Something About Water

There is something about a landscape shaped by and around fresh water - lakes, rivers, streams. The green that comes from an abundance of naturally occurring water is different than that produced by regular irrigation, no matter how generous. Cities shaped by water have trees in micro-forests and groves that are marked by a natural symmetry unmatched by the most skillful of landscape architects. The sloppy randomness which characterizes nature is beyond computer simulation. 

I noticed this flying out of Chicago recently. It was my first time in the city – and I only saw the inside of the airport – but the abundance of trees out the window caught my eye. The city I grew up in was, likewise, given form by water as two mighty rivers, birthed in the Rockies a hundred miles away, joined and gave shape to the city. Everyone knew what "north" and "south" were defined in reference to. Life around water has a different texture, a different feel. Having spent most of my adult life in place where fresh water is less naturally occurring, where almost every tree is a strategic decision, where circles of green mark the reach of irrigation, where brown is backdrop, it is striking to be so viscerally reminded of home.

The city is shaped by water in another way as rivers form natural barriers which development has to take into account. From the air, even an untrained eye notices the ways in which infrastructure takes its cue from the ancient waterways. The city exists because of its proximity to water, the ancient ways giving shape to the modern ways. Rivers are like that, it seems – you have to take them into account, they tend to be unconcerned about the urban plan. They define the real without regard to the ideal - and their life spreads in broad, meandering paths.

And flying over a mostly brown landscape, it is very easy to trace the paths of underground streams by the ribbons of green slicing across the landscape. One look, and even the casual observer knows where there be life - and the source of life.

No wonder the psalmist likened the one immersed in the word and words of the Lord to a tree, planted by a stream, roots going down deep, bearing fruit in due season, leaf without wither. Water, even deep underground, brings life to the surface.

Abiding

I was told once

     long ago

that the deep fear

     was of being

     weightless

          insignificant

          of no consequence

          leaving no mark

     like a hand

          withdrawn from

          a bowl of water

          in seconds

               no sign of

               being.

And I believe it to be true.

So much of my life

     has been taken up

     with trying to do

     things that make a

          difference

     That is the way

          to significance

          to impact

          to imprint.

But most of my doing

     bears the marks of

          my fear.

     How could it be other

     when that is its source?

     But appearance

     is not reality.

     So fear is

          realized.

Apparently, Jesus was right.

     Apart from Him…

          nothing.

I don’t choose fruitlessness.

     But that is what I get

     when I choose to do,

     out of fear of

          fruitlessness.

I can’t choose fruitfulness.

     But I can choose what

          leads to it.

Abiding.

The Challenge of Attending to Death – or Anything Else

A couple of months ago, I decided to observe Lent by giving time every day to the consideration of the day of my death. I had hoped, thereby, to prepare my heart for the wonder of the Easter season, knowing that the soul which does not embrace the reality of death is unable to fully grasp the wonder of life – much less, resurrection life.

It was more challenging than I expected.

The daily grind wore down my resolve quickly. I discovered, again for the first time, how difficult it is to be where I am, and to pay attention to what is needful in the moment. I am distracted by trivial things – tasks to be done some other time or not at all, inane questions come and gone without answer, curiosity piqued but not long enough to be satisfied… so it goes, day after day after day. And then there are the endless streams of must-sees on social media – videos that promise a tear or a life-change or a moment’s laughter – articles exposing the shenanigans of Washington or Wall Street – the latest exposé out of Hollywood. And, perhaps most sadly, the vicious takedowns of disciples of Jesus by other disciples of Jesus who have apparently concluded that the former are a menace to the Kingdom and must be shamed for all their ostensible embrace of heresy.

I discovered that it takes a lot of energy to pay attention.

What was happening around me seemed always more interesting than what was happening in me. No wonder conforming is easier than transforming. An idea, even a good one, has little chance against a ringing bell. A thought, not yet formed to idea, even less. I suppose that someday I will have gotten good enough at paying attention that the distractions will not be so distracting. But, until then, I am thinking that silence around is the best environment to hear the silence within.

This would suggest that absence is the best preparation for presence – that separation is necessary for engagement – that distance makes way for intimacy. It is only in being still, that we will come to know.

Leading Into Dying

Looking back, it is almost impossible to miss the strategy building toward death. But, as is so often the case, the power of the moments overwhelm their meaning. Coming into Jerusalem by the old road at the beginning of the Holy Week leading to Passover on the very day the Passover Lamb would have been chosen for the up coming remembrance, Jesus had to have been conscious of the deep irony – different for him than for anyone else in the crowd. For the crowds, Passover was the celebration of liberation from Egypt – the birthday of Israel as a nation. Jesus’ reputation had clearly preceded him – and the streets were lined with aspirational well-wishers, casting their hopes along with their cloaks on to the street in front of him.

The palm branches, which in popular memory celebrated the Jewish victory of Judas Maccabeus over their oppressors a century and a half before, were a clear challenge to the Roman occupying force. Perhaps the crowds were so caught up in their frenzied longing for help from this new deliverer Messiah, their Hosanna’s echoing along the narrow streets heralding His entrance, that they didn’t notice He was riding on a donkey – a lowly beast of burden. He knew Who He was and would be true to Himself until the very end.

It must have surprised more than a few that, instead of confronting the Roman legions, Jesus made His way into the temple – and cleared the Court of the Gentiles. Instead of being a place in which the Gentiles could come and pray, it had become a place of business. And shady business at that, as unscrupulous merchants charged a premium to the out-of-towners purchasing animals for sacrifice. Apparently the rituals of worship for the faithful were not to be allowed to exclude the stranger and alien; they, too, had a place in which they could come before the Father. The salvation He came to bring would not leave anyone out. Besides, by week’s end, the animal sacrifices would not be needed any longer.

His answer to the calls for deliverance were to be answered on a much deeper level than they imagined – and perhaps more than they wanted. The expectation of deliverance in the way we think best tends to blind us to the wonder of deliverance in any other way. So much so that, along with the rest of the crowd, we might well find ourselves in a few days time, turning on the One to Whom we had first called for help!

Until I have fully come to terms with the fact of my dying, I won’t be ready for any salvation which does not promise to extend what I think is living. That, perhaps, is why it is so hard to keep thinking – even occasionally – about the day of my death. To do so would be to remind me of Jesus’ gracious invitation to join Him as He courageously leads the way to Death. The only way to Life.

Hosanna! Save Us!

Desert Days

There are few places that appear less supportive of life than the desert. Lack of moisture is, after all, what makes a desert. And moisture is essential for life. There are, however, degrees of desert - it does not take a whole lot of moisture to sustain some kinds of life. Since the wanderings of Israel, the desert has been a place of testing, of proving. The austerity of the external sharpens focus on the inner.  A wilderness defined by lack, a barrenness that brings nothing but demands much, presses hard against whatever it was that you brought with you into it. It wrings out whatever is in. And then goes back for more.

No wonder then, if we follow Jesus at all closely, we often find ourselves in a desert - in a place of testing, of proving. And, no wonder, when we do, that it is often the same things that get tested in us as were in Him. The scene begins as, water still dripping from His beard, black eyes alight with the life of the life of the newly born, He hears the declaration from the heavens, "This is my beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased." And, in the next moment, the Holy Spirit descends and rests upon Him - confirming and empowering Him for all that it means to be a loved and pleasing Son.

It gives pause to note that Jesus was driven out into the desert by the Holy Spirit - and, specifically, to be tested. The satan presses in, as is his job, on the core issue of identity - testing, refining, proving. "If you are the Son of God..." So begins the challenge - but only after 40 days of the strength training provided by feasting on nothing but the Word of God. By this time, Jesus is so solid in Who He is that the exchange, were the stakes not so high, almost assumes a cartoon like quality. The three challenges prove that he brought much to the desert with Him - and that, wrung out, it remains pure. He doesn't need to prove Who He is by turning stones into bread. He doesn't need to make the Father prove Who He is by rescuing Him. And, perhaps most important of all, He doesn't need to avoid the pain, the price, the destiny of Who He is, bypassing the cross on the way to Lordship over the world and all its kingdoms.

And so, in these desert days of the consideration of the moment of my death, I am challenged to hear the Voice of the Father, and to remember who I am because of what I hear.