32 Gondola Prayers

Gosh, I think my favorite line of this chapter is this one:  

"We are praying to the God whose very sweetness has broken through to us" (p 185). 

I'm not sure that's a sentence that resonates with every believer in God. If the God you pray to is often angry and needs to be appeased by your prayers, this idea of sweetness probably feels foreign to you.

But if the God you pray to is a refuge or a peacemaker, loving like a father and/or a mother, then you know exactly what Kate and Jessica are talking about here when it comes to prayer. 

Prayer, which is ultimately a mystery.
Prayer, which sometimes God answers.
And sometimes doesn't. 
And sometimes we can't see or don't understand the answers. 
And sometimes answers in a way we didn't want or didn't expect. 

"In prayer," they write on page 186, "we are brought into the presence of God, whose eternal reality translated for us. We sense we were created because we are loved. Just that. We are not a means, but an end. And we are more whole, more alive, with a wellness that we didn't create through some transactional effort on our part." 

"The mystery of prayer is that we may never understand exactly how it works, just that it draws us into intimacy with a God who hears" (p 186). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Waiting is a necessary part of prayer. "To pray means we have to yield up space and time, and some of our darling preoccupations. For one hot minute there is a self-emptying that mirrors God's own" (p 186). 

Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it, and it is grace itself which makes this void. Simone Weil (p 188) 

Look at your life: is there maybe a void now that you could yield up to God in a time of prayer? 

31 Bottling Magic

Stop for a second and think about this: when did you give and receive the most love today? 

Or, if you're reading this first thing in the morning, when did you give and receive the most love yesterday? 

Take a few moments to really think about when you felt most alive, most full of joy, most yourself? 

What was that moment like? Did it feel like time stopped or slowed down? Was it simple? Was it sweet? Was it bittersweet? Who was there? Was it something you said/did or something they said/did? 

Once the moment passed, how did you feel in its aftermath - joyful? tired? sad? 

Did you even notice how wonderful that moment was as it unfolded or is it only now that you're looking at it in the rearview mirror that you see it for what it was? 

And just how tempted are/were you to try to hold on to that moment? To create it again, this time to capture it like magic in a bottle so that you'd never have to get it go? 

"When something is that good, the temptation," Kate and/or Jessica write, "is to keep it, hold it, bottle it, preserve it, and, if we're the entrepreneurial type, maybe even sell it. But often, those precious moments are fleeting. They are precious exactly because they are few and far between" (p 179). 

I'm not entirely sure I agree with that -- that precious moments are actually that few and far between. Frankly, I think they happen all the time but we're not often paying attention or actively looking for them. 

But I agree with the point that when these beautiful little moments happen -- even if it is in the wake of something terrible -- "we want to instrumentalize (remember that word from this post?) the moment. We want to stay there. When something is good, we want to build a fortress - move in and live there forever" (p 180), much like Peter wanted to build the three houses up on the mountain in the wake of Jesus' Transfiguration. (Here's that story in Eugene Peterson's "The Message" version of the Bible because I love it!) 

Can we make this moment last longer? (p 181) 

Nope. 

But we can "learn to see the signs, to feel the moments swell around us. We begin to see those brief periods as delicate, precious .... We can become more beautiful, more transcendent, as we learn to carry them with us, changed by the things we might never see again" (p 181). 

Blessed are we who recognize that spark, that glimmer of transcendence that feels ... otherworldly. Like points of light that converge to reveal a reality we can scarcely believe, yet somehow we remember in the depths of our souls. The sunrise that no picture can capture. The moment of clarity we can't exactly describe. It is a magic suffused with delight and goodness and beauty and joy. And we know it was You, oh God" (p 182) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Have you read the "A Good Enough Step" on page 183? It talks about making an Ebenezer. (Remember this line from the beloved hymn -- "Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by thine help I come"?) 

Why don't you try it? The next time you're outside, find a rock. Think the last time you felt the transcendence of God - write a word on the rock to remind you of that experience or attach a note to the rock, then put it somewhere you'll see it. 

"No, we can't bottle these moments, but we can be changed by them" (p 183). 

BONUS: Sometimes these moments of transcendence are intermingled with immanence. Sometimes you can only see something beautiful after something terrible. And sometimes it's the other way around. If you feel particularly drawn to this chapter, you may want to check out this additional reflection. 

30 Refuge

Ouch. This chapter hit home for me. 

"In an effort to save yourself (and others) from pain, sometimes you start to hit the mute button on your own life" (p 173). 

It doesn't start out as an intentional lie, that little phrase, "I'm fine!" usually accompanied with a cheerful smile.  

Now, for the record: a friend of mine taught me about "tiered responses" - how you don't have to tell every person who asks, "How are you?" how you really are feeling on the inside. Sometimes, "I'm fine!" is the right thing to say to a person you do not trust to handle your tender soul with care.

But sometimes - even with the right tier of people who WILL handle us tenderly - somehow it ends up becoming a lie because we don't want to bother others with our pain. Or suffering. Or confusion. 

Then what happens? "You don't feel nearly as entitled to the full spectrum of emotions - from joy to sorrow - that you wouldn't mind hearing from a loved one" (p 173). 

We shortchange ourselves. We stand in the way of our own healing by not admitting the beautiful, terrible reality of life as we experience it. 

Isn't it funny (in a terrible way, I mean) that we'll sacrifice almost anything for someone else, but can't imagine someone doing the same for us? So we start to tell lies instead when our life is shattered because we don't want to bother others with it. 

(We don't want to be "the bad thing" that reminds others that life is fragile and that bad things can happen to them too.) 

And then we start to feel guilty for lying. And then we think God will abandon us for our lack of faith. 

But Psalm 46:10 is just the assurance we need: "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging" (Psalm 46:1-3). 

When the world as we know it "has been upended, it is right there we can find shelter with God, our refuge. God is our safe place, not after the worst is over or before the other shoe drops. But right in the midst of our pain and grief and loss" (p 175). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious:

Have you ever tried the "A Good Enough Step" kind of prayer on p 178 using Psalm 46:10?  

It's one I use and have taught others. If you're looking for a simple prayer to give you words when you can't find them yourself (the Psalms are good for that kind of thing!), try using this grounding prayer and notice how, as the words drop away, so too (hopefully) will the burdens you are carrying. And maybe even the lies you've been telling yourself or others.  

29 The Burden of Love

"There is nothing we can do with suffering, except to suffer it," says C.S. Lewis in today's chapter from Good Enough. 

Kate and Jessica recount the story of his book A Grief Observed, an exploration of the experience of realizing he loved someone just as she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had only three years together. 

He writes of grief as leading one down deep ravines that descend in winding circles, bringing you to a normal space where you can breathe again only to be plunged into another ravine. And then suddenly, "it takes your hand and settles you silently into something like joy made holy - wordless, indefinable, more real than your memories somehow" (p 168). 

("Hello, Goodbye" talks about this same theme.) 

Grief, they write, is the burden of love. "It can't be defined or drawn, only suffered. But what must be said, what must be given, is the permission to feel it. All of it. Not as a state, but as a process. No one can tell you what that process must be for you, just now. So gently, gently, let is lead you through" (p 169). 

Blessed are you, dear heart, grieving that which feels irreplaceable. And you are right to think so. Don't let anyone place upon you any other truth, but know this utterly. 

Blessed are you under the burden of all that love. Because bearing it along with you is the faithful path for you to walk now. 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

"A Good Enough Step" (p 172) 

Go on a prayer walk. Let the prayers be spontaneous. Sit down and rest if you find a bench along the way. Hear the birds or cicadas or frogs. Listen as theirs songs become prayers. Add yours to the chorus." 

28 Mediocrity for the Win

Lately, I've been thinking about what life looks like when you have a "scarcity mindset." Both as individuals and as groups, like churches or boards or volunteer organizations. 

"Scarcity affects our thinking and feeling. Scarcity orients the mind automatically and powerfully toward unfulfilled needs. For example, food grabs the focus of the hungry. For the lonely person, scarcity may come in poverty of social isolation and a lack of companionship." (Read more here.) 

Groups often think they don't have enough to do the work that needs to be done. Not enough people. Not enough money. Not enough time. 

Individuals often think they'll never be good enough. Or smart enough. Or successful enough. Or happy enough. (That's a link to a previous chapter that ponders the same themes in today's chapter.) 

There's this neverending longing to be enough. To be perfect. To be able to do it all and to do it impressively well. 

The thing is ... we aren't ever going to be able to be all those things. Or do all those things. Maybe we'll look like it on the outside, but the insides will never match. It's part of being human. 

"If only we could trust that the giving of ourselves, with all our imperfections, has a value beyond rubies. We need a deep permission. Permission to ask for help. Permission to get better. Permission to fail" (p 163). 

In their "A Prayer for When You Feel Like You're Not Enough" on page 164, Jessica and Kate write, 

"There are cracks in everything, but You fill them with love. Fill me with Your divine presence that is entirely unimpressed by my attempts at perfection." 

And maybe this Leonard Cohen song flashed through your mind when you read that. (Remember when I preached a whole sermon series on that song?) 

But what immediately came to my mind is the Japanese art of kintsugi, in which broken pottery is repaired using powdered gold, platinum, or silver.  

Kintsugi pottery, as a philosophy, views shattering and restoration as a natural part of cracked pots’ history, instead of something which should be hidden. 

We all have cracks - individuals and groups. Why not fill them with love (instead of fear)? 

Blessed are we who see that intrinsic worth comes, not through our talents, but from You. Thank you for saving us from our own dreams of perfection. 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Look at this bowl. 

See the cracks in it. The imperfections. There's even a piece missing. Not every crack can be mended, I suppose, but the bowl is still beautiful.  

Imagine running your finger over the thin gold threads holding the broken pieces together, mending them. 

You may never be able to use this as a soup bowl again - because of the missing piece - but think of all the things it still can hold. 

On page 165, they describe the sacred rhythm or spiritual practice of "visio divina" - "divine seeing." Contemplating art - like looking at this picture - is a spiritual practice you can do anywhere. 

They write, "Let's try it. Pick an image. It can be art on your wall, or you can pull up something online, or head to a local art exhibit, or visit an outdoor mural. Settle in. Ask God to reveal God's self through the work of art. Rest your eyes on the image and drink it in for several minutes. How do you feel? If you are in this image, where are you? Are there words that arise from this practice? What is God showing you?" 

Why don't you try it?