Saturday, May 20, 2017
The May long weekend glows with promise. Where I live in Ontario, it launches the planting season for all backyard gardeners and beckons us to believe that the warmth of summer will indeed bless us again.
As I dig into dark cool soil, I think of the words of Christ – “I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you.” (John 14:18). Jesus is speaking of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, not the season of sun that Canadians like me crave, yet somehow his words seem to fit on this day.
I plant a small seedling, nurtured over the last 6 weeks in my window. It will grow into a large tomato plant (I hope), but for now it is only a beginning. Again that reminds me of the Gospel of John with its beautiful opening that echoes Genesis 1: “In the beginning…”.
The seed began in the cool darkness of soil but now has been drawn into light. Darkness and light both provide growth. Like winter and spring. Like death and resurrection. I find myself thinking that it is interesting that, while God provides light, God does not get rid of darkness.
Winter still comes, and night, and death. But so does spring, and day, and resurrection.
It helps me to remember this when struggling with the stresses and challenges that life brings. There will be light. There will be goodness. And with the Advocate we will not be alone. But really growing will require some gardening on our part, some digging down into the soil of our souls, some watering of the seeds of love that God has planted in all of us, some recognition that the light of God shines in others as well.
We are called to light, to life, to love. Happy long weekend!
Sunday, April 30, 2017
On the road to Emmaus, the pain too was severe, unspeakable, crippling. And the loneliness, the loneliness. Fleeing in fear a world devoid of the one who should have been God, who promised, who tried, who died.
On the road to Jericho, footsteps approached, a voice spoke, and gentle hands reached out, unexpected, and brought salvation.
And they went together.
On the road to Emmaus, footsteps approached, a voice spoke, and gentle hands reached out, unexpected, and brought salvation.
And they went together.
Two stories. Two roads. One journey.
Picture from: https://www.pinterest.com/roxanne_eubank/emmaus/?lp=true
Sunday, April 2, 2017
Lent - the slow-down, the rhythm of peace, the deep searching, the rediscovering of the thirst and hunger for the divine, for something beyond the possible.
Lent begins with dust and ashes; the ashes of last year’s palms, the memory of dust of the Judean desert where for forty days Jesus rests his body, his head, his soul and for forty nights contemplates the stardust of a brilliant night sky only truly seen above a barren desert.
Lent calls us to step back for awhile so we may step forward more wisely. Long after the desert sojourn, Jesus reconnects to wilderness during the dark moments of his ministry. He spends his nights on hills when he needs to get away, like the Mount of Olives, always a place of peace. Only during the day does he connect with the crowds and all the strife humanity brings. Only during the day does he endure the Temple with all its crowds and rules.
There comes a day when, having spent the night on the Mount of Olives, Jesus comes to the temple to be confronted by a frightening crowd of men (John 8:1-11). They drag a woman before him, caught in adultery. They challenge him, calling for her stoning according to the Law. The woman is a pawn. They know if Jesus says the Law is wrong he will be discredited as a teacher of Judaism. They know that if he betrays all his teachings on compassion he will be branded a hypocrite. They know, and he knows. So he reaches down, down to the dust at all their feet, down to the dust of the divine, of earth and eternity. And he begins to write.
His written words are lost, but his action of reaching into the dust to write remains. And while he writes he speaks, “Let he who is without sin throw the first stone.”
We can imagine the stunned silence. We can imagine the stones dropping from the hands of those who suddenly remember they are not sinless. We can imagine the dull thud of rock on soil and the sound of the footsteps walking away, leaving only dust behind.
Then and only then does Jesus look up, into the eyes of the only one who remains. The woman. She has a face, eyes, a past. And now a future. He sees her for the person she is. And he asks her, “Has no one condemned you?” When she answers, “No one” he says, “Then neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
Jesus is the only one who, being without sin, could condemn. Yet he shares only forgiveness and compassion. He teaches that the Law in all its condemnation exists only for the pure, of which there is only One. If Jesus does not condemn – if God does not condemn – who are we to judge? The Law is meant to guide toward compassion, toward love. When it fails it is the Law that gives way, not compassion. Like words in the dust, the Law is blown away by the winds of divine love.
Lent begins with peace, with reconnection, with dust. Lent reminds us of the dust of creation, of a world that belongs to God. For what is dust, but the remnant of all that has been before? Of mountains ground down, of palm leaves burned, of memories of long past days? And what is dust but the promise of all that is to come? Dust turned to cement to build, dust turned to fertilizer to grow, dust turned to paint to record, dust turned to possibility to create.
What is the dust of Lent but the space between yesterday and tomorrow? Dust, like Lent, builds a bridge between all that has been and all that will be. Dust, like Lent, holds promise, hope, faith, and the possibility of love. Dust, like Lent, invites us to follow Jesus and write our future in it.
May it be one of love.