Fishers of Men/The Strength of Fields

Some days, the right words come along and stun me into silence.  I'm headed out to read at church this morning, Psalm 62:5-12 and Mark 1:14-20.  The latter has always been one of my favorite passages--that we can become fishers of men.  I am not one for proselytizing or preaching on street corners; a person's road to God is his or her own personal business.  But I've always loved the notion that behind the fishers of men line, that if we are passionate and honest enough, we can unite people to our cause, give them a sense of their own power, infuse them with the light that shines in us.  I don't think that infusion has to be relegated to faith, though it's clear that was Mark's intention.  I think we can light ourselves as we light others, filling and refilling our own depleted souls through the sharing and telling of stories that brings people always always together.

And that sharing can give us purpose.  Today, James L. Dickey says it better than I ever could.

The Strength of Fields

BY JAMES L. DICKEY

... a separation from the world, a penetration to some source of power and a life-enhancing return ... 

Van Gennep: Rites de Passage 

Moth-force a small town always has,   

          Given the night.

                                           What field-forms can be,

         Outlying the small civic light-decisions over

               A man walking near home?

                                                         Men are not where he is   

      Exactly now, but they are around him    around him like the strength

Of fields.    The solar system floats on

    Above him in town-moths.

                                             Tell me, train-sound,

    With all your long-lost grief,

                                             what I can give.   

    Dear Lord of all the fields

                                             what am I going to do?

                                        Street-lights, blue-force and frail

As the homes of men, tell me how to do it    how

    To withdraw    how to penetrate and find the source   

      Of the power you always had

                                             light as a moth, and rising

       With the level and moonlit expansion

    Of the fields around, and the sleep of hoping men.

       You?    I?    What difference is there?    We can all be saved

       By a secret blooming. Now as I walk

The night    and you walk with me    we know simplicity   

   Is close to the source that sleeping men

       Search for in their home-deep beds.

       We know that the sun is away    we know that the sun can be conquered   

   By moths, in blue home-town air.

          The stars splinter, pointed and wild. The dead lie under

The pastures.    They look on and help.    Tell me, freight-train,

                            When there is no one else

   To hear. Tell me in a voice the sea

         Would have, if it had not a better one: as it lifts,

          Hundreds of miles away, its fumbling, deep-structured roar

               Like the profound, unstoppable craving

            Of nations for their wish.

                                                      Hunger, time and the moon:

         The moon lying on the brain

                                                    as on the excited sea    as on

          The strength of fields. Lord, let me shake   

         With purpose.    Wild hope can always spring   

         From tended strength.    Everything is in that.

            That and nothing but kindness.    More kindness, dear Lord

Of the renewing green.    That is where it all has to start:

         With the simplest things. More kindness will do nothing less

             Than save every sleeping one

             And night-walking one

         Of us.

                   My life belongs to the world. I will do what I can.

The Thread

This morning, at church, my pastor read a William Stafford poem to end his sermon.  He spoke on the nature of the relationship between God and ourselves, that we are called to hang on to the thread that connects us to God, that keeps us even and steady even in the midst of great suffering and storms.  


I have not always had an easy time feeling that thread.  I have always felt a pull to something greater than myself, but I spent some years in a state of serious doubt brought on by academia and personal trauma that seemed to be impossible if God truly existed.  But, then, the moment of faith came--the one that showed me nothing but prayer and belief was going to make me feel better--and I knew, deep in my bones, that my faith was one that belonged to me.  That it wasn't just a faith I was raised with or of my parents and grandparents, it was and is mine.  


I have a hard time with my faith, often wondering how the miracles God has worked in my life can be given that some of them seem in such direct opposition to biblical teachings, but I have never been one to take the Bible literally, and so I am working on it.  It is hard to love your neighbor as yourself when you struggle, on occasion, to do the latter.  It is hard to turn the other cheek when they've both been slapped so long, and it is hard to practice perfect love and compassion in a world so intent on revering fear and isolation.  


But, I am trying.  I am trying to hold on to the thread that connects me to God, to answer His call in my life, to have faith not only in Him but in myself and in the actions and words of those around me.  I am stuck, today, in a particular relationship that is not moving as I would like it to, but I need to let go of my attachment to the outcome and trust that--as He has seen fit to do so far--God will lead me where I am supposed to go.  Until then, I'll keep holding on to the thread.


The Way It Is, William Stafford


There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change.  But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

Church

I'm getting ready to head out to church this morning for the first time in, I think, about two months.  I have listened to the sermons online or on the radio each week, but I haven't been able to go.  In part, my reluctance has been because I hate sitting there alone, and in part it's because I have had some crises of faith over the last six months.

The being alone part...well...when I was growing up, even if my dad had been out playing with the band the night before and reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, even if his eyes were blood shot and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep, my mom hauled his ass out of bed and made him go to church with us. It was a family affair.  And the two churches we went to in Salina--First Christian and Belmont--were both the churches my grandparents went to, Grandma Olive (dad's mom) to the former, Nanny and Grandad (mom's folks) to the latter.  So, I associate church with family.

Or, when we moved and went to Falun Lutheran, it was for family but also for me.  I loved the husband and wife pastors there, her sermons were always relevant and made me think God was listening to and watching me.  I knew when I was there in that small country church that I wasn't alone.

But, in this big building, I feel alone a lot of the time.  I don't know many of my fellow congregants, and I joined by myself a few months after my divorce became final last year because I knew I needed a place to feel safe and I knew I needed to be in a space each week where God and I could find each other more readily than we do in the car, in the shower, in my classroom, at the grocery store (all places I pray).

My crises of faith over the last few months left me breathless.  I kept wondering how I could feel God so strongly and then events that I thought He had set in motion could fall so wildly apart.  Now I see that all the falling apart was steps along the road to His plan and I have to trust Him completely if I am to navigate the world in any meaningful way.

So, today, to church I go.  I'm announcing our fall play, The Laramie Project, and asking the congregation to support this message of hope in a difficult time.  It occurs to me that while I'm doing so, I'm also asking God to give me back my hope, to see me through the rest of my life, to help me practice love in the face of moments and obstacles that threaten to break me.

As long as I have faith, as long as I believe, I know I will be okay.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:18-19)

Resurrection

Mary Karr, a writer I devoured this summer like sour candy, sucking on it long enough to make my cheeks ache and then chomping on the last sticky words until I swallowed them, barely pausing to breathe before I reached for another puckery handful, was recently interviewed for the American, a Jesuit magazine. In the interview she talks about seeing God where and when she wants to see Him as opposed to the notion of seeing Him in all things. Much as I love her, and even though I get that sometimes we have to be ready for God to be able to see and hear Him, I disagree with her about not seeing Him everywhere.

Even when I'm not ready to acknowledge or talk with God, I am aware of His presence on earth and in my life. Even in the midst of all the fallout this summer, I still felt Him, but it has been very hard for me to go to church. When i decided to divorce, I attended a new church for the first time, one week after telling my then husband that I just couldn't do it any more. He went with me that day, to the Easter Service at Plymouth Congregational Church, and we heard the pastor speak of being Easter people. He asked the congregation to consider what resurrection was occurring in our lives: what was dying so that we may have new life?

I have thought of that sermon at least once a week since I first heard it, and have listened to it online a few times as well. There was a divinity in the message, a timeliness, a truth and application to my own life that could not have been anything other than God's own presence and voice.

I used to feel stupid talking about my faith. The academic in me, and the intellectual friends I have, have been known to scoff at such open declarations of faith in something many deem intangible. I have had several friends ask me for proof. That sermon, for me, is proof, just as the clacking and singing birds in my trees are proof, just as the sun setting over my yard is proof, just as you, dearest friend, are proof. The resurrection occurring each day in my life is my ability to be born each day in the light of love, to be certain that happiness is my birthright, and to be open to the presence of God in all things.

Descending Theology: The Resurrection, Mary Karr

From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in--black ice and blood ink--
till the hung flesh was empty. Lonely in that void
even for pain, he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse's core, the stone fist of his heart

Began to bang on the stiff chests door,
and breath spilled back into that battered shape. Now
it's your limbs he longs to flow into--
from the sunflower center in your chest
outward--as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.

From Sinners Welcome (HarperCollins, 2006)

Faith

Trying to let go of the need to control the universe is exhausting.  I spend half my day, it seems, trying to conform the world to my vision of how it should be rather than conforming myself to the reality of the world and that, according to GB Shaw, is a surefire sign that I am an irrational human being.  Pretty sure he's right.

Lately I've been asked to blindly trust that certain things are going to go well: finances, personal life, the health of loved ones.  As a woman of faith, I know there is a greater plan that has already decided these things, but as a woman of letters, I also wholeheartedly believe in the power of free will and so I am torn, most days, by the desire to trust and the fundamentally ingrained tendency to doubt and speculate.

I do not need proof of God to believe in Him, I feel His presence in my life and that is enough.  I see His acts and love in action in the world, and that is enough.  These things are, I suppose, my proof.  Where others see senseless acts of random kindness, I see God.  Where you might see a scientifically explainable situation, I say the science behind the situation is proof of something miraculous.

Albert Einstein said there were two ways of looking at the world: as if nothing is a miracle or as if everything is.  I am trying desperately to follow the latter.  But, as is the case of all fallible humans on this little blue planet, I trip up.  I get caught in the trap of wanting what I want right now, wanting my vision of the world to come true immediately, wanting the world, as aforementioned, to conform to me, even when I know such wants are ridiculous.

Troy Girsgonelle believes that being in love is chemical while loving someone is active, and not always pleasant.  That to truly love someone we must be willing to sacrifice our wants for the sake of what it is they need in the moment.  While it is easy for me to follow this logic in terms of those I love--I will always and without hesitation sacrifice for them, it is the right way and only way for me to behave (no judgment if you disagree, it's not for everyone--but I've been thinking a lot about how this applies to loving ourselves.  If I have a vision for what should be, what I actually believe will come to be, then maybe--just maybe--I ought to be willing to sacrifice my want of the culmination occurring now in exchange for loving myself enough to wait for things to happen as they must.

[Cryptic enough for you?  There are just certain aspects of my life I'm just not comfortable writing about on the interwebs.  However, I am grappling with these concepts, so they feel like good blog fodder.]

I guess my point here is that I'm wondering how to do it, to just believe that things will all work out for the best, to have faith not only that the universe will provide & that God has a plan, but that those provisions and plans mirror what it is I want.  Of course, I know that's not how it works.  The act of faith means not expecting what happens to follow your preconceived notions, but instead trusting, blindly.

So here's to trying not to see in the dark any more.  To breathing deep.  To saying yes.  To faith.

Anne Lamott Defines My Life

Yesterday I started reading Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith."  I've had it for awhile but didn't pick it up until I was headed off to sit pool side with friends and soak up the sun on my last few days of freedom before the school year begins.


This afternoon, after posting about Mumford this morning, I was in the sun again.  On a lawn chair in my backyard, a sky empty of clouds above me, the same shade of blue as the rooftops in Santorini, I stumbled across a passage so perfect, I had to set the book down and remind myself to breathe.  It is incredible the way--when we most need it--the right book, the right person, the right anything come along at the exact perfect time and reminds us that we aren't nearly as alone as we thought ourselves to be.  


The passage I read: "...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way." 


My father is a musician, my brother is a musician, my mother has a lovely singing voice but never cared to perform and I, once, called myself a singer.  The last few months, at church, I have rediscovered my voice and--over the last year thanks to good music from a dear friend--I have been reminded of how song unites both the singer and the listener.  An intimate concert at a local venue, singing alone in the shower, finding the melody in the way an old woman speaks to her husband as they shuffle down the grocery store aisle, arms entwined, loving even these small mundane moments because it is in them that they are reminded all over again of how good it is to share a life with the person you love--their is music to be heard everywhere if we only open ourselves to the song.


Henry Miller wrote, "To sing, you must first open your mouth."  I believe in this as much as I believe in a universe created to fill me with an awe that stops my breath, as much as I believe in a god that wants me to be happy, as much as I believe in the power of love to revive even the most closed and broken heart.  And, because I believe Miller's words, I have been trying to open my mouth as often as I can, to speak for those who cannot, to praise those who feel unworthy, to love those who have forgotten how easy love should be.


In keeping with Lamott's words, with Miller's, and with my own commitment to making this life as beautiful for the people I love as possible--and yes, for the record I do include myself in that group--here is the song of the day.