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? 

27 To My Body

Oh, my. This chapter is so powerful in and of itself that my words will only get in the way. So I'll keep my comments brief. 

If you are someone who has had, is having, or know someone who has health problems, this chapter is for you. 

It's a love letter to your body. 

It starts out saying, "Sometimes, I hate you. You ache. You get tired sooner than I'd like to admit. You wake me in the night for no good reason. Your cells duplicate at unpredictable rates. New gray hairs and fine lines and silver stretch marks show up out of nowhere. You let me down just when I need you the most" (p 156). 

Further down the page, it says, "Yet here we are. This flesh and bone. These cages. These places of freedom and constraint" (p 156). 

It's beautiful and terrible, don't you think?  

These words - "This flesh and bone. These cages. These places of freedom and constraint." 

These bodies of ours - imperfect, flawed, beloved. 

With the passing of each day, our bodies bear the marks of time and love and grief and life, marks worn deep into our skin. "This is the beautiful, terrible evidence that we have lived" (p 158). 

Blessed are these imperfect, fragile bodies. This flesh and bone. These cells that sometimes duplicate for no reason whatsoever. This skin that is stitched together with scars and stretch marks and fine lines. 

Blessed is the body because it is a home. Not just for us, but for those who love us (p 159). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

At the end of "A Blessing for the Body" on page 159, she writes, "And sometimes you need to stand in front of the mirror and take off all your clothes, and remember that this body, your body, is God's home address." 

So that's my suggestion for today. Do that if you can. 

And if you can't, stand in front of the mirror and read Psalm 139 -- click here for Eugene Peterson's "The Message" version, which is dear to me. 

Here's a snippet: 

Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
    you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
    Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
    I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
    you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
    how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
    all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
    before I’d even lived one day.

26 Say Potato

"Say potato." 

That's clearly the most fun sentence I'll write all week! :-) 

Hopefully by now you've already read today's Good Enough chapter about the writer who joined Tinder, found herself caught in the monotony of small talk, and created her own version of the "Turing test" to expose the Tinder bots masquerading as real people. 

In the midst of the getting-to-know-you small talk, when she was suspicous of a bot, she would say, "If you're human, say 'potato.'" 

Here's the thing: "Bots don't have a programmed response for something so absurd" (p 153). 

Funny, right? But what does any of this have to do with anything, you ask? 

Well, remember the post from the other day about The Velveteen Rabbit and becoming real? That's what this is all about: the fact that AI (artificial intelligence) can only approximate human behavior to a point because humans are flawed and good enough, not perfect. 

"None of us is perfect, and somewhere in those imperfections we can be found" (p 153). I like that: we are found in our IMperfections. 

I find profound beauty in these words: "Maybe it's true that it hurts a little to become real and risk intimacy with a stranger who might become that friend we're looking for. Or we might be the one they need at that precise moment. Perhaps it is our real job to help one another become more real, one absurd question at a time" (p 153). 

Blessed are we, opening our hands in readiness to risk intimacy, to receive the gift of friendship and give it in return (p 154). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Remember this post and it's "A Good Enough Step" about letting your pen do the talking and naming what your soul wants to say to God? Well, if you haven't finished that yet (I'm pointing the finger at myself here), maybe circle back and work this into that. 

Or, follow the "A Good Enough Step" on p 158 and "Write a terrible poem about longing for a friend." One way or another, express the disappointment and longing growing inside of you in an attempt to name it and then let it go. 

25 Give Up Already

Jesus tells his disciples, "When you fast ..." 

Not "If you fast ..." 

Or "Consider trying a fast ..."  

Or "Maybe, someday, you might wonder about fasting on a strictly intellectual level ..." (p 146) 

It was assumed that fasting would be "a regular part of the Christian life" - a way of "setting aside comfort in order to pursue God" (p 146). 

"Fasting is simply giving up something for a time. ... It's not really meant to have any concrete benefit except the experience itself" (p 146). 

And somehow this act of giving up something for a time will lead to freedom. Or so Dietrich Bonhoeffer -- famous theologian, pacifist, and Hitler-assassination-attempter -- says. It doesn't seem like it should compute, but, as they say in the book, "... there is a strange liberation in letting things go" (p 146). 

My most recent experience of fasting is I suppose what you could call a "forced fast." 

It's now been over a year since I officially (or at least legally!) drove a car since, in the state of Ohio you can't drive for 6 months following a seizure, and I can't seem to go 6 months without having another one. 

And while I initially deeply lamented the loss of independence that goes along with not being able to drive when you live in a small town with no mass transit system, I am SO GLAD not to have to worry about a car anymore. I mean, it's still there with flat tires and a dead battery (yes, I do know that I shouldn't have let that happen, but that's not the point here), but, for now, I don't have to worry about strange noises or overdue oil changes or the number of lights lit up on the dashboard because who knows when I'm going to be able to drive again. 

I mentioned this newfound joy to a friend who was, of course, driving me somewhere: that maintaining a car is one of the things I dislike most in the world and that I'm glad not to have to worry about that right now. 

And you know what his reaction was? Jealousy! He too dislikes car maintenance and actually was envious of me because I don't have to do it during this forced fast. 

I am loving this "strange liberation" in letting this thing go. I do miss my freedom to run to the store when I need something, and my ability to drive for many hours at a time on a road trip with my sister who hates to drive. 

But even as I lost that freedom, I have gained many hours spent in the company of people I love as they cart me around from place to place. (And as we sit in my driveway chatting at the end of the journey - my favorite part!) 

More than anything else, it has loosened my "attachment" to doing things MY way at MY pace on MY schedule. Which is another "strange liberation." And that's a habit I hope will stick if/when I start driving again. 

I wholeheartedly agree with our authors when they write, on page 147, "... something quite lovely happens when we let go, when we live with less, when we give up something dear. Somehow, we make a little room for God to take up more space. And wherever God is, that's where we want to be." 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

What is your experience of fasting? Love it? Hate it? Never tried it? Did it lead to a strange liberation or just endless frustration? 

God, give me courage, give me strength, give me hunger for You. Let this set time of less be a chance for more of You. Let this fast be an entrance into the discernment I desire, the divine presence I'm longing for, and the hope to will what You will, oh God, to be who You've called me to be (p 148).