Spiritual Formation Fast Forward

Scrolling confession:  I can waste a fair minute watching sped-up videos of someone cleaning up a yard.  

Specifically, there's this one guy out there who has a You Tube channel dedicated to tackling the outside of derelict properties by mowing overgrown lawns and clearing off driveways and sidewalks, freeing them from years of neglect.  I think he actually does own a business, but most of the short videos I've seen on my Facebook Feed showcase what he does as a public service.  It you want to check it out, here's a link SB Mowing.  Fair warning: If you get hooked, don't blame me.

In the clips I've seen, this guy does brutal work.  He's mostly out there with a spade and a shovel scraping off cracked cement blocks or asphalt.  That kind of thing takes time and a lot of back-breaking effort.  He trims hedges and cuts back young trees with too many rouge shoots, clearing away the front and sides of the houses.  Even when he's using his riding mower, some of those yards are massive and have odd contours.  He's out there for hours.

The thing about the videos though, is that it's all in fast motion.  And I think this is why I get hooked.  You can see the results so quickly.  What's taken him hours is done in a zip.  And it's so satisfying to see the utter transformation of a property!  Clean walkways, lawns trimmed and edged, yards cleared, curbside appeal restored.  It's like the whole place can breathe again.  All in a matter of minutes.  

If only.

In the introspection of Lent, then, it makes me want to ask the ridiculous question I already know the answer to:

Is there a fast-motion setting I could set on my soul?

And that makes me think of whiskey.  Or jeans.  Or cheese.  Or art.  Or balsamic vinegar.  Or any number of other things that, like my soul, cannot be hurried into their finer states.  

Spiritual formation is what I'm after.  "The process of being formed into the likeness of Christ for the sake of others," M. Robert Mulholland Jr. puts it.

Ah yes.  The process.  Pronounced "proooooooooooooocess." And there's no rushing it.  I want to.  I want the results in record time.  I want to be there already.  I want the clean lines and fresh face of character and virtue and faith.  I want to be master of my anxiety, released from my perfectionism, purged of all prejudices, a model of tranquility.  Like, right now.

But that's not how it works.  There is no short-changing the process.  There is no magic setting to speed things up. 

There's just sitting in it.  And repeating the practice of it.  And putting the work into it, day by day, bit by bit, sometimes shovel by shovel.  

Reminds me of 2 Peter 1:5-7:

For this very reason, make every effort to 

add to your faith goodness; and to goodness knowledge,

and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance

and to perseverance, godliness, and to godliness, mutual affection;

and to mutual affection, love.

And if that sounds like a quick and easy progress of things to you, I would gently suggest you haven't tried it.  

Back to our definition.  Spiritual formation is a 'process of being formed.' The effort is clearly ours.  But the change is by the Spirit.  Like the two pedals on a bicycle; our part, His part.  So we sit in all of it, and then watch what the Spirit wants to do with us.  And it's okay.

Because He does.  He will.  He's patient and good like that.  

Good thing.  I need Him to be that and so much more for me.

Guarding Above All Else

 

Above all else

guard your heart,

for everything you do flows from it.

Proverbs 4:23

More for Lent as we finish up the week.

Still finding myself in those spaces of getting less things done on purpose, and not always loving what I find there.  Gently, because it's of no purpose to inflict shame upon one's own soul.  But honestly, because change only comes from the truth.

Guarding my heart.  These words from Solomon come to mind for some unexpected reason when I move this votive glass aside to grab a book on the shelf.  The glass has been there a long time, but the delicacy of the heart tied in the ribbon catches my attention in a new way just now.  And I hear the verse inside my head.

Why this?  It's my first question.  Why these words at such a small and random provocation?  This happens for me sometimes, no often, and I want to pay attention when it does.  So I open my Bible and sit with it for a while.  In those Lenten spaces.

Because lately, while all this not-doing-so-much-stuff is going on, I've been in touch with more anger than I'd like to admit.  Doesn't matter what about, but it's there, and it's a lot, and that surprises me.  And it distracts me.  It's not who I want to be, yet here we are.   I'm disappointed.  Maybe I thought that in the spaces I'd be opening up to more peace.  But not so much.  

So then I sit with that.  The anger.  I let myself feel it.  Try to trace it backwards to what's underneath.  Gently, because it's of no purpose to thrash about needlessly expending precious energy.  But honestly, because sorting it out only comes from the truth.

And yes, it's true, that everything I do flows from my heart, from that core of who I am, what I love and how I feel and what is cherished.  Everything.  Guarding that, owning that, caring for and nourishing that.  I sit with all of that for a bit longer.  

Then I put the book back, and the votive glass back, and let the delicacy of that dangling heart move ever so slightly in the doing of it.  Not resolved.  That won't come so simply or easily or quickly.  But perhaps it's made less in recognizing it, owning it, validating it.  For now, that will be enough.  It's a process after all.

Maybe this is why Lent lasts forty days.  I need the time.

Oh, and the snow thing is back with us again today.  

Would anyone be glad for it by now?  Not sure.

But at least it's Friday.

Lots going on this weekend, and I will embrace it all.

March Showers and Unplowed Ground

 

And oh, doesn't the sound of the rain make it all so cozy to stay in bed just a little longer this morning!

With the temperatures sitting at above zero these past few nights, I've cranked open the window for some fresh-air sleeping.  Yes, I know some of you do this all winter long, but for me this is a significant sign of spring.  And this morning it meant I woke up and lay in the lovely of it for a bit.

"March Showers" are admittedly a different deal than "April Showers."  It's not supposed to be until May that we get to the flowers part of the rhyme.  We'll have to wait until late April, early May to catch those fleeting Trilliums, resurrected from the earth in all their triune glory.  But this morning I thought ahead to them, glad for this good soaking to get things started.

Rain seems appropriate for Lent then.  A dark sky overhead to prepare for what's coming.  But first, Hosea.

"Sow righteousness for yourselves, 

reap the fruit of unfailing love, 

and break up your unplowed ground, 

for it is time to seek the LORD, 

until he comes and showers His righteousness on you."

Hosea 10:12

As prophets go, Hosea holds a fair bit of what we might call 'moral authority' given how he lived out in real time anything God asked him to say to the people.  Knowing that this one text is actually in the middle of a fair scolding helps me see the call to 'break up your unplowed ground' as something of a challenge to identify places in my soul that might be resistant to God's redeeming work in me.  Specifically, where am I being stubborn, narrow, unmoved?

I've mentioned before that I am attempting to 'give up productivity for Lent.'  This has allowed for unassigned spaces where I encounter myself in different ways than when I am robustly occupied.  It's been good for me, although somewhat squirmy.  There is still unplowed ground in me.  I shouldn't be surprised, and I'm not.  Such is the ever-deepening process of spiritual formation.  

Lent is a good opportunity to heed Hosea's admonition "for it's time to seek the LORD."

And a good opportunity for March rains to soften the earth a bit, and get ready for the Trillium resurrections.

Praying showers of goodness on you this wonder-filled Wednesday.

All of a Sudden After a Long Hold

 

What a difference over just a few days!

For my daily 2 km stroll, I walk alongside and then cross over this creek bed.  I couldn't help but go back and compare today's picture with one I took at exactly the same spot just at the end of last week.  

I am reminded of how quickly things can turn around, even a long, cold, harsh winter.  Not that long ago it seemed those enormous, grit-laden snowbanks would be part of the landscape forever.  Granted, it will take several more bouts of high temperature days to deal with what's backed up in the corner of basically every parking lot.  And another 'granted,' it's supposed to get cold and snow again later this week, but never mind that now.

Yesterday and today, everything feels open and warm and flowing again.  The green will come soon enough.  Well, maybe not soon enough for some, but it will.  Even whatever snow falls between now and 'real Spring' won't stick around for long.

Other things can get turned around quickly in the end too, I find.  Breakthroughs after long bouts of depression.  A balance point in the positive after a grueling dig out of debt.  Stepping on the scale and realizing you've achieved your goal weight at last.  Crossing the stage to receive your degree after a lengthy academic pursuit.  Celebrating a milestone anniversary in a love story that has included some difficult chapters.  

And unlike a sudden spike in temperature, these turnarounds are usually the accumulative result of getting up every day and just doing the thing.  They come because simple, compound faithfulness eventually yields results.  There's something very powerful about setting your intention on the small things within your control, those everyday tasks that are there right before us, and just staying at it.  

"Be faithful in small things," Mother Teresa once said, "Because it is in them that your strength lies."

Or, "The version of you that keeps going quietly is the one that wins long term."  That from a Facebook site that keeps coming up on my feed called "Power of Positivity."  For what it's worth.

So, if we can we should probably get outside for a bit today.  Soak up some of that free vitamin D, pretend like winter's done with us for at least now.  And just keep going.

And maybe, maybe, today will be a breakthrough day!

A Song for Blunders

Poet Malcolm Guite has captured a fairly decent synopsis of what could be titled "Instructions for Life."

Be but your own good friend

And be good to the other

Cherish those sisters and brothers

Along the road

And to the earth extend

Every reverence and wonder

Tend to the wounds of your blunders

And honour God who formed our home.

I can hear it as a melody even as I write these words, because I was introduced to the poem through the ministry of Canadian music artist Steve Bell in his piece called Good Friend

Every phrase of this chorus is packed for me, and I'm tempted to unpack it bit by bit.  But that would end up reading more like a sermon, and I do that enough of the time already.

I'm reflecting in a particular way this morning on the one thought almost at the end.  

Tend to the wounds of your blunders.

I'm drawn to it because in the midst of all the other positive admonitions that we all would cheerfully embrace, there's this gentle but pointed reminder that we blunder.... and we wound.

If I'm honest, I'd like to pretend that I am only ever on the being wounded end of things.  And for sure, life, and let's be real, especially ministry, has it's generous share of dings.  Some things can be shrugged off, worked out, easily forgiven and moved on from.  Other wounds go deep.  Some scars are permanent.  Triggers are sensitive and terrible.

I know my own wounds well.  I could recite then far too easily.  The reminder here that comes to me this morning though, is that I've wounded.  I've blundered.  Both my ego and my heart wish it wasn't so, but it is.  And there it is. The log in my own eye thing.  Some of my blunders I am all too aware of.  Others I may know nothing about.  Such is the nature of bumping into one another in various iterations of relationship throughout a lifetime.  Doing life in community, which I fully believe in and also enjoy many benefits of, is confoundingly complex.

So how do I tend to these wounds?  It's a trickier business than it sounds, and requires a slow, careful approach.  No quick apologies.  No intruding upon past lives where more harm can only be the result of a self-centered approach to clearing my own conscience.  No expectation of forgiveness easily, or ever, offered.

But when it is available to me, the opportunity to tend to those wounds, I can't help but hope I would provide what I myself would very much need from someone who has wounded me.  Humility.  Deep listening.  Seeking to understand before being understood.  Validating without excuse.  Offering perspective and additional information where needed.  Making amends when possible and when it causes no further harm.  And ultimately, a change of attitude, approach and behaviour to limit the potential of further wounding.  

Going back to the poem, I suppose if we all paid attention to the other things listed -- being a good friend, cherishing, extending reverence, and honouring God -- we'd have less wounding going on in the first place.

But the truth is in the humanity of it.  We mess up.  We do.

So the joyful lilt of this poem-set-to-music is still cheering.  And inspiring.  A good way to start off this fourth week of Lent reflections, as squirmy it has been to reflect upon.  I'll likely sing the song now for most of the day.  To remind me.  To sober me.  To keep me moving forward in the ways of growing.

I trust the time change hasn't messed with your resting this weekend, and you are headed into your Monday with purpose and joy.  

Enjoy the warmer temperatures while they last.

The Fireplace Thing

 

My comfort in my suffering is this:

Your promise preserves my life.

Psalm 119:50

One of the things we gave up in our move was the presence of a real wood fireplace.  And I do miss the all-senses ambiance a little on cold winder nights.  However, there's still one at the cottage to enjoy.  And this little electric unit (which looks more realistic in person than in this photo) provides enough cozy in our new space in the city to balance out the advantages of not having to chop, stack and haul wood, or clean out the ashes afterwards, not to mention the increased insurance costs.

Of course, with any real fire, there's an element of risk, hence the increased insurance costs.  Keeping the flames inside the boundaries of stone and hearth is essential.  Otherwise you have a dangerous problem to contend with.

Okay, so here's an interesting metaphor I was introduced to some time back.

Suppose you were sitting in a room and a fire broke out in the corner.  This would naturally and necessarily provoke a spike in adrenaline as you stopped everything you were doing to vacate the building and call 911 and/or whatever other action you needed to take.  

But what if by some means, a fireplace suddenly appeared around the fire?  Lovely stones, a protective hearth, a wire screen across the front, and even a chimney to channel the smoke outside.  That same fire in the same corner of the room, while just as hot and just as combustible, now provokes a very different response.

What if the 'problem' was like the fire, and the fireplace was the promises God has made in His Word?  Promises to "work out all things" (Romans 8:28), and "to never leave you" (Hebrews 13:5 and about a bazillion other places), be "the Rock" on which we can stand firm (Isaiah 26:3 and another bazillion references), and to be our 'ever present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1), among, like I keep saying about a bazillion more.

What if when trouble comes and friends who, of course first listen with empathy and without judgement, but who then remind us of God's promises, aren't being glib and aren't pretending there's no fire, but are simply helping us build the fireplace around it?

What if we could remember when a fire breaks out that the real danger isn't so much whatever is burning in the corner, but to forget what God has promised?

Please remember, if you know me and know my story, that I have had my fair share of life-altering corners of roaring combustion.  There have been times, many times, when the unforeseen and wretched has raged through, threatening to devour everything I hold sacred and cherished.  So there is nothing about this metaphor that is trite or overly simplistic for me.  I've lived this.  Many times over.

And, I will confess, it's still the human response, when the fire breaks out, to jump up and run around in a panic. 

So.  I will remind myself again.  We live in the promises, not in the problems.  God's got this, whatever it is.  His reputation with me is intact.  He's never reneged on me yet.  I don't understand even half of what He's up to, but then again, if I found a god I could fully explain I doubt it would be worth my worship.  

Warmer temperatures are upon us as Spring ekes its way out of the dirty snowbanks.  We likely won't be running our little electric fireplace too much longer.  But this morning I don't mind it pushing back the dreary sky just a bit, or it's reminder to me of just Who's in charge after all.

And it's Friday, so there's that.

Yellow Lights Are Flashing

 

Because there are so many wonderful walking trails in our part of the city, there are also numerous random places that are not actual intersections where pedestrians are supported in getting across the street.  

I cross Belmont when I'm out for my walk and, at the point where I join in on the trail, there are large white blocks painted on the road, an island in the middle where you could pause, and overhead lights, which I'll come back to in a second.  Overall, it's clearly marked.

There is also this large yellow button I can press.  And when I do, those overhead lights start to flash, and an automated voice at a decent volume says, "Yellow lights are flashing" a few times over.

A few things can happen once all of that is going on.  Specifically, cars may or may not come to a stop.

As a driver, I have to admit, I can sort of understand this.  Now that I live in the area, I am ever so much more aware of these crossing places, and make sure as I approach that there are no pedestrians or bicycles approaching.  

But before that, those flashing lights, to be honest, may have escaped my notice.  The sound system in my vehicle is not connected to the animated voice (which would be a good trick).  It's not like an intersection where you expect you might have to stop, and even when you do, it's not every time.   If I'm not paying 100% attention, which you're supposed to do behind the wheel, I could easily miss it.

And that's exactly what I'm thinking about as a pedestrian.  Those cars coming down the way?  I'm just going to wait here a second beside the big yellow button and see if they stop.  And when they do, I smile and wave thank you and demonstrate just a little pick up in my step to be a grateful, courteous pedestrian.  

And off we go, driver and pedestrian, on our merry little ways into our respective lives.  

Seems to me I have been both in my interactions with folks.  Both the driver with all the damaging potential of a vehicle, and the pedestrian all vulnerable and at-risk.  In some settings, at certain times of my life, I come into a situation with a degree of authority and confidence perhaps oblivious to the more delicate or even wounded state of someone else in the room.  And in other settings, at certain times of my life, I'm the delicate, wounded one in danger of being knocked over.

Maybe I wish there were flashing lights and an automated voice for every potentially damaging encounter.  You'd go into a meeting, or a conversation, or even a family dinner and everyone could hear it; "Yellow lights are flashing."  Be careful here, lest you do damage or be damaged.  

The thing is, like the random crossings, it's not every time.  It can take you by surprise.  Sometimes you see the pedestrian and you can stop a ways back and let them know they are safe and seen, and sometimes you don't.  Sometimes you remember to wait for all the cars to stop so you can cross safely, and sometimes you don't.

So what to do?

Maybe two things.  And Paul can help us here.

"Be kind and compassionate to one another, 

forgiving each other, 

just as in Christ God forgave you." 

Ephesians 4:32

One, be kind and compassionate.  Slow down, take a breath, read the room.  Ask questions and really listen.  If you are the one with any advantage in the relationship or situation whatsoever, be mindful of power imbalances, choice of words, even the volume or tone of your voice.  "Seek first to understand rather than be understood," as Steven Covey would remind us.  Submit your strength to the other.  Stop way back of the line and let others know you are safe.

Two, forgive.  Assume the best not the worst of those who fail to stop and notice your vulnerability.  Realize that not every demonstration of power is intentionally meant to hold you back or harm you.  Forgive when stronger people blunder, because they will, and so will you.  Additionally, wait at the curb until you sense you have the safe space to cross into the conversation.  Push the yellow button and advocate for what you need.  But exercise the grace that was given you.  Remember the times when you're the one behind the wheel.

Caveat:  Some damage is severe, I know.  That is a different conversation.

But I wonder, as I am out on my walk, as I live out an ordinary day....as I move through my relationships,....just applying this to myself...what can happen if I understand myself as both?