He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which someone took and planted in a field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.”
He told them still another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds of flour until it worked all through the dough.”
Jesus spoke all these things to the crowd in parables; he did not say anything to them without using a parable. So was fulfilled what was spoken through the prophet:
“I will open my mouth in parables,
I will utter things hidden since the creation of the world.”
(Matt. 13:31 - 35, NIV)
The two short parables in today's reading, taken from Matthew 13:31 - 35, subtly depict situations of scandal. The mustard tree (or bush, depending on which commentary you read), was an undesirable plant that most persons would prefer to root out of their field or garden.
Yeast was a symbol of that which was unclean and generally unwanted. (Note that the Jewish festival celebrated "Unleavened Bread," not "leavened bread.") The presence of yeast was scandalous.
Yet, these two undesirable elements are likened in differing ways to the kingdom of heaven.
The first image has often been misrepresented in preaching and teaching. Matthew records Jesus' words, not as, "the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed," but as, "the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and planted in a field." While there may be connections between the mustard seed and the kingdom of heaven (the tiny seed having influence beyond its proportionate size), at least here, Jesus connects the kingdom of heaven to the entire process of planting the mustard seed in a field.
In other words, it is not enough to hold a mustard seed in your hands and say, "this is what the kingdom of heaven is like." No, the kingdom of heaven is like holding that scandalous seed, and then throwing the seed where it does not seem to belong, where you would not want it, where the seed does not seem to fit.
As an undesirable plant, one that has a corrupting influence on its surroundings, it will take over. [I wonder if mustard trees/shrubs were the "kudzu" of the Ancient Near East. Kudzu is the invasive vine that has taken over much of the Southeastern United States over the past couple of decades. I saw a couple of acres of kudzu last weekend on a road trip through rural Arkansas, and was reminded of its corrupting, invasive nature. It had overtaken trees, telephone polls, and even houses alongside the highway.]
So the kingdom of heaven is likened to the act of putting something small and subversive where it doesn't seem to belong . . . planted into human lives . . . tossed into political systems . . . sown into social dynamics . . . dropped into vocational decisions . . . this small seed gets thrown into places it doesn't seem to belong and it begins to alter the shape of those realities in what some might consider perverse or counter ways.
The seed of this kingdom is sown in me . . . in humans . . . in the landscape of the world. The act of sowing, planting, throwing, and scattering is an unmistakable part of the kingdom of heaven, so that the scandal of the kingdom is embedded where it does not seem to fit.
I am a sojourner on a life-long journey, moving both inward and outward, exploring both my own inner landscape and the terrain in which others live. While still moving into the center, I'm also stretching toward the edges. These reflections trace some of my exploration.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Monday, July 23, 2018
When Death Comes
I wrote last week about the Dylan Thomas poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" (you can read the poem and the post about it below). Thomas urged, according to some who know his life and work better than I, approaching death with "rage" and with a kicking-and-screaming resistance. The poem references his dying father, though Thomas may have intended to portray his own stance toward death.
Rather than adopt Thomas' words literally, I've approached the poem's encouragement to rage and resistance as an invitation to ongoing life, creativity, and exploration, even to breath's end. For myself, I hear: "Don't stop living, don't give up your exploration, don't stop becoming, even in the face of death."
I think of my dear friend Paul, a gentle soul who did not literally "rage," but who continued to explore his own unique path right to the moment when the darkness suddenly and unexpectedly consumed him. He was not a "rager" in any way, no anger in him that I could see. He was a lover, yet full of questions that could not be answered. But Paul's doubt was an honest doubt. It wasn't showy doubt, or doubt for the sake of doubt. He had honest questions about God and life. But every day he gave himself to a core practice of prayer and meditation. He faithfully kept searching, even in his questioning.
When I talked with him, he was never interested in convincing me of anything. He had no agenda in which he needed "converts" to his own intricate pattern of belief and unbelief. He simply loved in his gentle way. I always felt that Paul's spirit in the world was healing, so great was his capacity to love without condition. Up to his last day, he honestly explored what, for him, were the big questions of life. And he did so with love. When he died suddenly, he left a huge void in the world . . . a loss of his presence, his love, his questions, and his healing.
I think of another dear friend currently in hospice care. She is not literally raging while in palliative care in Houston, but she is exploring this new threshold fully. She is not passive nor idle. As her sister said to me recently, in life she taught us how to live, and now as another threshold approaches she is teaching us how to die. Even now, she is centered by a daily practice of sitting prayer and meditation. She is held, not in rage, but in ongoing exploration, in her continual creative impulse to live the one life which she has been given, and in her openness as she moves through this season of her life.
She has been my spiritual guide for decades, and has been the wise soul of the spiritual landscape in Southeast Texas, as well as within her own religious order. She has guided us in life, and now she is guiding us as she approaches a different threshold . . . not by a kicking-and-screaming rage, but by her own life centered in the heart of God.
Both of these friends have embodied in their journeys what Mary Oliver has written in her poem, "When Death Comes." For me the poem is a statement of intention about becoming, searching, questioning, and exploring right up to the end of life. Never angry or raging, Mary Oliver in the poem simply invites an explorer's heart that carries one to the final threshold.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press]
Rather than adopt Thomas' words literally, I've approached the poem's encouragement to rage and resistance as an invitation to ongoing life, creativity, and exploration, even to breath's end. For myself, I hear: "Don't stop living, don't give up your exploration, don't stop becoming, even in the face of death."
I think of my dear friend Paul, a gentle soul who did not literally "rage," but who continued to explore his own unique path right to the moment when the darkness suddenly and unexpectedly consumed him. He was not a "rager" in any way, no anger in him that I could see. He was a lover, yet full of questions that could not be answered. But Paul's doubt was an honest doubt. It wasn't showy doubt, or doubt for the sake of doubt. He had honest questions about God and life. But every day he gave himself to a core practice of prayer and meditation. He faithfully kept searching, even in his questioning.
When I talked with him, he was never interested in convincing me of anything. He had no agenda in which he needed "converts" to his own intricate pattern of belief and unbelief. He simply loved in his gentle way. I always felt that Paul's spirit in the world was healing, so great was his capacity to love without condition. Up to his last day, he honestly explored what, for him, were the big questions of life. And he did so with love. When he died suddenly, he left a huge void in the world . . . a loss of his presence, his love, his questions, and his healing.
I think of another dear friend currently in hospice care. She is not literally raging while in palliative care in Houston, but she is exploring this new threshold fully. She is not passive nor idle. As her sister said to me recently, in life she taught us how to live, and now as another threshold approaches she is teaching us how to die. Even now, she is centered by a daily practice of sitting prayer and meditation. She is held, not in rage, but in ongoing exploration, in her continual creative impulse to live the one life which she has been given, and in her openness as she moves through this season of her life.
She has been my spiritual guide for decades, and has been the wise soul of the spiritual landscape in Southeast Texas, as well as within her own religious order. She has guided us in life, and now she is guiding us as she approaches a different threshold . . . not by a kicking-and-screaming rage, but by her own life centered in the heart of God.
Both of these friends have embodied in their journeys what Mary Oliver has written in her poem, "When Death Comes." For me the poem is a statement of intention about becoming, searching, questioning, and exploring right up to the end of life. Never angry or raging, Mary Oliver in the poem simply invites an explorer's heart that carries one to the final threshold.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press]
Friday, July 20, 2018
Do Not Go Gentle
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
[From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions]
Long ago I made peace with my own level of comfort with darkness. It's not that I like nor prefer the dark to the light, but over time I found, through life experience -- including joblessness, disease, and relational discord -- that I was not scared by the darkness. I discovered something within my interior unwilling to make a "whatever-it-takes-to-get-rid-of-darkness" deal to provide temporary relief. I've learned a lot about God, myself, and life in the darkness. I seldom enjoy it, but I have made some sort of friendship with it, awkward as it may be.
So I was drawn this week to the Dylan Thomas poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night." I'm not so very familiar with Thomas nor his poetry. It is easy enough to find basic information about him, his life, and his poetry online. He lived a rugged, tumultuous life from what I have read, and apparently drank himself to death, literally. This poem references his father's pending death, while also likely including a good bit of autobiography.
Some commentaries on the poem propose that Thomas advocates a "kicking and screaming" approach to darkness and death, a kind of literal rage. Knowing something of his life, Thomas may indeed suggest a "raging-against" stance toward life's end.
I wonder, however, if rage is the wisest, most life-giving approach to the darkness. Darkness comes to each of us. Death will claim all of us. Rather, "rage" may more richly suggest a stance which does not lie down before the darkness, a posture in which even the darkness does not shut down abundant life. Perhaps the poem's wisdom moves us toward a way of continuing onward in creative living, even when life is shrouded in tumult. Do not go gentle, keep exploring, do not give up your own true self, do not stop creating, move toward your next discovery . . .
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
[From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions]
Long ago I made peace with my own level of comfort with darkness. It's not that I like nor prefer the dark to the light, but over time I found, through life experience -- including joblessness, disease, and relational discord -- that I was not scared by the darkness. I discovered something within my interior unwilling to make a "whatever-it-takes-to-get-rid-of-darkness" deal to provide temporary relief. I've learned a lot about God, myself, and life in the darkness. I seldom enjoy it, but I have made some sort of friendship with it, awkward as it may be.
So I was drawn this week to the Dylan Thomas poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night." I'm not so very familiar with Thomas nor his poetry. It is easy enough to find basic information about him, his life, and his poetry online. He lived a rugged, tumultuous life from what I have read, and apparently drank himself to death, literally. This poem references his father's pending death, while also likely including a good bit of autobiography.
Some commentaries on the poem propose that Thomas advocates a "kicking and screaming" approach to darkness and death, a kind of literal rage. Knowing something of his life, Thomas may indeed suggest a "raging-against" stance toward life's end.
I wonder, however, if rage is the wisest, most life-giving approach to the darkness. Darkness comes to each of us. Death will claim all of us. Rather, "rage" may more richly suggest a stance which does not lie down before the darkness, a posture in which even the darkness does not shut down abundant life. Perhaps the poem's wisdom moves us toward a way of continuing onward in creative living, even when life is shrouded in tumult. Do not go gentle, keep exploring, do not give up your own true self, do not stop creating, move toward your next discovery . . .
Friday, July 6, 2018
A Brief Meditation: Matthew 9:1-8
Jesus stepped into a boat, crossed over and came to his own town. Some people brought to him a paralyzed man, lying on a mat. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the man, “Take heart, son; your sins are forgiven.”
At this, some of the teachers of the law said to themselves, “This fellow is blaspheming!”
Knowing their thoughts, Jesus said, “Why do you entertain evil thoughts in your hearts? Which is easier: to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up and walk’? But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.” So he said to the paralyzed man, “Get up, take your mat and go home.” Then the man got up and went home. When the crowd saw this, they were filled with awe; and they praised God, who had given such authority to man.
(Matt. 9:1-8)
FOR CONSIDERATION
Notice that Jesus responds to the faith of those who carried the paralyzed man, not the faith of the man himself. Consider what this means for you.
*Consider one or two times you felt spiritually dry or empty . . . perhaps a period of depression or a season of "wandering in the wilderness" . . . and in that place, you were "carried" by the faith or prayers of someone around you.
What did it feel like to have little faith of your own or little sense of your own connection to God?
Who was the person(s) who "carried" you through that season?
What response of love might you make today for the generosity of that other person?
*Consider a time when someone around you had little faith or little sense of their own connection to God. Perhaps, in some small way, you "carried" that person with your love, prayer, or mercy until he or she could get back to their feet.
What led you to kindness for this other person who was "paralyzed"?
In what manner did the other person respond to you as you "carried" him or her?
What might be God's invitation to you for today as you think about this event from the past?
Notice that the story deals with a man who was paralyzed. His paralysis was a physical condition, but it must have been impacted by some spiritual undercurrent, because Jesus first addresses his spiritual need for release or wholeness: "Your sins are forgiven."
While not everyone experiences physical paralysis, every human knows the experience of emotional, social, or spiritual paralysis.
We may experience paralysis from toxic relationships . . .
Fear may paralyze us . . .
We may be paralyzed by our own expectations of God, others, and the world . . .
We may be frozen in place by the way we order our lives . . .
Resentment toward others may paralyze us . . .
Bitterness over past events may paralyze us . . .
*Consider ways in which you feel paralyzed today.
If it helps, use other language, images, or symbols for "paralyzed." For example, what keeps you frozen in place? What hinders you from moving freely on the path on which God has set you? In what room do you feel locked? What are the chains that hold you in place?
Perhaps you would find a creative way to acknowledge your paralysis . . . through some kind of artistic expression . . . or by a bodily posture or gesture that symbolizes your paralysis (a closed fist? . . . stiffened limbs?).
Offer a short prayer for freedom, perhaps something like, "Free me from my fear" or "Loosen the chains of _____ that hold me" or "Unlock the door to this room in which I feel trapped."
At this, some of the teachers of the law said to themselves, “This fellow is blaspheming!”
Knowing their thoughts, Jesus said, “Why do you entertain evil thoughts in your hearts? Which is easier: to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up and walk’? But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.” So he said to the paralyzed man, “Get up, take your mat and go home.” Then the man got up and went home. When the crowd saw this, they were filled with awe; and they praised God, who had given such authority to man.
(Matt. 9:1-8)
FOR CONSIDERATION
Notice that Jesus responds to the faith of those who carried the paralyzed man, not the faith of the man himself. Consider what this means for you.
*Consider one or two times you felt spiritually dry or empty . . . perhaps a period of depression or a season of "wandering in the wilderness" . . . and in that place, you were "carried" by the faith or prayers of someone around you.
What did it feel like to have little faith of your own or little sense of your own connection to God?
Who was the person(s) who "carried" you through that season?
What response of love might you make today for the generosity of that other person?
*Consider a time when someone around you had little faith or little sense of their own connection to God. Perhaps, in some small way, you "carried" that person with your love, prayer, or mercy until he or she could get back to their feet.
What led you to kindness for this other person who was "paralyzed"?
In what manner did the other person respond to you as you "carried" him or her?
What might be God's invitation to you for today as you think about this event from the past?
Notice that the story deals with a man who was paralyzed. His paralysis was a physical condition, but it must have been impacted by some spiritual undercurrent, because Jesus first addresses his spiritual need for release or wholeness: "Your sins are forgiven."
While not everyone experiences physical paralysis, every human knows the experience of emotional, social, or spiritual paralysis.
We may experience paralysis from toxic relationships . . .
Fear may paralyze us . . .
We may be paralyzed by our own expectations of God, others, and the world . . .
We may be frozen in place by the way we order our lives . . .
Resentment toward others may paralyze us . . .
Bitterness over past events may paralyze us . . .
*Consider ways in which you feel paralyzed today.
If it helps, use other language, images, or symbols for "paralyzed." For example, what keeps you frozen in place? What hinders you from moving freely on the path on which God has set you? In what room do you feel locked? What are the chains that hold you in place?
Perhaps you would find a creative way to acknowledge your paralysis . . . through some kind of artistic expression . . . or by a bodily posture or gesture that symbolizes your paralysis (a closed fist? . . . stiffened limbs?).
Offer a short prayer for freedom, perhaps something like, "Free me from my fear" or "Loosen the chains of _____ that hold me" or "Unlock the door to this room in which I feel trapped."