A Standing Invitation

One of the most powerful religious images for me is the statue of Christ the Redeemer that stands over the city of Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. It shows Christ standing high over that city with arms open wide in invitation as if to simply say, “Come to me.” I like the name Christ the Redeemer, but I also like to refer to this statue as, A Standing Invitation. Jesus whole life was invitational in nature. Everything He did, everything He said, was an invitation for people to come to Him in order to share in a more intimate relationship with God.

I have a concern that we who are trying to follow in the way set forth for us by Jesus have turned the force of the invitation around in a way that puts us more in the center of the story than Jesus. When we talk about “inviting Christ to come and be with us” I fear that we are sometimes missing the point in a big way. Now, I am absolutely committed to opening our hearts up to the presence of God and that this is an attitude of the heart that only BEGINS with salvation. But the language of our inviting Christ to come and be with us is strangely absent from the New Testament narrative. What we see instead, over and over, is the invitation of Jesus for us to come and be with Him.

I’m not sure why I’m a little uncomfortable with the language of our inviting Christ to come and be with us. Maybe it sounds a bit too much like the old means of choosing up sides on the playground. One person chooses who they would like to come and play with his/her team. I don’t hear any indication anywhere in Scripture of God thinking or saying, “Oh goodie, I get to be with you on your team. Thank you for choosing me.” The issue is never about God coming to be with us, He has already established that. Through the incarnation and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost God has made it clear that He is always with us. What is generally far less clear is this: Are we with God?

I think that it’s much more appropriate to think of our response to Christ’s invitation to come to HIM than it is to think in terms of Christ’s response to our invitation to come to US. I think it is more powerful to pray, “Lord, I come to You”, than it is to pray, “Lord, come and be with me.” It’s not about God’s presence or absence with us, it’s about our presence or absence with God.

I admit that I have never really liked the word ‘invocation’ that we sometimes use at the beginning of our worship services. Who are we to ‘invoke’ or ‘invite’ the presence of God into a place where He already dwells? If anything, God is invoking our presence at times like these. The invitation always flows from God to us. He stands with open arms constantly inviting us into His presence that is all around us. If we are ever missing the presence of God it’s not because He is absent, but because we are not aware of His presence with us. As the 13th century Christian mystic Meister Eckhart says, “God is at home. It is we who have gone out for a walk.”

Again, I understand and completely embrace the idea of receiving Christ into our hearts. But receiving is different than inviting. Receiving has to do with awareness of something that is already there. “Lord, I come to you, and I receive your presence that is always with me,” is a far more appropriate prayer because it recognizes that we are the ones who tend to wander, not God. “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love,” says the old hymn.

Responding to a standing invitation from Christ is a far more accurate understanding of the spiritual life. God has chosen me, God has loved me, God has invited me to step into His embrace and find my home there. In Jesus we have a standing invitation to come into the presence of the One who is always there.

Living in the Fog

Driving in the fog can be a frightening and unsettling experience. On a trip from L.A. to Seattle once Janet and I found ourselves driving for several hours through fog that made the afternoon feel like midnight. With hands clutched to the wheel all my senses were hyper-aware of everything around me. I was far more attentive to my driving than I normally am on a bright and sunny day.

Recently I was reading the story in Mark 8 of the healing of the blind man in Bethsaida. There was an interesting and unusual progression that this man’s healing took. Jesus first of all spit on his eyes (not sure He could get away with that today). He asked the man what he could see and the man said, “I see people that look like trees walking around”. Now, if you are as blind as a bat without contacts or glasses as I am you know exactly what he is talking about. Jesus then touches the man’s eyes again (this time apparently with no spit which kind of makes you wonder what the point was). This time, “his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly.”

When I read that story I find myself deeply desiring that second touch of Jesus that will clear away the spiritual fog and blurriness that I walk with most of the time. I want some clarity to the ‘questions of the fog’ like: Who am I? Who is God? Where am I going? How will I get there? How will I know when I get there? Do I even want to get there? I deeply desire for that second touch to come and make me, “see everything clearly.” But more times than not I find that I am asked to simply live with the first touch.

Sometimes we have experiences where everything seems clear. Jesus has allowed us to look with clarity upon a particular situation or question we have. Sometimes. But more times than not He asks us to sit with the un-clarity for a lot longer than we would like. Sometimes He calls us to wait in the fog of our souls unknowing because when we wait in the fog it forces us to slow down and pay attention. We become more vigilant and aware. We can’t rest in the comfort of our own clear vision, we must trust in the vision of another.

Some say that “clarity” is the goal of the spiritual life. “To see Thee more clearly” as the old musical Godspell tells us. But given human nature, at least the human nature that I struggle with, clarity does not always lead to better vision. Sometimes clarity causes us to be less aware of what we need and desire and this awareness is exactly what we need in order to draw closer to the One who is with us, even in the fog.

My experience has been that life with God is mostly lived somewhere between darkness and blue skies. Between midnight and noon, in the hazy twilight of a foggy dawn when I can only see “people like trees walking around”. This is where I seem to spend most of my time. But somewhere in that place between confusion and understanding is where I usually meet God.

When I have those rare times of clarity when everything comes into focus I cherish and thank God for them. But I’m also thankful for the times of plodding slowly through the fog because Jesus is just as present with me then as He is when all is bright and clear. That’s the great power, I think, of the story of the blind man of Bethsaida. Not WHAT happened to him, but WHO was with him the whole time.

Soulpoint: Finding the Soul’s True North

Previously my blogging was done under the title, ‘The Surrendered Life’. With this blog I am changing the title to ‘Soulpoint’ but the emphasis on surrender to God as the deepest need of our soul will remain the same. I chose the name ‘Soulpoint’ because of the desperate need that all of us have to keep our souls pointed toward an intimate relationship with God.

The image is taken from a compass. The needle on a compass consistently points toward the north. There is a magnetic field around the north pole that draws a magnetized needle toward it. When we ‘set’ the compass in line with the direction the needle is pointing it will tell us where east, west, south, and all points in between, are located. If the compass is not in line with the point of the needle we no longer have a point of reference to guide our journey.  

Jesus, through the presence of the Holy Spirit within us, is that needle that consistently points toward the love of God and His desire to be in intimate fellowship with us. Our “soulpoint” is when our soul is lined up with the indwelling Holy Spirit pointing us toward deeper intimacy with God. This is what we were created for. There are a million other things that are trying to convince us that we exist for something other than fellowship with God, and as we turn toward these things we find ourselves heading in the wrong direction, sometimes with tragic consequences.

Imagine having a compass whose needle points toward the north but we have not lined up the “N” on the compass dial with the direction the needle is pointing. This may, at times, only produce an inconvenience like heading south on I-5 when we should be heading west on I-90. At other times, however, in can produce tragic results like moving deeper into dangerous woods instead of heading towards the nearest Ranger Station.

Likewise, when our soul is ‘drawn’ to something other than north (intimacy with God), it will take us in directions that are not conducive to soul health. Learning how to keep our soul dialed toward deep intimacy with God (the direction that the Holy Spirit is always pointing us) will keep us moving in the right direction as we seek to know God on a deeper level.

Jesus said, “No one comes to me unless the Father who sent me draws him.” (John 6:44) We can submit to how God is drawing us toward true north of intimate fellowship with Him or we can submit to the hundreds of other things that want to ‘draw’ us toward them. But the drawing of God within us is not overpowering. It’s not like a river flowing out of control that picks up everything in its path and carries it away. It’s more like a gentle current that is more than able to take us where we need to go but only as we cease our fight against it and yield to its pull.

Our soul yields to this drawing from God through the practice of spiritual rhythms that keep us pointed toward the love of God. Practices like prayer, spiritual reading of the Word, worship, solitude, Sabbath, acts of mercy, etc. all help our soul to yield to the pull of God’s love and stay pointed toward our true north.

As travelers on The Way we need a reference point to guide us. True north is the reference point that sojourners use to find their way through this world. The reference point for our spiritual journey is the deep, deep love of God that draws us toward an ever increasing awareness of His present Presence with us in every moment. This reference point is the only way we can make sense of where we are and where we are going.

I’ve been lost a few times as I’ve tried to make my way through this life. And every time has been because my compass was not quite set correctly. I lost my own sense of where north was and ended up heading away from my hearts deepest need and desire. My ‘soulpoint’ got tangled up with points other than true north. So wherever you are headed, keeping your soul pointed in the right direction is the only way to keep from getting lost.

>The Morning Came Without My Help

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While sitting on my back deck one morning recently listening to the birds sing, enjoying the trees and plants, and just taking in the beauty of that new day, a thought occurred to me: “The morning came without my help”. I had nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing. I did not play any part whatsoever in its arrival, and yet it came anyway.

Sometimes I get all caught up in what I am doing. What contribution I am making in this world. What effect my presence here is having. Sometimes it’s good to just sit and be aware that a lot of things seem to happen just fine without my involvement. In fact, if I was honest, sometimes my involvement just seems to get in the way. Some things are supposed to be received as a gift from the One who loves to love us whether we had anything to do with it or not.

Why is it that I am often so obsessed with what I am doing, what contribution I am making, what kind of influence I have over people and situations? I understand the fact that we are created to participate with God in creation; in His kingdom. I know that the God-image in us longs to create, to bless, to work toward righteousness and justice. But as much as I would like it to be, I don’t really think that is always the primary motivation of my striving. There is something much more neurotic at play here. Much more self-centered. Many of my pursuits lead to worry, anxiety, fear, and guilt. Many of them feel more like a weight pressing down on me than a lifting up of my spirit that comes from some truly noble or selfless act.

Control. That’s it. Much of my striving comes from a need to control the world around me, at least my world. I know that there is really nothing I can do about Afghanistan, or the Gulf oil spill, or the economy in Greece. Nothing, that is, except worry. But there is plenty I can do to control my world isn’t there? Aren’t there lots of things that really depend upon my efforts, my abilities, my talents? Things that just couldn’t happen without my involvement? I’m afraid that reality tells me there are probably far less of these than I think. Mornings teach me this. Mornings come without my help. Amazing. I guess there are some things that are not intended to be controlled. Some things are just there to be enjoyed. And some things (quite a lot actually) might just happen anyway, even without my help.

“His compassions never fail.

They are new every morning.

Great is Your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22-23

>Leaning Toward Our Suffering

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5th Week of Lent

There is a truth in life that most of us are fairly reluctant to accept. In fact we usually go to great lengths to avoid the searing impact it usually has on us. It’s summed up in phrases like, “No pain, no gain”, and “It’s always darkest before the dawn”, and, “Suffer not, live not”. Each of these expressions point to the truth we spend great energy trying to avoid: that pain, darkness, suffering do not have to be ends in and of themselves. They can actually be guides to something that we would have never been able to experience without them.

As we enter into the last week of lent, the week that we call Holy Week, I am struck once again by the fact that you cannot arise to the light of Easter without going through the darkness of Holy Week. Each year I face this, and each year something inside me wants to scream, “NOOOOOO. Don’t make me go there. Don’t make me walk through pain and darkness and suffering. Just give me a Mega dose of Easter life and joy. THAT’s what I really need!” And yet each year I step into Holy Week knowing, “No pain, no gain”, and “It’s always darkest before the dawn”, and “Suffer not, live not”.

You see the richness of Holy Week for me is that it stands as an incredible metaphor concerning the redemptive power of suffering in our lives. It is, of course, anchored in the redemptive suffering of Jesus on the cross for us. But it does not, it cannot, end there. The suffering of Jesus grew out of His living in the Father’s love for Him and for all humanity. It had meaning. And when we live our lives in the Father’s love then our suffering can have meaning too. Redemptive meaning.

Now, I want to be very cautious here. I know that there is much suffering in our world that is tragic and even horrendous that doesn’t deserve the glib, and perhaps flippant expressions that I’ve listed above. There are some levels of pain and suffering that simply defy understanding in this life. Even so, I am still convinced that life lived in the Father’s loving embrace means that our suffering can somehow be miraculously “redeemed”, it is “bought back” in such a way that His glorious and ultimate will can be done in us. It does not mean that God always initiates the suffering that threatens to crush us (though I am sure He sometimes does). It does mean that there is no suffering so great, there is no evil so deep, there is no darkness so grim that God cannot redeem it for His own life-giving purposes in us.

As I said, by nature we seek to avoid things that hurt us at all levels: physical, psychological, relational, spiritual. And yet it is often in the facing (dare I say even embracing) of these hurtful places that we find our greatest healing. It is as we lean toward our suffering that we truly experience God leaning toward us.

Jesus demonstrated this for us when He came to a place in His life when it was time to head toward Jerusalem in order to face and embrace the suffering necessary for our healing. He was at the furthest place from Jerusalem that He ever travelled in His ministry years. Way up in northern Palestine, in a town called Caesarea Philippi. Luke 9:51 tells us that, “As the time approached for Him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus RESOLUTELY set out for Jerusalem.” In other words, He turned His face toward, He leaned toward the point of what would be His greatest suffering. He knew what was coming and He walked toward it.

Jesus’ resolute courage and determination to live within the Father’s love created what we call Holy Week. It embodies the heart of Christianity: the death and resurrection of Christ for us. It also serves as a timeless reminder that as we face and embrace the challenges, pain, darkness and suffering of our lives, but do so embedded in the Father’s love, that we too will awaken into the light of new life.

I recently heard someone use the example of falling into quicksand as an illustration of leaning toward our suffering. When someone is sinking in quicksand intuitively they begin to fight and squirm trying to get themselves out. In doing so they shift their weight from one leg to another, each time putting all of their weight on the very small surface of the bottom of one foot. As a result, all that their squirming accomplishes is to sink deeper and deeper. But if there is any hope of getting out of quicksand it requires doing something that is counterintuitive to what we might think. A person must displace as much of their body mass as possible onto the quicksand itself in order to keep from sinking further. Then you can begin to turn and try to roll your way over to the side and to safety. In a sense we must lean into, lay against, or get close to the very thing that threatens to destroy us. “Getting with” our own suffering, as odd as it may sound, is often the only way to keep it from destroying us.

So, I now turn my eyes now toward Holy Week. I face my own times of suffering. I lean into the often confusing darkness that grips my own soul, knowing that Jesus has already walked there and is waiting on the other side. So this coming week I have an odd suggestion for you. Attend a Holy Week service of some kind, but make sure that it is the darkest, most morose, depressing service that you can find. Put off, just for a moment, the joyful celebration of the resurrection. That will come. But this coming week lean into the pain that comes before the gain, the darkness that engulfs us before the dawn, the suffering that produces life and healing for us. Leaning may make us feel a bit off balance, but that is exactly the place we need to be in order to live in the embrace of the Father.

>Paying Attention

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4th Week of Lent

I am reasonably sure that I am not the only driver who has ever had this experience: you are driving along and you find yourself so distracted that all of a sudden you realize that you are 2 exits past the one you intended to take.

Paying attention. It was drilled into us in Drivers Ed. (those of us who actually took Drivers Ed.). It is the mantra of mothers teaching their children how to cross the street (“look left, then right, then left, then right again, then left again, etc., etc.”). It’s what coaches mean when they scream at their players, “Get your head in the game!” It’s what wives want when they ask, “Are you listening to me?” It’s why we have what are called “distracted driving laws” which tell us that while we are driving we should not text, eat, put on make-up, look at the scenery, sing too loudly, or talk to anyone but ourselves. Why? Distraction prevents us from paying attention, and paying attention is important to staying alive.

What is true of the physical world around us is also true of the spiritual world within us. Just as we are so prone to allowing distractions to divert our attention in our daily lives we are equally prone to letting distractions keep us from paying attention to the present work of God in our spiritual lives. That’s one reason why Lent is so important for us. It is a period of time where we intentionally pay attention. We should be doing this all the time but distraction is often a drug far too powerful to resist on an on-going basis. So we enter into seasons during the year like Advent and Lent and Easter (yes, Easter is a season not a day). Lent calls us to attend to the presence of God around us and within us. More specifically, it calls us to attend to the present presence of God around us and within us. This is a critically important distinction to make, because if you are like me you tend to focus the energy of your attention either in the past or in the future.

For me, my distraction drug of choice has always been the future. I have spent so much time and energy through much of my life extending myself out into the future. It’s not bad to have dreams and aspirations but for me those have often robbed me of living fully in the here and now. I admit that I have not always been “fully present” in my own life. I have been “out there” somewhere dreaming and wondering what life will be like someday.

For others their distraction drug may be the past. This is especially tempting for people as they enter into their mid-life and senior years. They look back at what life was like when the kids were little, or when they were working, or when twitter was how birds sang in the back yard first thing in the morning. Back then. Back when life was good (though if we were honest we didn’t always think so at the time).

Now, there is nothing wrong with a nostalgic look to the past, or with a hopeful gaze into the future. We would not be human if we did not engage in such activities. In fact, it is one of the things that truly sets us apart from other aspects of creation. The problem is when we dwell there in such a way that the present begins to fade in importance. But the past-lovers and future-dwellers will tell us these are often much more preferred places to live than the present. Perhaps, but the problem is that God is a God of the present. He dwells eternally in the here and now. Isn’t it interesting that God said to Moses, “I AM”, not “I WAS”, or “I WILL BE”. Those are true to be sure but God chose a phrase that communicated that He is ever present in the here and now.

Reflecting back upon His presence with us in the past, or thinking ahead hoping for His presence with us in the future may be comforting exercises but God is ever calling us to dwell with Him fully in each moment as it presents itself to us. Neglecting to do so robs us of the intimacy of God’s presence. Attention to the present moment with God is the only way to truly hear Him and experience His presence with us.

I have to admit, though, I’m not very good at this. I want to be. I desperately want to live in such a way that I am aware of God in the hundreds of little things going on around me in every moment. I would love to cultivate the kind of present moment relationship with Him that makes discerning His will nothing more than a glance upward instead of needing a 3 day silent retreat just to get the ball rolling. But, I confess, I am often addicted to distraction. That’s why I need Lent. It’s why I need this Lenten season. If there is any great need in my own life right now it’s the need to let go of the past AND the future and to live fully in the present moment just as it is, with all of its pain, joy, confusion, peace, fearfulness, or contentment. Whatever it is, it has God present in it. And who would want to miss that?

>Rain at Winter’s End

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3rd Week of Lent

[I came across this poem by Ruth Haley Barton and it so captures my own feelings during this lenten season that I offer it to you for your own reflection.]

Rain at Winter’s End
by Ruth Haley Barton

‟Look, a little cloud no bigger than a person’s hand
is rising out of the sea!″
I Kings 18:44

I love the way the rain comes at winter’s end
to hose down the sooty earth,
and wash away the dirt that comes from who-knows-where.

Oh God,
I need a cleansing rain in my life,
dirty as I am with the grit and grime of these dark years.
My heart is hard and crusty
like patches of old snow in the yard,
my life littered with trash I don’t recognize
and dead, brown grass where it used to be so green.

Today I would settle for a little cloud
no bigger than a person’s hand
far off in the distance
rising out of the sea of this disillusionment.

Today, if I saw such a cloud
I would run like Elijah–
loins girded,
strengthened by the hand of the Lord
in hopes that I could be there when the deluge came.

Warm rain
Softening the hardness of my heart
Washing away the pain
Enlivening this dead earth.

Today, if I saw even a hint of such a cloud,
I would lay myself down upon the earth
and bow my heart low
Waiting for the miracle that would signal the changing of the season
the end of this drought
the coming of spring
in the winter of my heart.