Voices in the Wilderness Calling Us Home

Where's your wilderness?

 

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Advent. A video of the sermon may be found by clicking here. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following:

Malachi 3:1-4

Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

Canticle 4 or 16

 

©2024 The Rev. Seth Olson

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

Today’s readings transport us into the wilderness, both literal and metaphorical. Out there, voices are calling us to repentance, preparation, and ultimately, to come home. The Song of Zechariah, Malachi's prophecy, Paul’s joyful thanksgiving, and Luke’s depiction of John the Baptist, all draw our attention to God’s presence unfolding in the world, breaking into the silence, and transforming our lives. Observing the richness of these things taking place within today’s powerful lessons, invites us to also journey into wilderness to listen deeply to voices crying, trusting that they hold an Advent message for us as we await Christ’s coming past, present, and yet to come.

In Malachi, we heard the promise of a messenger preparing the way. This path of refinement and purification imitates fire trying metal. Thus, walking this way is rarely comfortable, much like the wilderness can be. However, whenever we do take Christ’s way of love, God transforms our hearts and lives. Malachi pointed to this metamorphosis as he prophesied about Jesus’ forerunner, John the Baptizer. 

 

When John, the prophet of the Most High God, emerged in Luke’s Gospel, he cut a surprising figure. He was not dressed in priestly robes or seated in places of honor instead choosing to wear camel’s hair and to locate himself outside the confines of the religious structure of that day. John was a voice crying out in the wilderness, fulfilling the words of Isaiah: “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

 

You might be wondering, why did this voice have to cry out in the wilderness, as opposed to civilization? The wilderness stands out as both a physical and spiritual place of preparation. In the wild we leave behind distractions, comforts, and pretenses. It is where Zechariah (John the Baptist’s father) was silenced, forced to listen and reflect during Elizabeth’s pregnancy. It is where John heard the word of God, not in the bustling city of Jerusalem but in the stillness of the desert. The wilderness is where God strips away the noise of the world to speak directly to our hearts. 

 

Prioritizing times to journey into the wild also helps us to hear God’s still small voice more clearly. When we do, we might be surprised by what God is saying, much like the way that God surprisingly spoke to a wild preacher’s kid instead of the powerful political figures of First Century Israel.

You may have noticed that Luke’s Gospel account situated John’s ministry within the context of influential figures—Emperor Tiberius, Governor Pilate, ruler Herod, and high priests Annas and Caiaphas. Yet, the word of God bypassed all these prominent men to land upon John, the son of an aging priest and a mother who once carried a promise too good to be true. As outlandish as it sounds, God often chooses the unlikely, the overlooked, and the unexpected to carry out divine purposes. I’ve heard it phrased this way: God does not call the qualified, God qualifies the called.

 

This pattern continues today. God often bypasses the powerful to speak to the lowly. Who are the voices in our wilderness calling us to repentance and transformation? Is it a child asking us to care for creation? A stranger reminding us of our shared humanity? God is trying to speak to us, but are we making the time to listen? The Advent season invites us to listen for those unexpected voices that echo John’s call to prepare the way of the Lord.

Now John’s call of preparation was simple yet profound: “Repent, for the forgiveness of sins.” Repentance, often misunderstood, is not about punishment or shame but turning back to God. The Greek word here is metanoia and it means a transformative change of heart and mind. It is a turning away from distortion of relationship and toward healthy relationships with God, Creation, neighbor, and self. 

 

This metanoia is about recognizing the crooked paths in our lives and seeing how God can use them, straightening them, so that even our mistakes are steppingstones on the pathway towards God’s grace. This way through the wilderness then is about coming home to the One who waits with open arms, like the Father in the parable of the Prodigal Son(s) sometimes also known as the parable of the Loving Father, which we find elsewhere in Luke. 

 

Truly this theme of returning home saturates Luke’s telling of the Good News, like in these words from the Song of Zechariah: “In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Advent encourages us to remember that God’s light breaks into even the darkest places, guiding us back to peace, hope, and restoration. Perhaps that is why it feels like such a fitting season for this time of year when we recall the light of Christ coming to us when the natural world in the Northern Hemisphere is so bleak.

The implication of these readings appears clear enough—go to the wilderness to listen for God’s voice which calls us to return home to God. But, if your life is anything like mine, you might struggle with the following question: Where is my wilderness? It does not necessarily mean a desert or a forest; it might be a quiet morning with scripture, a long drive with the sound off, or a moment of stillness after the kids are asleep. The wilderness can be any place where we step away from the noise of the world to hear God’s voice calling us home. Sure, it could be out in the woods, on top of a mountain, or upon a sandy shore; however, it could also be at your kitchen table, on your sofa, or back porch.

 

This Advent, may we each find our wilderness. May God grant us time and space for silence and reflection. May we utilize those sacred gifts to listen for the voice that calls us to prepare, repent, and return home. In a world full of distractions, this is no small task, but it is in these quiet places that God speaks most clearly and we can hear God’s voice most loudly.

As we prepare for Christ’s coming, let us remember the voices in the wilderness that call us to transformation. Let us heed their message of repentance, not with fear but with hope, knowing that God’s forgiveness and grace await us. And let us prepare the way of the Lord, not just in our hearts but in our actions, making the crooked paths straight and the rough places smooth.

 

And may we, like John the Baptist, be voices in the wilderness, calling others to the peace and salvation of God. May we like Zechariah, find our tongues loosed, proclaiming the tender compassion of our God who shines light into every darkness and guides us all home. Amen.

 

Testing, Failing, and Welcoming

  

How do we continue to trust God even through failures? Read on...

 

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Romans 5:12-19

Matthew 4:1-11

Psalm 32

 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2023

 

Holy Trinity, One God, let my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am grateful and my family is grateful for paternity leave, which gifted me with precious time getting to welcome Lucia Rose Olson as she transitioned to this world.  

While I was not working officially as a priest and instead as a parent, I gained some insights: parenting multiple children is harder than one child, stay-at-home parenting is no joke, and retailers can charge whatever they want when selling things related to babies—the same goes for weddings. I also remembered an idea I had previously had that will at first sound like an non sequitur: it would be helpful to have an average person competing against pro athletes, like at the Olympics. Wouldn’t that be useful to the spectator to see average Jane or average Joe competing against Patrick Mahomes, Alex Morgan, or Leonel Messi?

Well, today’s Gospel made me think of that last insight again. Could any of us withstand what Jesus weathered in the wilderness? While Jesus’ spiritual fortitude is actually not the point of this message, it’s remarkable what Jesus overcame in facing the tempter—fasting for forty days and nights, denying sustenance, not testing God’s love for him, and resisting worldly power and prestige. Wow! But, if Jesus’ spiritual accomplishments in overcoming temptations is not the point, then what is?

We’ll get to the point in a bit. First let’s take a step back. Last week in church we heard the story of the Transfiguration, and in that passage Peter, James, and John heard God speak from a cloud. What did God say? Our Parent God said almost exactly what was spoken when John baptized Jesus: this is my son, the Beloved with whom I am well pleased. Except up that high mountain was added, “Listen to him!”

Today we jump back to right after Jesus’ baptism. Here it is worth us heeding the holy cloud’s command to listen to Jesus so that we can discern why his overcoming temptations impacts our lives—other than us thinking Jesus sure is good at overcoming temptations.

When we listen to this text for today what do we hear? Jesus, the beloved, was lead into the wilderness—not on his own accord, but by the Spirit. And, before you think the wilderness means a pleasant, nature retreat pause, for in these days, wilderness was where chaos and hardship persisted. Jesus being Spirit-driven into challenge sounds different than prosperity-gospel-peddlers who promise ultimate blessings upon baptism. Jesus instead faced hardship after hardship once emerging from the Jordan.

While these challenges were all different, at the core of these temptations though was a single question: To what extent are you going to trust in God? Which brings us to the point of this passage, not just for Jesus, but for us too. Bidden or unbidden, God remains faithfully present in our lives—God’s love never stops, never ends, never faulters—and our beautifully challenging work is to receive that grace, then mimic God’s faithfulness and love despite what challenges we face, just like Jesus modeled for us.

Thankfully, it is not a competition, but rather a journey of cooperation. For, if I were placed alongside Jesus in an overcoming-temptation contest, it would show just how self-centered I am and how self-sufficient I try to be. I’m not alone though. Recently I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe with Teddy, my five-year-old. Do you remember this story? In it, a character named Edmund faces very similar temptations to Jesus, and his failings informed me that I’m not alone in my ability to fail!

If it’s been awhile since you’ve read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the tale takes place in England during the Second World War, for their safety four siblings (Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy) are shipped to the country to live with an eccentric professor. In the professor’s large estate, Lucy, then Edmund, then the others stumble into a magical world called Narnia via an old, stately wardrobe in the spare room. Many lessons can be exhumed from this classic story—about the mysterious nature of God; about how purity, valor, and truthfulness are virtues worth pursuing; and about God’s wild and fierce nature! Sadly, what I noticed upon this rereading of the story was that despite my protestations as a child, “I am a lot like Edmund,” (the angsty, bratty, and childish younger brother in the story)—I really am like him.

Edmund, like Jesus, faced temptations. Unlike Jesus, Edmund failed. Instead of the devil, he faced Jadis the White Witch who spellbound the whole of Narnia such that it was always winter but never Christmas—boo! Instead of bread, Edmund was offered Turkish delights—he took them. Instead of being almost thrown off the Temple, he did throw himself into the clutches of the witch—putting Aslan, the Christ character, to the test. Instead of power over all kingdoms, Edmund was wooed simply by power over his older brother Peter. Edmund failed and failed and failed again. As a child I may not have succumbed to the same temptations, but upon further reflection I acted like Edmund more than I cared to admit.

What I am starting to see now—with the gift of failures and hindsight—is that temptations come in many shapes, sizes, and disguises. Quite often, like Edmund, I fail and fail and fail again.

Don’t I often seek sustenance not from a stone-turned-bread, but from things that destroy the earth? This year’s All Saints-wide Lenten practice of Creation Care reminds me that all those plastics that wrap my foods, all the food I throw out, and all the resources I waste rob the planet and future generations of vitality and life. The Turkish delights caused less harm than this!

Also, don’t I put God to the test when I pray for and then expect specific outcomes? Even when it’s asking for good things for those in need, if I am not yearning for, thy will to be done, when these prayers do not come to fruition I am more weary to trust in God’s unwavering faithfulness and presence in my life!

Finally, don’t I want power and control, so things go my way? This yearning can be idolatrous, as I put myself in God’s place. Worship—as in what we give worth to in our lives—is not meant to be a self-centered exercise, rather it is meant to decentralize our egos, such that we become entuned with how we can best serve God through loving our neighbors as ourselves and as God wants. A byproduct of this temptation is that I place my happiness in the results and outcomes of life, instead of learning that whether in the valley of failure or on the mountaintop of victory my task is not the result, but to trust ever deeper in the Divine One who walks with me—who walks with all of us always.

If we listen to the beloved Son of God, what lay at the heart of Jesus’ challenges was a question: will you trust in God? Will you trust in God, even when you are hungry? Will you put the trustworthiness of God to the test when things go from challenging to life-threatening? Will you trust in God even if power and prestige and control are offered?

Jesus, fully divine and fully human, overcame all these challenges not simply by floating through them via some divine, easy button. He made it through this exhausting encounter by relying upon God. When offered bread, he relied on God’s Word. When the Devil misquoted Holy Scripture tempting Jesus to test God, Jesus relied upon his deep faith in the Father. When the tempter offered power and control over all the kingdoms of the world if Jesus would but worship the Devil, Jesus trusted in the God of not just worldly powers but infinite power.

So, if the point is that God is faithful and loving always, and Jesus models a faithful response in the face of temptation, what is the implication for us? To trust God. We might wonder how we trust in God. There are a multitude of ways to deepen our faith. I really like Brad’s suggestion—posted on Facebook—that one should ask a friend or beloved to prescribe not a vindictive but a helpful Lenten practice that will grow one’s trust in God. Still even when we mess up, even when we fall short, like an average person versus a pro athlete, even when we fail harder than Edmund in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, God remains faithful—continuing to trust us.

I want to offer a challenging prayer, which has helped me to deepen my trust in God, as I slowly relinquish temptations in this life. It’s called the “Welcoming Prayer” and it is attributed to the late, contemplative giant Father Thomas Keating. Let us pray.

Welcome, welcome, welcome. I welcome everything that comes to me today because I know it’s for my healing. I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions. I let go of my desire for power and control. I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval, and pleasure. I let go of my desire for survival and security. I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person, or myself. I open to the love and presence of God and God’s healing action within. Amen.

 

Embrace the Dark

This sermon was preached on the Feast Day of Saint Juan de la Cruz (John of the Cross), mystic and monastic. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following:

Song of Solomon 3:1–4

Psalm 121

John 16:12–15,25–28

Our first lesson from the Song of Solomon bears repeating:

“Upon my bed at night 

I sought him whom my soul loves; 

I sought him, but found him not; 

I called him, but he gave no answer. 

“I will rise now and go about the city, 

in the streets and in the squares; 

I will seek him whom my soul loves.” 

I sought him, but found him not. 

The sentinels found me, 

as they went about in the city. 

“Have you seen him whom my soul loves?” 

Scarcely had I passed them, when I found him whom my soul loves. 

I held him, and would not let him go 

until I brought him into my mother’s house, 

and into the chamber of her that conceived me. 

The Song of Solomon, as you may recall, stands out in the Hebrew Bible. In truth, it is unique in all our Holy Scripture. Love poetry, often erotic in nature, is not standard fare elsewhere in “The Good Book.” So, why read such provocative words? Because these words that we heard today describe so precisely, succinctly, and perfectly the spiritual journey of those Christian seekers called mystics. One of those mystics we celebrate today—I’ll get to him in a moment. But, right now I want to make a case for us all to become Christian mystics.

Often times, even in the Church, mystics get painted as looneys, dreamers, or at the very least unlike us normal folk. However, most of us who yearn for a closer relationship with Christ would love nothing more than to have a mystical experience with Our Divine Lord. So what gives? Why are we so weary of mystical experiences with God? And, what do these poetic words from the Song of Solomon have to do with becoming a mystic?

Let us start with the Scripture, as this passage portrays for us a roadmap to having an encounter with the Divine. This story depicts one lover in search of another. Now, some might argue that this story is about God searching for us, but I believe it outlines our search for God. We want God—sometimes we think we want something else, but truly behind all our desires is intimacy with the Lover of Our Souls. Sometimes though, we feel like God is not with us—even if God is always there.

Still, we go searching. If we do not find God close by, then we must go out in search for “him whom [our souls] love.” What if we do not sense God even in our own household? What if we miss God in the routine experiences of day-to-day life? Where do we go to find God? Well, like the lover in the Song of Solomon, we must search beyond just our bed and our own home. This searching though presents obstacles.

In this passage we discover that one lover must overcome sleepiness, darkness, and even guards to find the beloved and to go home. This struggle is our roadmap to finding God as Christian seekers. We aim to experience God’s presence. And, despite God’s infinite nearness, sometimes to get beyond our own doubts we must tiredly search in the darkness. There God invites us to relinquish thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions that distract us from intimacy with Our Great Beloved. There we find our home where we dwell with God. The saint whom we celebrate today modeled this mystical journey for us.

Now, we might not even have that saint’s words were it not for something that happened long after his death. Juan de la Cruz, or John of the Cross, is the person the Church celebrates today. He served as a strict Carmelite priest and monk in the 16th Century. More on his life shortly, but after his death Pope Benedict XIII made John a saint in the early 18th Century. This was lovely, but his life was quickly forgotten except for by some Carmelites. It was thanks to Pope Pius XI that we have been given the treasures of John’s journey as a mystical. In 1926 Pius XI made John of the Cross a Doctor of the Church, thus his example and writings were given new life. It was then that we in the English speaking world were given a taste of this mystic Christian’s example.

The life of John of the Cross looked very much like this bit from the Song of Solomon and it outlined a journey that we might take. When John became a Carmelite brother he felt that the order needed some reform, as it had become too relaxed. This was a lover in search of his beloved. However, on his pursuit to finding God and reforming the order, he was confronted with sentinels and darkness. The sentinels came in the form of other Carmelites who did not want reform and thus locked him up in Toledo (Holy Toledo!). Within the trying months in jail John encountered darkness. He was persecuted. His spirit was tried. It was there that he composed some of his most profound mystical writing. And through this darkness he even found his beloved, like the lover in the Scripture.

John of the Cross helped us to understand that darkness is not the opposite of God or something merely to be overcome. Instead as we experience the “dark night of the soul” (a phrase coined by John) we discover that God’s presence can be found in illuminating and challenging darkness, just as it is in overwhelming and inspiring brightness. Other saints of the Church including Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Teresa of Avila (who was John’s contemporary), Thomas Merton, and the recently deceased Thomas Keating all endorse this mystical model of “endarkenment” or embracing the dark night of the soul. Each of these holy ones had moments when they were persecuted, lost, or disenchanted with their Christian journey, such that they found God not in the usual places of light, but in Celestial Darkness.

During this season when we remember Christ’s coming in Jesus of Nazareth and look forward to Christ’s coming at the end, may we also wait and watch in the darkness for Christ’s coming now. With fewer and fewer hours of brightness from the sun each day and with the challenges of our own lives, may we recognize that God’s presence shines luminously even as that around us appears dazzlingly dark. May we be like the lover in the Song of Solomon, desperately seeking our beloved even through weariness, sentinels, and other challenges. May we be like John of the Cross who experienced intimacy with the Great Beloved by embracing the dark night of the soul. Amen.

Welcome, Welcome, Welcome

Yesterday, I overheard a parishioner who pays very close attention to the weather saying, “We got four inches of rain last week. That was more than we did all last summer.” Over the weekend tropical storm Cindy brought significant rain and serious winds through the Tennessee Valley, as well as most of the Southeast. What I noticed more than usual in regards to weather was how this storm, which made landfall in Texas, brought with it the climate of the humid coastline there. I walked outside on Friday and thought I was in muggy Houston, then hurriedly ran back inside. Welcoming the climate of somewhere else felt hard.

On the other hand, waking up this morning—after storms had all passed by the Decatur area—and taking a walk I could not help but smile. The weather could not be better, as the weekend's storm pushed both heat and humidity away for a couple days. Quite easily I accepted how it felt outside. Isn’t it strange that even with forces like the weather that are neutral—I mean apolitical, amoral, and without opinion—we can deem some of it good, while we call some of it bad? Imagine what we do with things that we do view as political, moralistic, opinionated, or religious! In other words, we are bad at welcoming almost all change in life, even though change is the substance of life.

The Gospel text for this coming Sunday stands out as surprisingly shorter than many in this Season after Pentecost in Year A. It is only two verses long! Perhaps the framers of the Revised Common Lectionary did this so we would focus on the word that is repeated over and over again: welcome. Welcome appears six times in two verses, and really the idea of welcoming pervades every word within this teaching. Jesus cannot seem to stress enough his desire for the hearer to welcome!

In Matthew 10:40-42 Jesus challenges us to welcome one another, him, the one who sent him, prophets, righteous people, and disciples. Truly, this was a starting point, as Jesus want us to expand that welcome even more. Unsurprisingly when I hear the word welcome I cannot help but recall a prayer attributed to Fr. Thomas Keating called—you guessed it—“The Welcoming Prayer.”

The prayer reads as follows:

“Welcome, welcome, welcome. I welcome everything that comes to me today because I know it’s for my healing. I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions. I let go of my desire for power and control. I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval, and pleasure. I let go of my desire for survival or security. I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person, or myself. I open to the love and presence of God and His healing action within.”

This prayer is radical. No, I do not mean this in the Ninja Turtle sense, like bodacious or awesome! I mean that what Keating proposes requires us to radically shift our priorities, our vision, and our lives. If I say the above words and mean them, then I believe something different as I welcome even those difficult changes that come my way. The challenge is hearing this prayer not as a self-help mantra, but as the invitation that it is to allow God to be present within us, to heal us, and to act in our lives.

When we open up to and welcome what is happening by the hand of God we discover something far beyond our own desires and even our imaginations. Our lives at this very moment are woven intricately together in a vast web with each of our strands coming together to form the quilt that is Life. While we may think that we have control over a vast swath of what is happening, the truth is that this Life is brought together by the force within, between, and beyond, which we often call God. Before believing that we are merely bystanders to our own life let me add one more element.

The Welcoming Prayer coupled with Jesus’ teaching on welcoming pushes me to believe that what God yearns for is a co-creative dance that opens us up to Life flowing within, between, and among us. This is not easy. We are taught especially in American culture to be independent, in control, and in charge of our lives. We take on the mantra of Frank Sinatra, as we want to say, “I did it my way.” And yet, that is not how life in Christ and this welcoming of God’s weaving works. A final helpful analogy comes to mind.

We may not have control over all things in our lives. Instead we may just be like a hand. For a hand to receive something it must be open. For a hand to give something it must be open. Often though what we want is to hold onto something—a moment, a time in life, a prized possession, how we see the world, the way we have always done things, etc.—and so we close the hand thinking this will stop life from continuing or change from happening. Perhaps, for a time things keep on going as they have, but nothing new comes in and we cannot pass along those things that we hold so valuable. Eventually the hand becomes a clinched fist that is ready to fight, as it feels the fearful myth of scarcity. Those gifts clinched within the fist are not passed on to others and so others find them strange and antiquated. Without the openness to both give and receive the hand is nearly useless.

This week I invite us to let the clinched fists go. Hear Jesus’ words of welcoming. Live into the radical nature of the welcoming prayer. Open our hands in love to serve others and receive from those with whom we serve. Allow our lives to become a co-created tapestry in which God weaves together all of Life.

Change

An instant that is all it takes. “For what?” you ask. To change the world.

Today we celebrate the life of the Rev. Thomas Bray who came over to the colony of Maryland (the land of Queen Mary) in 1696. In the blink of an eye, just ten weeks, he changed the structure of their churches, opened new schools, started a lending library program, developed a discernment process for raising up local pastors, and renewed the spirit within the entire missionary territory. While we remember him most notably for beginning a missionary support network, the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, and an educational and publishing program, the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, both of which still function today, his two and half months in America provoke a humbling question to ponder: how do we work with God to transform the world? How can we be like Thomas and like those disciples in Luke’s Gospel lesson?

A great story within the contemplative branch of Christianity exists that just might help us to answer this question. A long, long time ago, in a galaxy country far, far away lived a man. This man was an ordinary fellow. However, he had an extraordinary desire: to change the world. So, this man set out to do just that.

First, he went off as a young man to try and change the world. He traveled far and wide. He saw many sites of the ancient world, but after years of struggle he realized that kings and queens, armies and navies, bishops and priests, and all the powers that be have a hard time listening to the voice of one man. So, the man went back to his own country.

Once back in his home country he set out to change everything there. He worked tirelessly to influence the ruler of the land. He talked to those in the royal court, but they were too busy entertaining and scheming to take over the throne to listen to the voice of one man. So, the man went back to his own town.

In his own town the man went door-to-door to try to bring about change. He sought to care for those who were injured, poor, or otherwise needy. There he made some progress. However, when he tried to those in power within his city again he met resistance. The governor was too consumed with running the affairs of the land to hear the voice of one man. So, the man went back to his own home, which he had left as a young man.

As he caught his own reflection in pond near his home, he realized he was no longer a young man, but instead wore the face of someone much older. In all his travels, in all his work, and in all his challenges he had sought to change everything else, but sitting in his home he realized that what he had neglected to challenge and transform was himself. To change the world, one must start with oneself. A woman or man cannot change the world without first changing herself or himself.

We live in a world that has more problems than solutions. Poverty, famine, disease, racism, sexism, bigotry, violence, and fear sweep across our globe. We are in desperate need for change. God yearns for us to help remake the face of the earth, but to do so we have to start first with ourselves.

If you desire to be part of this change, if you want to be like Thomas Bray or the disciples, if you feel God tugging on your heart to bring Good News to those who most need it, do not first go out to change the world, your country, or even your city. Instead, start with yourself. Take a few moments today to stop. Turn off the TV, silence the phone, close the laptop, and find a quiet place to feel God moving within you. Allow God to first work on you, in your heart, then work outward from there. All of us are called to help God transform this world into a place of love. Changing the world may happen in an instant, but it is the instant when learn to be with God. All the doing must come later.

Magnificent Magnification

How does your soul magnify the Lord's presence in it?

I hardly remember anything from high school biology class. Perhaps this is due to the horror of dissecting frogs and the smell of formaldehyde that stuck with me for weeks, but I do recall enjoying using microscopes. On several occasions we had the task of identifying different parts of simple cells that had been placed on glass slides that we would put underneath the lens of the basic scope. With great pleasure I would shift the splices around until I could see the membrane walls, nucleus, cytoplasm, mitochondria, and of course the Golgi apparatus. Do not ask me what any of these parts are, as I really could not tell you, but I loved searching for them in ninth grade.

Oftentimes though as I was attempting to identify these particular parts of a basic cell I would move the slide such that it went beyond the sight of the microscope. Starring through the lenses I felt some disappointment as my eyes strained to see nothing there. A microscope serves no purpose at all if there is nothing to magnify.

A few years ago I was given a t-shirt that belonged to my grandfather. On one of his birthdays his family gave him this shirt, which features a picture of him on the front of it. In the picture he is holding up a magnifying glass to his teeth so that his smile appears much larger than usual. I can recall playing with that magnifying glass and doing the same trick he was doing in that picture. I also remember that if there was nothing at which to look the magnifying glass was pointless. Mary said, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” However, without God the story of Mary’s life and her soul appears blurry and without purpose, just like our own lives.

Most of the time I cannot begin to comprehend the Virgin Birth. It makes absolutely no sense from a reasoned, logical point of view. From the little I remember in biology class this is simply not how the birthing process happens. Part of me wants to say, “Other religions did this fantastic birth narrative thing, so Christians just wanted to do something similar.” And yet, if Mary’s ministry as the God-bearer happened without God, then her soul’s magnification would have been out of focus. We would not even remember her witness if it did not produce abundantly.

Mary’s life though was not just about the nine months in which she was the Theotokos (that is God bearer in Greek, and it is how the Greek Church refers to Mary). The earthly caretaker of Jesus the Christ walked alongside her son every step of his life. She cared for him when a child, she raised him up within her Faith Tradition, she pushed him to strive for greatness performing his first miracle at Cana, she did not rebuke him when Jesus said his disciples were his true family, and even when her own magnifying soul was pierced at Jesus’ death she remained faithful. I look at all of this and marvel. I also feel a little deflated, as though there is nothing in my own soul to be magnified. This is precisely the point though.

Our lives are not about what we accomplish. They are not about what we do or do not do on our own. They are not about the greatness that exists within our hearts (as all the Olympic commercials want to tell us), but rather as followers of Jesus our existence is about something else entirely. We, like Mary, are given the gift of magnification. What we magnify though is not something of our own creation alone, but instead what God creates with us within our souls.

There are countless ways to be microscopes and magnifying glasses for what God is doing within us. And, Mary shows us with her witness that it is not just about a fantastic moment when God comes to speak with us. Rather, to magnify we must do what Mary did “Ponder all these things in [our] hearts” (Luke 2:19). To amplify how God exists in our souls we must first be present enough within our own beings that we meet God in the home that is our hearts.

Hilda, Abbess of Whitby: Living Your Rule of Life

Today the Church celebrates Hilda of Whitby

Whether we know it or not, we are living life by a rule. This rule is sometimes hidden and at other times as clear as day. We consciously or unconsciously go about our days with this rule helping to make our decisions: guiding us in what we say, where we go, and how we act. As strange as this might sound we all have a Rule of Life, but Hilda whom we celebrate today presents us with a challenge. Instead of slogging through life unaware of the rule, Hilda’s witness as a saint of the Church, emerges as an example of how to live intentionally, so that God may fully bear Christ in us.

We will come back to the Rule of Life in a moment. First, let us go back in time. The Venerable Bede, the famous Church historian, wrote, “Hilda’s career falls into two equal parts,” as she spent thirty-three years in secular habit before dedicating the second half of her time on earth to monastic living. Now, before you tune out because monasticism seems ridiculous to those of us who live outside the walls of an abbey or monastery, let me pass along some wisdom that has changed how I view nuns and monks.

During the Reformation, when the Church Catholic underwent marvelous growth and tremendous splintering, a shift occurred that seems all but forgotten. The Protestants who were fed up with clericalism, the putting of clergy and monastics on a pedestal, finally had Holy Scripture that they could read in their own language and eventually books of prayer, so they could spend time with God at their own home. Many family members began to see their households as little monasteries. This seems to be a lost gift from the Reformation: we are invited to see our households as safe havens where our life in Christ is shaped as family and individual, then we are called to go forth to serve Christ in the world around us.

This vision where the home is the cloistered harbor of formation does not happen haphazardly. Just like in Hilda’s day when she founded the Abbey at Whitby a deliberate Rule of Life helps to guide how one lives, moves, and has one’s being. Interpreting a Rule of Life can be tricky, for it can diverge into legalism and earning God’s favor if we are not careful; however, we all live by rules whether we know it or not. The daily routines that we fall into are our unintentional rules. A Rule of Life therefore is not something to be maintained without grace, as much as it is a map and a guide to reveal that we are already home in God when we feel lost.  Now what Hilda’s witness asks us to do is to take on an intentional way of living within our own little monasteries, such that we clear away the clutter that distracts us from living the abundant life in Christ.

Hilda challenged those who came under her guidance to take on the virtues of “justice, devotion, chastity, peace, and charity” (Holy Women, Holy Men, 686). Everyone who met Hilda called her “mother” for she was that nurturing as a leader. Even when the Church in East Anglia struggled to bring together the Celtic and Roman branches of spirituality, she served as an example of obedience and reconciliation in the face of tension and division. Her life exemplifies an intentionality where our Rule of Life at home guides us to contemplative action in the world. What is your Rule of Life? How will you intentionally shape your life? God’s abundant grace reigns down at all times and in all places, search out a Rule of Life that helps us you to live the abundant life in Christ.