Daily Dose (Apr 11 – 14)

Tuesday —

It’s too easy to put a moral price tag on fragile or wounded or broken places. Places to be concealed, or suppressed, or fixed.
And we miss the power to see grace there.
We miss the permission (and the gift) to let the wound be a place of healing.
We miss the exquisite beauty (strength and power and life) in what is fragile—and the light that shines from broken places—love, tenderness, kindness, generosity, gentleness and empathy.

This from Nadia Bolz-Weber, “I thought of this all week when reading this story about Jesus appearing to his disciples. Because what I realized is I find it comforting that that his resurrection did not erase the marks of having lived his life or even having endured his death.
I find it comforting that when Jesus rose from the dead he was recognizable by his scars.
Jesus came and stood among his disciples and said peace be with you, then he didn’t try and hide the mark from the spear on his side.  He didn’t wear gloves to conceal his scars.  Jesus came and stood among his disciples and said peace be with you then he showed them his hands and his side.
He knew that he would be known by his wounds…
I guess what I am saying is don’t believe the paintings of the resurrection — where Jesus is all cleaned up and shiny, like nothing bad really happened.
If you think that’s what resurrection looks like, if you think it looks like perfection and therefore it is out of reach, if you think the only sign of God bringing new life is the absence of pain or failure and therefore you haven’t experienced it, you might be wrong.
That’s the point.
Our scars and our sorrow will always be part of our story but they will never be the conclusion of our story. Which means that even when you feel trapped in your pain, trapped in your past, trapped in your own story like it is itself a tomb, know this — that there is no stone that God cannot roll away.”
(Sermon preached in The Beacon at Skyline Correctional Facility chapel in Canyon City Colorado) 

Wednesday —

Why do I write Sabbath Moment? Because I want to live with a soft heart. And I need a reminder to set my armor down.
With a soft (and yes, breakable) heart we can touch all the fragile things… gentleness, empathy, compassion and kindness, and that can make all the difference. Because we make sacred space for the soft (yes, whole) heart in our self, that permission spills to those around us.
But I’ll be honest; when my cage is rattled or I feel afraid or soft, or vulnerable or tender, I am reluctant to tell anyone. Because, after all, “Big boys don’t show any weakness.” I’ve got a dozen reasons why I “give in” to my limitations, and none of them have to do with me. Like the old parable, “The girl who can’t dance says the band can’t play.”

I do know that if I run from (what I label as) my brokenness, it only exacerbates the problem. Like it or not, we all carry with us fault-lines–brokenness, and vulnerability. And tenderness. Yes, a soft heart.
And in my early days, I assumed that “salvation” fixed all of that. You know, eliminated all my broken stuff. I figured that’s what the Bible meant by being a new creation. But I believe differently now. Salvation is about wholeness, at-one-ness with our Creator, which ironically is about living with (embracing) our brokenness, instead of running from it. It is about quite literally, being at home with the self, this self, this extraordinarily loved and often messy self.
A reminder to hear the voice of Grace, “Look at me. Terry. Look at my eyes. You are enough.”

Let’s give Mark Hack the last word. “Let someone love you the way you are–as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. To believe that you must hide all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that someone else is incapable of loving what is less than perfect, is to believe that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room.” 

Thursday —

“The older I get, the clearer it becomes to me that no one is cheated in this world, unless it’s by himself, but some of us are so wounded that we must return to the scene of the crime, must play with the fire that burned us, must live the scene out as many times as necessary until it comes out differently. We are not prisoners, no traps or snares are set about us, but many of us imprison ourselves or at least are helplessly stalled.”  (Thank you Merle Shain.)
And here’s the deal: this happens to me is when I put a moral price tag on my wounded (or fragile or broken) places. Because, now, these are places to be run from, or concealed, or suppressed, or fixed.
And I miss the power that these are places where grace lives.
I miss the permission (and the gift) to let the wound be a place of healing (for myself and for others).
I miss the exquisite beauty (strength and power and life) in what is fragile—and the light that shines from broken places—love, tenderness, kindness, generosity, gentleness and empathy.

We forget (or maybe don’t see) that it is from our soft and broken places that light (and healing) can and does spill.
There is an old legend in the Jewish Talmud in which a certain Rabbi encounters the prophet Elijah, and he asks him: “When will the Messiah come?”
The prophet answers him: “Go and ask him yourself.”
The Rabbi replies: “Where is he, and how will I know him?”
Elijah says to him: “He is at the gates of the city, sitting among the poor, covered in wounds. The others unbind all their wounds at the same time and then bind them up again. But he unbinds one at a time and binds it up again, saying to himself: ‘Perhaps I shall be needed: if so I must always be ready so as not to delay for a moment.’” (Story used by Henri Nouwen)

Today is the anniversary of my ordination. Forty-four years ago. Gratefully, the years have taught me that ministry is not about being right (smiling big as I write that). Ministry is about being real. And I am grateful for the Sabbath Moment community. (And yes, the geese. Although, I do miss the sheep.)
Today is also my Father’s birthday. It’s been a little over two years since his death. Rest in peace Dad…
Yes, my calendar says April, but yesterday we had a winter storm. Hailstorm with one-quarter inch pellets, piled three to four inches high on streets and patios. I felt sad for all the plants in our garden that were decimated. And I wanted to call my Dad and tell him, because as a Michigan Upper Peninsula boy, he certainly understands and appreciates crazy weather.   

Friday —

Gratefully, my years of ministry have taught me that ministry is not about being right. Ministry is about being real.
I am very grateful for all the notes celebrating my ordination anniversary. Thank you. And I think back to the early years, and the books (and people) who quite literally changed the way I approached (embraced) ministry. One of those books is Henri Nouwen’s, The Wounded Healer.
Yesterday we told the story (from the book) of the old legend in the Jewish Talmud in which a certain Rabbi encounters the prophet Elijah, and he asks him: “When will the Messiah come?”
The prophet answers him: “Go and ask him yourself.”
The Rabbi replies: “Where is he, and how will I know him?”
Elijah says to him: “He is at the gates of the city, sitting among the poor, covered in wounds. The others unbind all their wounds at the same time and then bind them up again. But he unbinds one at a time and binds it up again, saying to himself: ‘Perhaps I shall be needed: if so I must always be ready so as not to delay for a moment.’”
In the book Nouwen adds, “What I find impressive in this story are these two things: first, the faithful tending of one’s own woundedness and second, the willingness to move to the aid of other people and to make the fruits of our own woundedness available to others.”
Looking back, I can say that reading this in seminary, I did understood this cerebrally. But now, I get it, in my gut. And yes, my confession would be that too often I still just don’t like those wounded—flawed, broken—parts of me. And I do my very best to hide it. I see nothing good there. But what if? What if brokenness is not a “fixable problem,” but an opportunity for grace and love and ministry—an invitation to spill light in a dark world?
Nouwen writes, “Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?'”
When we do, we are Tikkun Olam, repairers of the world.

Which begs the question: What do we do with our brokenness? Nouwen suggests that we need to “embrace it.” Seriously?
Yes indeed… Because we are beloved of God, we can dare to embrace and befriend our own brokenness; and in befriending, to really look at it: “Yes, I am hurting. Yes, I am wounded. Yes, it is painful. And yes… I no longer need to be afraid.”
But how do I have to invite my brokenness into my life? Or, how do I embrace it (as Mary Oliver says, “row toward the embattlement”)?
Let us (every one of us) start here: No one of us is on this journey alone. Remembering that every one of us has been warmed by fires we did not build; and drunk from wells we did not dig.
And let’s listen to L.R. Knost affirmation… “Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.”

Prayer for our week…
Draw us forth, God of all creation.
Draw us forward and away from limited certainty
into the immense world of your love.
Give us the capacity to even for a moment
taste the richness of the feast you give us.
Give us the peace to live with uncertainty,
with questions,
with doubts.
Help us to experience the resurrection anew
with open wonder and an increasing ability
to see you in the people of Easter.
Amen.
(Author Unknown)