Julian of Norwich and Hope

Hope is not looking on the bright side of things, although looking on the bright side doesn't hurt. Hope is not optimism. Optimism predicts that things are going to be okay. Hope is something different. When I think about hope it is helpful for me to reference Julian of Norwich. For her Hope always rests not on the circumstances of our life, but on who God is and who God has promised to be. One of my most treasured lines from Julian is the following:


“If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me. But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.”

A good friend of mine and one of the greatest teachers I ever studied with, Amy Laura Hall, recently wrote a wise and wonderful book on Julian of Norwich. I had the privilege of reviewing it here.

The book is a powerful reflection on what Julian's theology means to our present moment and Julian's work becomes all the more prescient in the time of an epidemic. Julian was writing in the shadow of the great plague. Her own window into the sufferings of Jesus were shaped in part by her own travail of sickness.

Julian insists that Christians see God as not only "all powerful" and "all knowing," but also as all-loving (Hall calls this God's omniamnity) In Julian's words:

"Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending."

That God is ALL LOVE provides a shape to Christian Hope. Julian's hope is a significant departure from a vision of Christian hope that merely relies on an account of God's power and providence. Hall claims that a vision of Christian hope that places all its eggs in the eschatological basket (things will work out in the end) downplays the drama and the beauty of each individual life. What Hall's account of Julian seeks to recover is the deep personalism of God. Julian envision a God who is powerful enough to hold the entire world like a woman holding a hazelnut, but who is also present with us in each breath and through each of our very human sighs.

As Julian writes in a well known passage:

"He shewed me a little thing, the quantity of an hazel-nut, in the palm of my hand; and it was as round as a ball. I looked thereupon with eye of my understanding, and thought: What may this be? And it was answered generally thus: It is all that is made. I marvelled how it might last, for methought it might suddenly have fallen to naught for little. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasteth, and ever shall for that God loveth it. And so All-thing hath the Being by the love of God."


Hope is not founded only on an eschatological promise that God will make a way for all creation to be with God at some future moment. Hope also rests in the assurance that God is even RIGHT now loving us each into being--each breath we breathe in God and through God.

Hope is not simply looking on the bright side of things and yet I cannot deny that to be hopeful is to be constantly looking for signs of God presence within us and all around. As Jesus would say: look to the lilies of the field; look to the sparrow and remember somehow that God has counted all the hairs on your head.

Finally, something that I am really struggling with is this: is hope something that we do? Or, rather, is hope something that God accomplishes within us? I think that it must be the latter. For Julian hope rest in the absolute fact of the universe that despite all evidence to the contrary that God holds us all firmly and that God has never and will never let us go.

I will find hope in this even if I am not optimistic.

Samuel and Samwise Gamgee

Sam is anxious. This is understandable; we are all anxious. He has had more questions lately when we
say things like the "border is closed." I don't want to worry him, but you can't stifle anxiety or completely soothe it. His older siblings have tried telling him that kids aren't as likely to get really sick (which has led to unhelpful conversations about which one of us might get the most sick.)

Last night I decided on another tactic for dealing with his anxiety. We started watching The Lord of the Rings together. This is not necessarily an obvious choice as it is quite scary, but sometimes you make a judgment call. I am not a exactly a super fan of the Lord of the Rings. I read the books in college. Doug and I read the books to each other while driving across the US when we were first married. I watched the movies in theaters when they came out, but I am not a Stephen Colbert level fan.

But we did name Samuel after Samwise Gamgee.

I think he is a really astonishing character and quite an example of courage.

Samwise has no desire to partake in adventures. He doesn't want to leave the Shire or the comforts of his life there.
What drives him to accompany Frodo on this perilous journey with the ring is friendship and fidelity.

I have treasured these stories so much because they reminded me of why I wanted to become a Mennonite. The world's redemption does not depend
on the brave exploits of armies or wizards. It depends on two little hobbits shaped by a strange set of commitment: a love of simplicity, and home, and each other, shaped by a disdain of power that is exercised over other people. Because of these qualities it is only Hobbits who are able to bear the ring on its perilous journey to Mt Doom to be destroyed. All the other creatures of Middle Earth would be tempted to use the ring.

Hobbits are unlikely heroes and Samwise is an unlikely hobbit to be a hero.

But he has great lines.

And it is because of one of his speeches that I decided that perhaps the best way to help confront Sam's anxiousness is by watching an epic adventure together. Here is Sam encouraging Frodo to keep going:

“I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

We want our kids to be safe, but the world is not safe and so sometimes we all need to be reminded to brave.

This is why we will also being doing church together. The Bible is a book filled with people trying their best to be brave and hopeful: itinerating with Jesus, trying to walk on water, heading towards tombs guarded by soldiers, resisting imperial edicts, singing in prisons, offering strangers the last bread and oil, protecting bitter mother in laws, facing fiery furnaces.

It isn't a safe book filled with little moral tidbits.

In Scripture as Karl Barth writes:

We are offered the magnificent, productive, hopeful life of a grain of seed, a new beginning, out of which all things shall be made new. One cannot learn or imitate this life of the divine seed in the new world. One can only let it live, grow, and ripen within him. One can only believe — can only hold the ground whither he has been led.


While we read our newspapers and our twitter feeds and see all the reasons there are for fear, may we also be telling ourselves stories familiar and old that remind us that we can be brave.

On sleepless nights and courage

I have woken up the last few nights at 3:16 am.

Seeing the same time three nights in a row made me think of the Fred Roger's documentary I saw recently. He weighed 143 lbs. most of his adult life and every time he saw the scale he would recall the phrase "I love you" -- I (1) Love (4) You (3). He saw this as a reminder of God's love.


When I once again saw 3:16 flashing at me it reminded me of the ubiquitous verse from John:


For God so Love the World that God gave God's only begotten son.


I find in interesting that Fred Rogers looked and found signs for God's accompaniment in mundane signs. What would it mean for me to be more attentive to God's words of comfort and presence breaking in all around me? Would it do me some good as I lay awake: fearful of the darkness of the world and of my own life to turn to these words from John? The words echo strong and familiar always in my memory in the King James Version: only begotten, whosoever, believeth, shall not perish...

I confess that I don't spend a lot of time thinking about "everlasting life." I do spend a lot of time thinking about God's love and what it means to be held by God's love. I believe very fervently in love's redeeming power and that love is able to make a way where there is no way. And it is not that I don't believe in "life eternal." I just don't think about it that much. But maybe I should more. Christianity isn't just a big bag of metaphors. If it is going to matter for my dark nights or anyone's dark night it needs to offer more than just vague promises of community and toothless moralism. Everything that is really, truly worth loving is worth dying for. . . and since that cost is so searing and final there really does need to be more on offer than what this life can give.


And so today I will be praying for the doctors, nurses, hospital cleaning staff, people at the checkouts of grocery stores and pharmacies who are putting their health and lives on the line for other people.

We owe so much to those people who are willing to transcend self-interest and at times like these we are reminded that there can be no morality or goodness or truth without courage.

And I will try to be a bit more brave for my children and for other people who need me to be brave.

And I will look for for cracks in the universe where God might be trying to whisper words of direction and comfort to me.

And yet....

One thing that I keep thinking about that story of Fred Rogers is that there had to have been a day when the scales stopped reading 143. When his cancer advanced...

as he neared death...

When there were no comforting signs in the world around.

And so..

If you can't see God anywhere in any of this... that is okay too.

For right now, I am trying to rest in God's promise in John 3:16

God will be with us beyond the end.

A Crossroads

"Jodie, how many times have I told you.  I don't want to go to church."  These were the words of my Mother the last time she left the family home.  We were taking her to the hospital, but in her confusion she reached for the one place I was always trying to force her towards. It was Boxing Day.  Alongside her dementia she had a severe kidney infection.  My Dad, had called, late on Christmas Day to say that he couldn't care for my Mom anymore.  In the next week, we would discover that Dad needed a quadruple bypass.

That January the health of my parents ebbed and flowed.  I thought at times that I would lose them both.  By the end of January my Mom was gone and my Dad was recovering, ever so tentatively, from his surgery.  

It was at my Mother's bedside, in those critical weeks, that I would first hear the adult version of my call to the ministry.  

When I was a young girl I heard God's call, but I also heard the voice of the minister at my summer camp telling me that God would not call a women.

This calling at my Mother's bedside was different. More a statement of identity than of aspiration.  I was a mediator, a priest.  This was not a job to pursue, this was  a way of being--an orientation that I couldn't escape.

The first 20 years of my life.... I worked so hard to balance commitments that felt at times impossible to reconcile.  My parents--who I loved so deeply--who wanted nothing to do with the church AND my own deep, crazy and passionate love of Jesus.  

Both my parents are gone now.  

Another cold and dark January brings me to another crossroads--a juncture where I feel an excruciating heartbrokenness regarding the church.

The church was always a place of solace and safety for me.  

And yet, at times, I also felt like the church, which would glibly say that my parents were eternally damned, demanded that I abandon and forsake my deepest loves.

What the church offered instead was its claim to righteousness and justice.

And at the time, I was willing to surrender everything for a taste of this other world of God's reign within this world.

............ 

My Dad was never lauded as some holy man.   He made many mistakes in his life.  Yet, for ten years he gently, conscientiously, carefully cared for my Mother.  Comforting her fearful nights, filling her days with pleasant diversions, defending her when people belittled her  --noting that "she was the smartest woman he had ever known and she would be treated with respect." 

------------

The church has demanded much from me-- using the words of Jesus.  Asking me to abandon kith and kin.

AND

I love the church, but not more than vulnerable love.

I love the church,  but not more than the truth

I love the church, but not more than the severe and tireless love of self sacrifice and courage.

And so I sit at this crossroads: 

Knowing that the truth lies somewhere betwixt and between 

more, perhaps,  in the Gospel preached by my parent's broken faithful love than in the glib promises of a church that refuses to lay down its own life and its own reputation.

And I am bereft.

Grief--some reflections

How to measure my 40 years?  January 30th marks the 8th anniversary of my Mom's death. This year the shadow of my Dad's death eclipsed my yearly remembrance.  This year has been one of almost wordless grief.  I spoke haltingly of the love that bound my Mom and Dad together.  Of the way in which they were able to make a crooked little farm on the backroads of Buckley, MI a place of grace.

How to speak meaningfully about any of this?    When my Mom died... . it was like the universe spoke to me everywhere I turned.  She was gone and yet I saw her everywhere.  Inflected through the poetry of my own heart.... and sinew;  She was there is my own sense of beauty and goodness and justice.  Now that my Dad is gone it is just this ever-expanding distance....  I feel like I am hurtling through time and space--the distance between us grows deeper each day.  I don't know why these experiences of loss are so different.  

In my dreams my Dad would come to me and tell me that I needed to fix the house.  A few nights ago I had a dream so overwhelming real of meeting my Dad in the living room of the house in Buckley that it cast a glow over my entire day.

Our love was a love of few words and little philosophy.  It is hard to imagine what it means to go on without his body, without his voice....  

It is hard to know how to go on without the little everyday sacraments he was always providing.  In my cupboard I still have a "just add water" Mocha that he bought me a month before he died.  He knew I didn't like the instant Maxwell House coffee he made every morning and he wanted to find something that I would like....  

Indeed, when he came to our house the Christmas before last he bought us a new coffee makersbecause ours had gone caput.  I still have one brown mug left that he bought me three Christmases ago.  I don't know if I should use this mug or put it away.   What will I do when the coffee maker he bought breaks down?  It is a stunning thought!  

(I can imagine that there are poets who are skillful enough to help me understand what it will mean when that little electric heart in my kitchen stops beating.  For now, I cannot bear the thought.)

For most of my life, I have tried to live into my Mom's world--it was a world of words (I didn't understand), her almost mystical depths of illness and brilliance.  Certainly her world was resistant to me;  I cannot encompass what her life meant--and yet, I could gesture towards a meaning.  And now, here I stand-- trying to comprehend the world my Dad loved-- and it remains a bit out of my reach.  What meaning is this?  Meaning that is caught up in rightly placed nails, in webs of loves spoken through anxiety, in a joyful over-acceptance of the physical, and practical, and day-to-day.   

I suppose it might all boil down to this: when I was a baby it was my Father who would wake in the middle of the night to feed me.  My Mom had told him about her post-partum psychosis (with previous pregnancies) and so my Dad took up the long and lonely task of comforting me in the middle of the night.  I only learned this when I was in college and it helped to explain a theretofore unexplainable mystery.  I noticed when I doodled--in the margins of my notebook--or wherever--that I would mindlessly write "Jodie is a good, good girl."  This was the cause of a kind of fervent sheepishness for me.  That is... until, just after Johanna was born.  When my Dad first met Johanna he took her into his arm and began to sing to her:  "Johanna is a good, good girl;  good good girl; good good girl;  Johanna is a good good girl" (to the tune of Mary had a little Lamb.) 

So here was the  source of the words that lie deepest in my sub-conscious.  

How do we cope with the loss of the ground of our being?  Not the ultimate ground, but certainly the proximate one?

There are only so many ways to speak about our lives--say that it is a journey and that we must leave behind our fellow travelers on the way.  Say that it is a trial...  Say that this sojourn doesn't count  in the ultimate scheme of things.   And yet, there simply aren't words powerful enough to encapsulate what one life means to another. ... and certainly words cannot describe what it means for one life to be held and sustained in its first darknesses by another.  Word simply fail us.  

This silence.  This silence that renders me speechless-- speaks --I suppose-- to that love that I can't name because it precedes me--forming my form, identifying my identity.  It is no wonder that in grieving its loss that I feel like I just might be undone.  

Christmas

I have never before had such a broken heart at Christmas.

I tend to look forward to Christmas all year long.  When I am dealing with hard life stuff in--let's say in late August--I often look forward to Advent.  In the last several years as I have dealt with grief over the loss of my vocation, or the death of my Mother, or a general sense of malaise--I have looked forward to these weeks in December.

This year Christmas keeps ripping the scab off of my soul.

When I was a child,  I never experienced big family Christmases.  My Grandparents were all gone.  My parents were estranged from their brothers and sisters or geographically removed.  My half siblings never came for Christmas Day.

Christmas was about my Mom, Dad, me, and for many years my brother Blake.

When I was young there was almost a ghastly amount of presents.  My Mom was poor as child and my Dad always tried to make it up to her at Christmas.

My Dad's love language was "gift giving."  I know, I know, consumerism is one of the many vices of Christmas, but my Dad made gift giving ebullient.  He would buy so many presents that the bottom of the tree would become invisible. We wouldn't be able to use the front door.  My Mom would receive this packaged love with all the delight of a child.  She would  wake us up at the crack of dawn with a cow bell to open our presents.  She would delight in the jewelry, the art supplies, the underwear.

There were always presents  from Santa, and the cats Fats and Skinny, and from Mom and Dad.
.
Three of the last four years my Dad has spent Christmas with us.  Last year it was all sort of desultory.  We were struggling a bit with money.  We were overwhelmed a little by all the new demands of the pastorate.

But, all-in-all, these years were magical--especially Christmas four years ago when my Dad arrived to Chicago by train.  He was in such good spirits!  When he arrived the toddler Sam guided him to the Christmas Tree and he remained for 10 days, making pies, preparing roast beef, shopping for presents, watching endless re-runs of Gilligan's Island and Matlock with Simeon.  It was all so utterly beautiful. Last year had its hiccups, but it ended with a lovely drive along Lake Huron where we made plans to spend the night in Marine City the following Christmas.  There was a little theatre downtown playing "Its a Wonderful Life" and a ferry to Canada.

I can hardly put words to my sense of loss this Christmas!

Earlier this week I attended the funeral of the ideal Mennonite man and Father.  It was beautiful.  He was exemplary.  Yet, in the context of my faith community, I keep struggling for words to describe my Father.   I keep struggling to find a way to describe how loved he always made me feel, how safe!  I struggle to find words to describe how much he loved my Mother.  How his faithful love allowed her to live with a terrifying mental illness.  I struggle to find words to describe the quality of delight that he took--in stories, presents, exploration and novelty.  I have been trained in my faith community to see the love my Dad provide as so fleeting--so many trinkets and baubles, at best as a kind of holding it together despite bad circumstances.  

I would not be able to claim him as the upstanding Gentleman so revered.   Somehow this just makes the grief worse.  I was able to find the words to affirm aggressively what my Mother meant to me--some how I cannot find the right words for my Father.

I do not know how to speak adequately of either my love or my grief.

I enter his Advent genuinely needing something that I cannot provide for myself.  Needing something that I am not entirely sure that my heart can bear.

Holy Saturday (10/15/2017)

I walked the trail by my house
on the day between being with you
and returning to you.

It began to rain and the gaps
between the trees were wide
It was early Spring 

And so I was startled by
a wild turkey. 
To come so near
this skittish creature.

You always delighted to see them in the fields 
you always spotted them before me.

Did this mean something
or nothing?
I don’t remember 
Though it stared back at me like
a prophet.

I came upon
a non-Evergreen tree filled with
Christmas ornaments

 I plucked one 
holding the points against the tenderness
of my palm
anticipating Christmas coming
without you.

When I arrived at church
I served myself communion
having missed Good Friday
traveling from you.

It was quiet in the church and empty.
But it was not cold.