight, flight, or freeze instinct. It’s related to my dominant passion on the Enneagram, so if you have discerned your Type, then you know how to name your own personal “monster,” whether that be anger, pride, deceit, etc.

Inner Monk: When I am deeply centered, this is the voice of my True Self, the trustworthy whisper of the Holy Spirit. I also call it my Inner Authority, and when I can tune into this voice, it offers unconditional self-love, deep peace, and trustworthy guidance. This voice is often harder to hear when the Committee gets noisy, but when I quiet the room, it always shows up.

Inner Critic: For me, this is the voice of “not enough”: You don’t have enough time, enough money, enough smarts, enough resources… oh, and by the way, You are not enough. This is the voice of shame, and most of us know this voice at some level.

Now name one of your Inner Committee voices…

 

2.         Notice Who’s Speaking.

One of the chief tasks of our inner formation work is to distance ourselves enough from our inner chatter to know that while we have thoughts, have emotions, and have instincts…we are not those things. They are valuable parts of our embodied presence in the world, but they are not our essence. Which means they can inform us without ruling us.

Part of right-sizing the influence of our voices comes by noticing who is speaking: Let’s say I’m getting a strong message of caution about a course of action under consideration. How do I know whether to trust that voice or not? If we look just at the four committee members above, I can probably rule out The Achiever because it’s not in his nature to recognize constraints… but the Anxiety Monster, the Inner Monk, and the Inner Critic—any of them could conceivably voice caution. And if I recognize who’s speaking, I’ll know a whole lot more about how to handle the input!

Or this message of caution could come from another voice on my Inner Committee: It could be the ultra-practical voice of my mom or the spiritually-slowing, spiritually-listening voice of my wife whom I often experience as a brake when I’m too quick on the gas. Learning to recognize the inner origin of the message lets me know how to frame the message.

 

3.         Let Someone Else Speak.

Once we ID the voice, then we have the option to invite other voices into the conversation. Okay, so it can take some persistence to uncover the wisdom of the Inner Critic or the Anxiety Monster…but I often invite the voices of both inspiration and restraint, the voice of adventure and the voice of responsibility. Whatever voice shows up, whether invited or not, I want to know who’s speaking and then place that input or feedback in context.

Within the whole confluence of voices, I am, of course, listening for the One Voice above all. The still, quiet Voice that establishes meaning and position for all other voices.

 

4.         Choose the Seats.

In my experience, none of these voices ever goes away… even the less pleasant among them. And the goal isn’t to silence those less-trustworthy voices as much as it is to place their messaging within a larger, orienting framework. Some voices are loud and obnoxious and attempt to take the head of the conference table even when they don’t belong there; they may need to be put in their place. There is only One Voice I want at the head of the table.

Other voices were needed in the number two and three seats at one season of life, while now I need new voices in those primary seats. Overall, is this a season for conserving and renewing… or is this a season for reaching and extending? If you know that, it will help you place each voice in its most useful seat of influence.

Contemplate

Go ahead. Pull out that blank piece of paper, draw your conference table, and start to place the usual suspects around it. Who are the faces you see, their expressions, their tones, their most common feedback? Which voice is dominating the conversation right now? Do you need to ask some voices to switch seats? Some to speak up, some to pipe down? Where is the voice of God in the mix, and what can you do to dial up that most trustworthy of all voices?

Let me know how it’s going with your Inner Committee. I’m interested. What are you learning about managing that conversation?

Takeaway

The loudest voice isn’t always the most trustworthy voice. 

Away.

Freely and Lightly series, #5.

 “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

~ Matthew 11:28-30 msg

 

“Away” has changed my life.

Almost exactly 22 years ago, I took my first sabbatical. I was a 34-year-old pastor, and the staff was getting our first-ever round of extended time off. I was supposed to get a month; I got two weeks. (Thanks to the professional pastor Gerbil Wheel ;) But it actually only took one week alone at the beach to change the trajectory of my life forever.

Have you figured out that we carry dissonance in our bodies? Misalignments of value, calling, and identity show up as hidden stress fractures on the soul, and often take time to show up in our awareness. We can actually run for years, carrying the pain of those fractures but clueless to their origin…or solution. Often, we can only come to terms with the dissonance by getting Away. And quiet.

Interesting that Jesus had the same idea…slightly ahead of me. When was the last time you accepted his invitation? Really detached—for even a day—to let all the noise subside and get still enough to hear the message of your heart? And the message of God’s heart for you?

Sometimes we intuit the dissonance…and actually avoid the silence and solitude precisely because we don’t want to know! Something inside of us understands that, once we name it, it will require something of us. Change. Realignment. Healing. The things our true hearts crave…but our anxious minds sometimes resist.

I think I’ve become a professional Retreater. Not because I’m brave, but because I’ve tasted the sweet elixir of the realignment and, well, these experiences really have changed my life. Multiple times. In beautiful, necessary ways. The first was two weeks. The next was two years! (Well, not exactly. But it did involve a two-year move to Colorado.) These days, I shoot for one weekend a month and several weeks a year.

Sound extreme? Might be. I think I’m a hard case and very susceptible to getting sucked back onto the Gerbil Wheel of frantic activity and subsequent soul fractures. Which of course is why this passage with its message of Freely and Lightly is so crucial to my calling. To my survival even.

So let’s assume that you’re a more balanced individual and don’t require such Draconian measures. I hope so! Still, I doubt you have a more healthy soul than Jesus—who prioritized his own recurring rhythms of withdrawal! Slipping away in the night to climb a mountain and be alone with God became a habit for him. And a value he actively impressed upon his disciples: “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest” (Mark 6:31).

I hope that you too have come to savor the gifts of solitude and refreshment. We are meant for a rhythm of engagement and withdrawal, engagement and withdrawal. Just like the cycles and movements of creation all around us. Ebb and flow. Dormancy and bloom.

Where are you in the cycle? Is this a season of engagement or withdrawal for you? If you’re engaging, what does withdrawal look like…and when does it occur? We are hardwired to need soul-rest daily, weekly, monthly, etc. Do you have mechanisms in place for this? Our culture doesn’t cooperate readily with such vision; you have to be exceedingly intentional to take hold of it.

The thing about Jesus’ offer is that it is exceptionally personal: He doesn’t just tell us to stop working; He invites us to get away…with him! So in withdrawal, we’re not leaving activity for a vacuum. We’re leaving activity for Presence. “Only in God is my soul at rest,” says the Psalmist (Ps. 62:2). To retreat is to enter into special intimacy. “Make every effort,” Hebrews says, “to enter that rest” (Heb. 4:10,11). Rest is the gift we don’t always want, but it’s always on offer.

Maybe it’s time to get away.

Contemplate

If you know your Enneagram center (body, heart, mind), you might appreciate that each center has its own contemplative priority. Body types thrive particularly in the practice of stillness…heart types in solitude…and head types in silence. How might you lean into your contemplative priority this week?

You might also appreciate reading the larger story of how a sabbatical changed everything for me and my family…in my first book Soul Space. It’s all about getting off the Gerbil Wheel and finding renewal.

Takeaway

What is your soul telling you?

Her.

When Kellie and I moved from Greensboro to Boone five years ago, we left a city with over 400 churches to a town with just a few dozen. Among the many solid churches of Greensboro, we struggled to find one that felt like home, so moving here we weren’t optimistic. Imagine our surprise when we found a church family that felt more like home than any we’ve known for decades!

One of the great joys in our current faith community has been hearing many Sunday messages from women and enjoying the unique grace and perspective they bring to our journey with God and God’s people. You may have noticed that in some of my recent blog posts, I have championed the evolving face of church and faith (including a provocative reference to the Holy Spirit as “her”): Among the many important facets of that conversation, equality of men and women has been at the forefront of our attention for a decade or two.

But this isn’t really my topic today; I simply refer you to an incredible organization called Christians for Biblical Equality if you’d like to know more. I mention gender equality among the human family as introduction to today’s topic on gender equality within our understanding and experience of God!

Did you see that one coming?

Gender equality in God? Yes indeed. You’ve probably heard the old quip that we don’t know who discovered water; we just know it wasn’t fish! And so it is with many of our doctrinal assumptions: its ubiquity makes it unquestioned.

You probably wouldn’t say that God is male specifically, but what does your mental image look like? When we stop to think about it, we know that the spiritual realm transcends gender, and further, if we stop to think about it, we would affirm that God created man and woman to jointly express the fullness of all that God contains within the divine person. So why is all our languaging and interior imaging almost exclusively male? Well, for starters…

The biblical authors chose male pronouns for God the Father.

The second person of the Trinity came into the world as a human male.

Even the Holy Spirit winds up with male pronouns (strangely, as we will see).

It would seem that the Bible has deliberately cast God in a male light. And even today many respected spiritual leaders have overtly reinforced that view. Why?

Here are a few reasons that occur to me:

The ancient world was indisputably a patriarchal culture. Power was synonymous with maleness. So any reference to ultimate power naturally flowed that direction.

Even within our understanding of biblical inspiration we recognize that divine revelation was filtered through the culture, education, and language of each writer.

The conservative confirmation bias of institutionalized religion (both Judaic and Christian) is hardwired to resist change in all forms, despite the fact that our Founder was a revolutionary.

If those things are true, where does it leave us? And what are the ramifications of ignoring the issue altogether?

Christian leaders who are advocating for marginalized and victimized groups today (whether that be along lines of race, gender, religion, sexuality, etc) are recognizing that our view of God directly impacts our view of our fellow humans. If God is white, then it’s an easy move to oppress our black or brown sisters and brothers. If God is male, excluding women doesn’t seem so bad. Making God look like me, it’s easy to think that God endorses whatever I want to do. History has certainly borne out that connection when most of the world’s violence has occurred underneath a religious flag.

So is God also really feminine…or is that some kind of dangerous, eastern, new-age thing? I would say that recognizing both the masculine and the feminine in God is essential to relating rightly to God’s heart and God’s people, and here are a few biblical and historical perspectives that lead us in that direction:

Throughout the book of Proverbs, “Wisdom” is personified as a woman and the exemplar of divine guidance. Without question, Lady Wisdom is an emblem of the feminine divine…as supported by two early Church fathers, Theophilus of Antioch and Irenaeus, and reinforced by Jesus in Mt 11:19.

Despite the unwieldy masculine pronouns, the word for the Holy Spirit in both Hebrew (Ruach) and Aramaic (Rucha), the language Jesus spoke, is feminine…and “her” nurturing character and role are characteristically feminine with labels like “comforter,” “counselor,” and “advocate.” Historian Susan Ashbrook Harvey considers the grammatical gender to have been significant for early Syriac Christianity: "It seems clear that for the Syrians, the cue from grammar—ruach as a feminine noun—was not entirely gratuitous. There was real meaning in calling the Spirit 'She'."

Both Old Testament and New Testament authors feel compelled at times to use feminine descriptions to describe God’s tender heart for the nation of Israel (Deut. 32:11; Mt 23:37; Lk 13:34).

The divine name for God El Shaddai literally means “God of the breasts.”

If you’re looking for more, Mike Morrell offers about a hundred more references here.

So okay, there are feminine references to God in the Bible. Tell me again why this matters? To me it matters because overly-masculine, overly-aggressive representations of God across the last millennium have fueled many injuries and abuses within the Church (think Crusades, slavery, Salem Witch Trails, and far more than I have space to mention). To our dismay (I won’t use the word “shame”), it is often secular culture that champions the imbalances and injustices where the Church ought to be taking the lead. For example, the goddess movement has been a non-Christian effort to reconnect with the relationally-nurturing, peace-initiating, planet-championing dimensions of God… because Christians have by-and-large neglected it.

What would it look like for today’s Church to embrace the gender-fullness of God? I’m not sure—but I’d sure love to see it. I’m taking my ever-so-humble start in that direction by referring to the Holy Spirit as “her”…merely as a reminder to widen my view and experience of those qualities of God that our world needs so desperately right now.

 

Contemplate

Consider the words used to describe the Spirit’s role as a Comforter, Counselor, and Advocate in the book of John.  Spend some moments considering how you have experienced God in these ways in your recent circumstances…or where you need God in one of these roles right now! Journal your conversation with God, in petition or thanksgiving.

Takeaway

Your image of God matters.

Post.

Five years ago Kellie and I moved up to the North Carolina mountains just outside of Blowing Rock. It was a homecoming of sorts for me because I spent many a Christmas vacation up here as a kid at my grandfather’s house. For about 40 years I visited and savored the beauty of this place until I could actually live here.

There is a gorgeous Victorian home perched high on a hill in town, and I remember thinking as a young man, Now that would be the ultimate place to live! Funny thing is, though, while the house is as beautiful as ever, my style has shifted and I’m no longer drawn to it. These days my architectural tastes lean more toward “Mountain Tuscan.” What feeds my soul visually has changed.

Resonation. Alignment. Aliveness.

Something within us longs to awaken. To see and be seen. To know and be known. To recognize within the other something essential to ourselves. When was the last time you felt that?

Perhaps a song, a book, a speaker, an artist: Someone gave birth to an expression that felt deeply true to you. They found words or brushstrokes or musical arrangement that said something you’ve always wanted to say. And in that fellowship, a sacred kinship arose.

For me, it’s almost always words on a page. The last time I felt it was a few weeks ago, reading a 20-year-old book called A Generous Orthodoxy, by Brian McLaren. Brian somehow was able to articulate the theology of my heart—my own deepest knowing of what’s true about God and us. To the best of my understanding. So far. (Hint: That understanding will eventually also grow and change.)

If you’re into that kind of thing, I hope you’ll read McLaren’s book. But if not, you’ll get a strong drift of his message from the subtitle:

Why I am a missional, evangelical, post/protestant, liberal/conservative, mystical/poetic, biblical, charismatic/contemplative, fundamentalist/calvinist, anabaptist/anglican, methodist, catholic, green, incarnational, depressed-yet-hopeful, emergent, unfinished Christian.

I suppose any wordsmith can knit a clever string of words together, but it’s the extrapolated meaning behind the words that echoes in a sonic half-life that never quite fades in my inner ear. Today, I’d like to talk about just one of those words… “Post.”

To be post-anything is to convey the reality of a journey: I began somewhere, only to wind up somewhere else, thus I am post-where-I-used-to-be. It evokes the ethos of transformation, of evolution. Of growth and change and becoming. Of caterpillar-to-butterfly…or at least something on that spectrum. Today I am post-Victorian.

Change is hard, no doubt. Just ask the caterpillar! Change is a micro-death. Yet providentially, the Author of our faith modeled just such a transformational death in order to seed in us the courage to die our own small deaths and find resurrection on the other side. For me, the greatest tragedy in our Christian community lies in fearing such uncomfortable transformations in order to “conserve” the life of the past as a security blanket. And so the next step on the journey of faith is never taken.

Listen to the radical voice of one whom many would expect to conserve, Francis Shaeffer in 1970…

One of the greatest injustices we do to our young people is to ask them to be conservative. Christianity is not conservative, but revolutionary. To be conservative today is to miss the whole point, for conservatism means standing in the flow of the status quo, and the status quo no longer belongs to us….

Jesus was not conservative, Jesus was revolutionary. Jesus was “post-scribes-and-pharisees.” Jesus was progressive. (Not in the political sense, but in the innate sense of an evolving faith.) Jesus deconstructed the established “church” of his time in order to let it breath and grow and move toward the next necessary stage of life. Can we do this too? Can we trust the journey enough to be that bold?

I relate to “post.” While becoming post-Victorian in architecture, I have also become post-evangelical, post-charismatic, and post-conservative. I draw upon that heritage, but they no longer define me or circumscribe me. This isn’t to throw these worthy origins under the bus. These forces formed me and now inform me. I am not anti-Victorian by being post-Victorian. But my faith journey is in motion…as I hope yours is. I think this is the way Jesus designed it.

“You have heard it said,” Jesus repeated five times in a single message. (What a dangerous lead-in for the spiritual status-quo.) You understood your faith in one dimension, Jesus is saying, but now it’s time for you to understand it at an entirely different level. Theologically, we call this progressive revelation. Abraham understood the gospel at one level (knowing almost nothing); Moses took it to a radically different level with revelation of a theocratic civil system; David took it to a qualitatively greater level of worship, personally and corporately. Jesus turned it on its head by “fulfilling” what had only been hinted at previously. So while the arc of salvation history didn’t stop there, for some it has.

I meet believers constantly who feel that the static faith-story handed to them has run out of gas and can no longer contain or sustain their lives now. It’s a wrenching, disorienting experience. Some are tempted to leave the faith entirely. But others are willing to let Jesus say, once again, “You have heard it said…but I tell you….” And when that happens, just as in Jesus’ day, faith finds a second wind! New pieces fall into place. The Holy Spirit continues her role of progressive revelation by “teaching us all things” (Jn 14:26).

So what about you? Are you feeling “post-ish” about anything these days? Does your faith need a fresh wind of the Spirit’s awakening and revitalization? If so, don’t be afraid. Let the Wind of the Spirit blow upon the foundations of scripture, tradition, experience, and reason to move your faith into new life!

ThriveTip

Try this exercise: Take a piece of paper and chart the major awakenings, revelations, and God encounters that have marked your faith journey so far. You might also include crises of faith or other desolations from your story. Reflect with gratitude upon who you were when you started this journey and who you have become so far. Now look forward just a bit: What fresh understanding or practice might God want to invite you into next?

Takeaway

If it’s alive, it’s changing.