Recently, we were happy to be climbing up a country road in Spain,
with sheep on one side,
and Almond trees on the other.
We scrambled through thorns and step rocks to reach the top, a grove of olive trees, three exactly, with a sense of holiness and peace. Someone had lived here and, I think, prayed here. My son and I both felt it.
(What does this have to do with the Prodigal Son theme? Stay with me!)
T.S. Eliot says in his four-part poem The Four Quartets, “We had the experience but missed the meaning.” Sometimes, in relation to our experience of a life of faith, I fear that is altogether too often the case (there’s some stuff in the Bible that backs me up on this). Furthermore, I wonder, if we miss the meaning or have a distorted view of it, can we really fully enter, inhabit and live an experience? Can we fully taste the richness of the feast?
Over the coming weeks, members of our community will be sharing around their experience with the book, The Prodigal God, by Timothy Keller. Keller, in writing this book, meant to shake things up a bit, ask us to consider that perhaps we have it wrong. What if our core understandings of who God is and what God is about are wrong? What would that mean?
In the Bible, there is a well-known story–a story of two sons and a father. Younger Son wants his inheritance early. Father gives it. Younger son blows it and comes back home. What ensues is, well, some homecoming scenes. Embedded in the story is an invitation to each one of us to a homecoming feast.
For some of us, we’re like the hungry homeless and we are happy for food. Period. Others of us are a bit more picky, if not necessarily discerning. Have you ever tried to feed a picky child? Often, they pass over even exquisite, lavish food for the carb and fat-laden-bland–the processed and breaded “is it even chicken?” whose origins no one can trace or the standard dough flattened and slathered in tomato sauce and cheese. There are those of us that appreciate a great meal, even seek it out and savor it when we find it or prepare it, but most of the time we make do with what is easy and convenient. We eat, but often forget to taste. Very few of us feast all the time on gourmet fare or manage to savor and appreciate each bite.
As we each receive a fresh invitation to God’s feast, we invite you to join us at the table–to find the spot with your name on the placecard. There is a place set especially for you. Your name is spelled correctly. It’s your true name–the one your true Parent named you–the one you might not even yet recognize as yours until you see it there at the table.
We had the experience but missed the meaning,/ And approach to the meaning restores the experience /In a different form, beyond any meaning /We can assign to happiness. (T.S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages”)
Here’s a little confession about my taxes: I put them off until the last minute and make it as difficult as I possibly can for myself. My tax issues go way back to when I was in college, but really the root issues don’t matter anymore. What matters now is the shame build-up and the awful, on-going internal dialogue. I beat myself up for not being better about taxes. I am embarrassed that I wait until the last minute. I think of the people who took care of this months ago and feel bad for not being like them.
I procrastinated so hard on my taxes last weekend that my apartment was spotless, all the laundry was washed and folded, and the shopping was done for the week by Saturday. Finally, when there was nowhere left to hide, I knew I had to start my taxes. Instead, I started watching a favorite comedian on Netflix. I was on a runaway procrastination train and that’s when a funny thing happened.
Coming early
“I have a confession to make: I don’t understand Jesus.”
That’s how I began a church newsletter article I wrote over a decade ago. I continued this way:
“This year during Lent, the forty-day season of preparation for Easter, I have been repeatedly drawn to the gospel accounts of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion. Each time I dive into these familiar passages I come up with the same honest conviction: I would never go through that! If I were in Jesus’ place, with the full right and power to put a stop to the condemnation and violence, I wouldn’t have made it much passed Gethsemane.
“So why did Jesus willingly endure piercing words and punishing blows? Why not call down the legions of angels to stop the assassination of His character and the execution of His body? One word answers: Love. A love so amazing that I can barely grasp it.”
Ten years later, I had an experience that nudged me toward understanding.
Hazel was an eighty-four year old woman who lived in the apartment beneath us. She was very independent, I often encountered her at the grocery store or Walgreen’s shopping for herself. We became friendly over time. I would help her carry groceries up to her apartment and lend a hand when she needed.
As time went on, I began to worry about her health. Sometimes when I stopped by, she seemed easily confused and disoriented. I worried she wasn’t eating enough, so I began bringing her a plate of dinner a few times a week. One evening when I was over, she asked if I could help her get her socks off. I was happy to oblige. When I peeled off the nylon knee-highs, I was taken aback by the condition of her feet.
Some moments are so full of joy, there’s little room for doubt or sorrow.
Some are so full of sorrow, it’s hard to rejoice with others who are doing well.
But many times, at least in our life, are so mixed it’s perplexing. In the midst of a relative dying, there’s joy and even laughter. And in the midst of a happy moment, there can be that sense of the fleeting nature of this life.
Window, St. Paul's: Jesus the vine. - His death our Life.
You will find some strong words from Tony Campolo, John Perkins and others in this video, and they drive me to this question: What place is there for grace and gratitude in a society driven by consumerism?
The hospitality of Abraham
The story goes that my grandparents took in my great aunt Jennie and great uncle Pinkie and their three teenage daughters after aunt Jennie had a nervous breakdown. Aunt Jennie spent her days pacing the floor with an ice pack on her head. My grandma had six kids in a small house to keep quiet because aunt Jennie couldn’t handle any noise.
When my grandma couldn’t handle it anymore, my grandfather bought aunt Jennie and Uncle Pinkie a house, which they lived in rent-free for a long time until Uncle Pinkie eventually found work. Read the rest of this entry »
What kind of a "king" are we looking for?
