The Transfiguration

“This is my chosen Son; listen to him.”
After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. They fell silent and did not at that time tell anyone what they had seen.

(I found this image on the FB page of my friend and brother, Deacon Scott Dodge. I hope that he does not object to me using it here.)

Where Do The Days Go?

I just realized that I have not posted since Monday... The week rolled by so quickly.

It has been a crazy week... On Thursday I thought I felt something like a cold, lurking in my head or throat, by Friday it had begun to make itself manifest. Today I am down for the count. *sigh* Not what I wanted but what I've got.

This week really put me into a twist over health care. I do not have the energy to discuss it right now but I feel very angry and upset about it all.

Then the big earthquake in Chile, which will spawn tsunamis around the Pacific, God have mercy.  Pachamama is not so happy it seems and who can blame her?

Anyway, I have little to share on this day. I am headed back to bed, with a book, some tea and a few drugs. Let us see what happens.

Making My Way to the Reeds

The other day I had a long talk with someone about some things that were burdensome to me. The person gave me an image of letting go that was imbued with a sense of grace and hope.

The image was that of Moses' mother putting him in the basket and leaving him among the reeds. She knew that this was best and she had to just let him go and be in the care of God.

There are things that we can't toy with, adjust or fix. We just have to let them be, let them go, as it were.

I tend to suck at this, but you never know. There's always a first time.

In the meantime, I am down by the river's edge, making my way to the reeds.

The Roar of Silence

It is the First Sunday of Lent which reminds me of heading out on a hike and seeing the great expanse all around, feeling the sun on my skin and the enthusiasm in my heart for this journey. I am someone that always welcomes Lent.

Then of course, I get very, very tired. It is about pacing maybe, I'm not sure. Maybe I would be better off if I felt a bit more tempered at the start; this is a life issue for me.

Luke's Gospel paints a compelling portrait of Jesus and temptation. One thing that I love about this gospel is how Jesus engages with the the tempter - Satan.  Jesus neither yields nor flees, he just goes head-to-head and toe-to-toe with evil. It reminds me that as human beings in general, we all struggle with internal authority, which in my way of seeing things is about faith and connection to God. My inner authority is based on the presence of God in my life and directly related to my awareness of that at any moment.

No offense to anyone who feels triumphant in battling their temptations, but my own life has shown me that "willpower" is something that doesn't work for me. First of all, I almost never succeed with "willpower" and second of all, even if it seems I do, that makes it all about me and not about God.

For me, the rare times when I do triumph is when I am most connected to God. Not that I think it happens all that often. *sigh* No, it does not happen that often at all.

So to see Jesus be connected to what is right and to choose as he does is very edifying if I can stand to sit in silence with it for some time. Yes, I did say if I can stand to sit in silence with it.

Perhaps that is the greatest temptation, to not enter into the silence. That is where our demons reside it seems. The roaring silence can be deafening and terrifying. You may be thinking that I never shut up enough to know about this and you may be right. I do edge up to the chasm every now and then, usually during Lent, so I am not completely unfamiliar with it.

Jesus knows better, he headed out there for those 40 days to confront the truth that tells us that bread, power and testing God were no way to redemption. If that doesn't invite some thought about all of our lives, I don't know what will.

Into the Desert

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday and I must say that I had one of the best Ash Wednesdays ever. Aside from the non-stop phone calls at work in which all I really had to do was answer with, "9, noon and 6," I have really loved these few days.

My faith has been a gift for a long time - and make no mistake, faith is indeed a gift, and I am always grateful for it. That said, I have come to truly and deeply fall in love with God and God's people even more through my work.

There is so much crazy diversity in my world,  I do love it, even when it frustrates me to no end. And it pretty much frustrates me to no end all the time. I will write more about that another day however... today is a day for the desert.

Ash Wednesday is our invitation into the desert. I have always loved the desert, at least in my mind. In 1985 I went to Arizona for the first time (business trip) and Scottsdale was not the developed place that it is now. My co-worker and I went for a walk... in the middle of the day and the day was running at about 115 degrees farenheit. No, I am not kidding.

We were walking along the road and I was astounded by how many plants and how much life was present. I was also aware of how hot, drained and sick I felt. I did not want to say anything; I guess I did not want to look like a wimp.

In any case, a man came along in a shuttle bus that took people to a local shopping area, which was where we were headed. He was very kind and wanted to help us, he kept asking us to get in and we both protested. We were so hot and tired and eventually yielded to him. He brought us to the shopping area and urged us to get something to drink and to rest. We had iced tea and I can still taste it if I allow myself to drift back there. Iced tea has never tasted the same since, it can't be recreated. As it turned out, we had both felt ill while walking, but neither one of us would admit it until after the ride and the iced tea.

That is the desert for you - it makes you weak and you have to rely on someone for help and you are ashamed to let go and do so. It strips your facade, your ego away and introduces you to the dehydrated, weak and head-achey person that we don't want to admit to being. And Jesus is the kindly and persistent shuttle driver who wants to offer us a lift and some refreshment. And Jesus also knows that we have to be driven to the edge of desperation before we respond. He waits - it is not some cruel joke; it is clear that we are the ones who resist. He just waits. And waits. And waits.

Now I go into the desert differently. I still like the flowers and plants, the animals that scurry over rocky surfaces like phantoms that I can barely perceive. The baking-hot heat envelops me and at first it lulls me into a dream-like state. However, the dryness persists and the heat burns and my head begins to hurt and I need water and a lift.

It is then that I must traverse some sandy ground in which my every untruth is revealed. Ouch, my foot steps on the hot sand of my lies. Argghhhh, my other foot stumbles upon my anger. It is painful to encounter the sands of my indifference which rise up like a dune in the blazing sunlight.

Into the desert I go again, ashy head about to explode with an exquisite pain only known to those severely dehydrated. Each grain of sand mocks yet invites me. And tenderly I step out and into this hostile place that will help to redeem me.

Ash Wednesdsay 2010 - Lent Begins, Into the Desert We Journey

Lent arrives almost without announcement. It seems to just be here without warning, even though I have known it was coming. There are many practical reasons why I pay attention to Lent... my work at a parish, my ministries at St. Edward's are two. And then there is just my own rhythm of faith.

Yet - like so many things, suddenly, it is just here.

This year I am reminded of this vision... I am walking in a lush garden, filled with delight and as I round a bend, suddenly I am in the desert. The desert - seemingly barren, lifeless, looming and silent.

In the garden, I can hide in plain sight - obscured by overgrowth, color and sound. Out here, I am vulnerable with no place to make myself absent, no shelter, no shade.

I was just in a conversation with someone who said that they couldn't quite get their head around Lent yet and I replied, too rapidly as I often do. My words said this, there is nothing to get your head around, just breath and walk into the desert.

Who am I kidding? How does one do this?

Here are the readings for today, that should help. In the meantime, my spirit is going to want a big floppy hat, sunscreen and some dark glasses. I don't think I will be able to find anything like that out there... and that is probably a good thing.

Happy Mardi Gras, Fasching, Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday or whatever you call it...

Oh such memories of Tuesdays filled with God knows what. I have never been to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, although I have been to N'awlins plenty... But I have had more than one very Mardi Gras I can tell you.

One of my very, very best Fat Tuesday experiences was in Villingen-Schwenningen, a town in the Black Forest region of Germany. It was crazy and so much fun - the photos tell the story!

Then, like some cruel game of musical chairs  - the party stops.

It is Lent. No place to sit.

Today we are in a lush, colorful land, filled with sparkly objects and noise. It is filled with shiny things that delight and distract me.

Tomorrow I shall round a bend into the desert, stark, looming and so silent. It seems dead, but I know that it is filled with life. The silence is a reminder of all the sound within me. That sound asks to be made still. This is easier said than done.

I like what Anne Lamott says about the desert in Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith:

"Father Tom loves the desert. A number of my friends do. They love the skies that pull you into infinity, like the ocean. The love the silence, and how, if you listen long enough, the pulse of the desert begins to sound like the noise your finger makes when you run it around the rim of a crystal glass. The love the scary beauty - snakes, lizards, scorpions, the kestrels and hawks. The love the mosaics of water-swashed pebbles on the desert floor, small rocks that cast huge shadows, a shoot of vegetation here, a wildflower there."

I know that I do love the desert. New Mexico. Arizona. Nevada. Texas. California. Israel. Jordan. I have never been in a desert that I did not love, a desert that - in its barrenness did not somehow fill me, but fill me differently.

The desert fills me with my own emptiness to ponder and pray with. That is Lent, for me.

Here are some of my own desert images...

The desert at Petra, Jordan, taken by me in July 2006.

Here is the desert at Wadi Rum, Jordan, taken by me, earlier that same day.

 And here is Arizona... the silence is remarkable at the Grand Canyon.

Lent Approaches - Rolling Away the Stone

Lent begins on Wednesday - I have already posted about this once and talked about approaches to Lenten practices.

Today I was in a phone conversation with someone who was struggling about what to "do" for Lent. That in an of itself is a conversation about "doing," "being" and "becoming." That is a conversation for another day it seems.

When we were speaking I was struck with the thought that we journey towards Easter at Lent. And at Easter we are called to a tomb in which the stone has been rolled away and we learn that Jesus has Risen.

So perhaps to enter into Lent we need to consider just what it will take to get that stone rolled away when the time comes?

It is just a thought... what do you think? And please share what your Lenten practices be, if you are willing.

(Speaking of willingness, would you consider writing a reflection for our Lenten pages that will start on Wednesday? Please read here for more information!)

Lenten Practice and The Forgiveness Project

Lent is coming and I have been thinking about what my Lenten practice will be. I don't like to simply think of what I will "give up." A long time ago I had a spiritual director who urged me to think outside the "give up box." When I returned to church it was a little hard to take that part of Lent seriously... his advice has gone a long way, reframed in the context of true metanoia and transformation.

Today on Facebook, I posted that I might want to consider the unresolved business of my life for Lent. Relationships that are paralyzed - maybe they won't be saved, but they should be resolved. There are things, pretty major ones, that I have just not faced or dealt with head on, that need something. And of course, the secrets. The secrets are bad because they lead directly to lies. God, I hate saying that.

Ruminating on this today has lead me to think about forgiveness. As a culture and a society, we tend to oversimply and complicate forgiveness simultaneously. We either see things as non-negotiable unforgiveables or we do it in a way that does not walk through the valley of reconciliation death. That death walk generally needs to happen.

And forgiveness has as much to do with our ability to forgive ourselves as it does to forgive another.

In any event, I am reminded of some times, few as they are, when real transformational forgiveness happened in my life. I will write about that soon.

In the meantime, I would like to direct your attention to The Forgiveness Project. If you are not familiar with it, I would suggest that you have a look around. It is pretty profound - it is to me at any rate. I link to the page about Bud Welch; his daughter was killed in the Oklahoma City bombing and his story has always moved me.

What do you think about forgiveness?

Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes

I love St. Bernadette and I would love to go to Lourdes. Here is Fr. Jim Martin on Bernadette and Lourdes.

What is it to die well? Some thoughts on St. Scholastica, my friend Carol, living and dying well - all on a snowy February day.

I awoke today remembering that it was the feast day of St. Scholastica. Then I looked at my email and found these words of wisdom from the Henri Nouwen Society, entitled Dying Well. Subsequently I recalled that I was having a mass offered in memory of a woman I knew named Carol. She died a few months ago, a long, slow death from cancer.

Carol was a parishioner at the parish that I work at and I only met her in December 2008. She was a remarkable woman with a big, round moon of a face that showed her weariness but showed her presence and love much more profoundly. These matters are of course connected - weariness and love. With her soft, soft voice she would enter the office and begin speaking to me in Polish. I know about 5 words in Polish, but that did not deter Carol, who would carry on a whole conversation while filling me in with a few words of English.

I would sit at my desk and watch her with wonder and delight, the round softness of her face, the light in her eyes, her brilliant smile and the ever-present turban that reminded us all of her cancer. It was the only reminder; she was ever bubbling over with life and spirit in her words and presence, even through this weariness that manifested itself as a light also, just perhaps slightly more dim.

Carol often spoke to me about her brother, a very erudite man who is a Catholic priest in another part of the country. If I were to publish his name, you could easily google it and learn about him. He is a scholar, a teacher and a writer. Carol was very dedicated to him.

Over the months Carol would dip down and come close to death. She would often call me from the hospital to say hello and give me an update. She knew exactly what was happening and I never heard or saw fear in her. She had a rich quality that combined deep and ancient wisdom with a childlike wonder. And Carol had no fear about meeting the God she adored.

It seemed that Carol might never die - a hopeful thought for those who knew her. Yet that was not to be the case. She kept dancing with death, but with a bit of a polka beat, as her Polish heritage dictated. Carol neither rushed towards nor avoided her death in my experience, she was in relationship with her life through her relationship with God and God's people. It is utterly impossible to live well without being able to have some insight that this also means to die well.

That is pretty much the essence of Jesus' life and death and also of our Christian faith. This is not static, this is not a strictly here or there proposition, but rather a dynamic. It is organic and alive - living and dying are elements of something much larger.

The time finally came, Carol was slowly going home to God. Her brother came to town and stayed for awhile, but God was not yet ready and Carol lived on a short while longer, maybe a week, with no further signs of active death.

It was in these days that I began to learn more about Carol's brother and I learned that in a book he wrote, he dedicated it to "his Scholastica."

The day came and we all wept. Carol was only in my life for less than a year, but she touched me deeply. The entire community came together and wept and wept.

Carol lived with intention and she died with intention. It was a gift to behold.

Today I remember Carol as I reflect on Saint Scholastica and on dying well. I am not sure how this is done, this dying - or living - well. I do know that I long to do both in their right time.

Rest in peace dear Carol. St. Scholastica, please pray for us.

(Our great friend Padre Mickey has some fine words for the Feast over at his place today.)

Fall On Me

Yeah- I'm still here. Not much to say right now. Well, lots to say, not enough time or the right words.

I love this song; it reminds me of particular days gone by. And I was inspired by the REM-iest of them all, Beth Coffey, on Facebook.