Kiss Still Works
November 17, 2008
What has been lost is the true beholding of
the light from the inner eyes. Grace is given
to heal that inner sight, to open our eyes
again to the goodness that is deep within us,
for God is within us. The grace of Christ
restores us to our original simplicity.
Eriugena
If you bring forth what is within you,
What you bring forth will save you.
The Gospel of Thomas
I stand by the bed where the young woman
lies, her face post-operative, her
mouth twisted in palsy, clownish. A tiny twig
of the facial nerve, the one to the muscles
of her mouth, has been severed.
The surgeon had followed with religious fervor the curve of her flesh; I promise you that. Nevertheless, to remove the tumor in her cheek, I had to cut the little nerve.
Her young husband is in the room. He stands on the opposite side of the bed, and altogether they seem to dwell in the evening lamplight, isolated from me, private.
Who are they, I ask myself, he and this wry mouth I have made, who gaze at and touch each other so generously, greedily?
The young woman speaks. 'Will my mouth always be like this?' She asks.
'Yes,' I say, 'it will. It is because the nerve was cut.'
She nods and is silent.
But the young man smiles. 'I like it,' he says. 'It is kind of cute.'
All at once I know who he is. I understand, and lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with a god. Unmindful, he bends to kiss her crooked mouth, and I am so close, I can see how he twists his own lips to accommodate to hers, to show her that their kiss still works. ( Richard Selzer)
This past weekend I led a conference in northern Arkansas (at "the mountain," Mount Sequoyah), where I was filling in for another speaker. So, I inherited the topic and title: Extreme Makeover--God Edition. I need to confess my initial discomfort. Did I have the right things to say? And the word makeover automatically made me wonder what was missing in my life, and why?
To say that makeovers are a fixation in our culture would be, well, one whopper of an understatement, since there are a mere 1700 anti-wrinkle creams on the market. And, we spend 12 billion dollars per year just on those creams to help us look younger. Not that some people couldn't use a little extra-strength ointment, just to help out. Lord knows I could mention some names here and now.
But it's not about the makeover, is it? It's about this cultural full-court press that we are compelled to remake ourselves into someone who will be acceptable. Lovable. Even, one would hope, successful. Because, apparently, whoever we are now, well, that just isn't enough.
So I give in to the latest can't-miss-cream or treadmill or book or seminar that promises to make me spiritually or psychologically state of the art. As if I need to add something to my life to make it okay.
To see the image and goodness of God within us--within me--would be, apparently, too much to ask. At least, not until I've had my "makeover."
That was ingrained in me as a kid, where my church taught me that Grace had a whole lot to do with giving up drinking and smoking and swearing and playing cards and dancing and women. Giving up dancing was easy since I wasn't any good at it. And smoking burned my throat. And drinking a whole bottle of peppermint schnapps once on a dare, made me throw up. And women, well, they just confused me. (And yes, they still do. And any man who tells you otherwise is yanking your chain.)
Long story short, by college, I didn't drink or smoke or swear or play cards or dance or even think about women (okay, I'm lying about that part. I did a lot of thinking--and thought if I was lucky I'd find at least one woman versatile in all those trespasses). So I learned the lingo and played the part. But it had absolutely nothing to do with Grace.
The game plan was simple: getting to heaven. Jesus was like some Travel-Agent-for-Eternity. And my costume? It was window dressing. My uniform for the divine-hall-monitor, my free pass. Anything to keep God from being less than thrilled.
Because in the end, all I was, was afraid. And not just afraid of God. Or eternal damnation. I was afraid of being found out. As a fake. I was afraid of facing the reality that my performance for appearance sake, and some hunt for perfection were booby prizes.
What I needed, was the permission to simply be human.
The permission to know that the Divine kiss of Grace kiss still works.
The permission, to be, just Terry.
It is Autumn cleanup time at "the mountain." Most of the grand old trees have surrendered their leaves, which now cloak every surface. This morning the sun came out and air felt crisp with a breeze steady and refreshing. I sat on a stone wall near the driveway, now a stage for frolicking and dancing leaves. They were oak leaves, the color of a antique copper pennies.
In the breeze, the leaves twirled and cascaded, and played tag along the asphalt.
I kick a pile of leaves, and it makes the sound of brushes on a snare drum set, and it is the music of my childhood, and I smile, even get a little giddy, and in the breeze feel that kiss of acceptance, and know that on this day, it is enough just to be.
"Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness.
It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life.
It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection does not appear, when the old compulsions reign within us as they have for decades, when despair destroys all joy and courage.
Sometime at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying, "You are accepted. You are accepted, accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know.
Do not ask for the name now; perhaps you will find it later.
Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much.
Do not seek for anything, do not perform anything, do not intend anything.
Simply accept the fact that you are accepted.
If that happens to us, we experience grace."
Paul Tillich
The surgeon had followed with religious fervor the curve of her flesh; I promise you that. Nevertheless, to remove the tumor in her cheek, I had to cut the little nerve.
Her young husband is in the room. He stands on the opposite side of the bed, and altogether they seem to dwell in the evening lamplight, isolated from me, private.
Who are they, I ask myself, he and this wry mouth I have made, who gaze at and touch each other so generously, greedily?
The young woman speaks. 'Will my mouth always be like this?' She asks.
'Yes,' I say, 'it will. It is because the nerve was cut.'
She nods and is silent.
But the young man smiles. 'I like it,' he says. 'It is kind of cute.'
All at once I know who he is. I understand, and lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with a god. Unmindful, he bends to kiss her crooked mouth, and I am so close, I can see how he twists his own lips to accommodate to hers, to show her that their kiss still works. ( Richard Selzer)
This past weekend I led a conference in northern Arkansas (at "the mountain," Mount Sequoyah), where I was filling in for another speaker. So, I inherited the topic and title: Extreme Makeover--God Edition. I need to confess my initial discomfort. Did I have the right things to say? And the word makeover automatically made me wonder what was missing in my life, and why?
To say that makeovers are a fixation in our culture would be, well, one whopper of an understatement, since there are a mere 1700 anti-wrinkle creams on the market. And, we spend 12 billion dollars per year just on those creams to help us look younger. Not that some people couldn't use a little extra-strength ointment, just to help out. Lord knows I could mention some names here and now.
But it's not about the makeover, is it? It's about this cultural full-court press that we are compelled to remake ourselves into someone who will be acceptable. Lovable. Even, one would hope, successful. Because, apparently, whoever we are now, well, that just isn't enough.
So I give in to the latest can't-miss-cream or treadmill or book or seminar that promises to make me spiritually or psychologically state of the art. As if I need to add something to my life to make it okay.
To see the image and goodness of God within us--within me--would be, apparently, too much to ask. At least, not until I've had my "makeover."
That was ingrained in me as a kid, where my church taught me that Grace had a whole lot to do with giving up drinking and smoking and swearing and playing cards and dancing and women. Giving up dancing was easy since I wasn't any good at it. And smoking burned my throat. And drinking a whole bottle of peppermint schnapps once on a dare, made me throw up. And women, well, they just confused me. (And yes, they still do. And any man who tells you otherwise is yanking your chain.)
Long story short, by college, I didn't drink or smoke or swear or play cards or dance or even think about women (okay, I'm lying about that part. I did a lot of thinking--and thought if I was lucky I'd find at least one woman versatile in all those trespasses). So I learned the lingo and played the part. But it had absolutely nothing to do with Grace.
The game plan was simple: getting to heaven. Jesus was like some Travel-Agent-for-Eternity. And my costume? It was window dressing. My uniform for the divine-hall-monitor, my free pass. Anything to keep God from being less than thrilled.
Because in the end, all I was, was afraid. And not just afraid of God. Or eternal damnation. I was afraid of being found out. As a fake. I was afraid of facing the reality that my performance for appearance sake, and some hunt for perfection were booby prizes.
What I needed, was the permission to simply be human.
The permission to know that the Divine kiss of Grace kiss still works.
The permission, to be, just Terry.
It is Autumn cleanup time at "the mountain." Most of the grand old trees have surrendered their leaves, which now cloak every surface. This morning the sun came out and air felt crisp with a breeze steady and refreshing. I sat on a stone wall near the driveway, now a stage for frolicking and dancing leaves. They were oak leaves, the color of a antique copper pennies.
In the breeze, the leaves twirled and cascaded, and played tag along the asphalt.
I kick a pile of leaves, and it makes the sound of brushes on a snare drum set, and it is the music of my childhood, and I smile, even get a little giddy, and in the breeze feel that kiss of acceptance, and know that on this day, it is enough just to be.
"Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness.
It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life.
It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection does not appear, when the old compulsions reign within us as they have for decades, when despair destroys all joy and courage.
Sometime at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying, "You are accepted. You are accepted, accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know.
Do not ask for the name now; perhaps you will find it later.
Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much.
Do not seek for anything, do not perform anything, do not intend anything.
Simply accept the fact that you are accepted.
If that happens to us, we experience grace."
Paul Tillich
Poems / Prayers
You Reading This, Be Ready
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life -
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
William Stafford
Use this quote by Kathleen Norris as our prayer:
The baby was staring intently at other people, and as soon as he recognized a human face, no matter whose it was, he would respond with absolute delight. I realized that this is how God looks at us, staring into our face in order to be delighted, I suspect that only God, and well-loved infants, can see this way Even when we try to run away from our troubles, as Jacob did, God will find us, and bless us, even when we feel most alone, unsure if we'll survive the night. God will find a way to let us know that [God] is with us in this place, wherever we are, however far we think we've run.
Amen.
Peace,
Terry Hershey
