Lenten Reflection: Fifth Sunday

 We went to Catholic church this morning to hear the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.  This story, among others perhaps, is one with which I have a difficult time. I think any reasonable, empirical-evidence-demanding human would agree--it's a tough story to believe.  In the natural course of worldly events, people do not die, lie in a tomb for four days, and emerge as anything other than a decaying corpse and wafting stench.

This action is one of the proverbial last straws for the Pharisees. "We have to kill this guy--his love for social rejects is too frickin' powerful." I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall in so many historical moments --but not the least of which is the closed door meetings with Pontius Pilate and the Pharisees when serious negotiations were going on between powerful enemies against the common threat to their respective power. And we can gauge Pilate's power over the Pharisees because he wavers on the punishment for Jesus. His real, honest-to-God power backing of the Roman Empire against the Pharisees' regional authority is clear in the moment he displays his (at best) disfavor of or (at worst) indifference towards Jesus' execution.

It's not even clear to me how close Jesus and Lazarus were. The scriptural writers tell us that Lazarus' sister, Mary, "anointed [Jesus] with perfumed oil and dried his feet with her hair" Jn 11:2 (an action, incidentally, that would have had her burned at the stake 1200 years later or committed to an insane asylum in the 20th century), and that "it was her brother Lazarus who was ill."  In this synopsis, it is Mary who has established conscious contact with Jesus in the past --Lazarus only by way of being related to her. And yet, Jesus loved him. 

Once again, Jesus' friends are baffled by his desire to show love to someone in need. Like, "Bruh--we're not going anywhere.  Lazarus may be a cool guy and all, but they're actively trying to stone you in the streets these days. Let it go, man." We are told that Thomas (the doubter, I presume?) says to the disciples, "Let us also go to die with him" Jn 11:16.  No faith in the mission. C'mon lads--let's go die with him. Jesus, in deed, laying his life down for a friend who is ALREADY DEAD. Risking literally everything to seize on the opportunity to make more believers.

It's this precursor to Easter that demonstrates the true meaning of the holiday, the season: new life. Whatever it is that holds you back. Die to it. Whatever fears are present and keeping you from actually living your life. Die to them. It is only through a kind of death to what is that we can be reborn to new life. What was Lazarus' thing? Was he just a drain on the resources of his family? A non-food gatherer? Did Lazarus, like many of us, just insist on being taken care of by the people in his life? What did that guy have going for him that was worth saving? We never know what Lazarus did to earn Jesus' love and we never know what was so special about this person that Jesus made his way through murderous streets to bring him back to life. I guess it doesn't matter. God wasn't finished with him yet.

Resurrection. 

New Life. 

Death to fear/sin/torment/isolation/addiction/despair/fear. 

Emergence into faith--light--openness--truth--hope--service--faith.

Lenten Reflection: Fourth Sunday

 Today's meeting revolved around the topic of growing up.  As we read the second half of the twelfth step material, the focus was entirely on adulting. My childish pathology (from whence it springs, I have not been able to fully identify), is the belief that it is someone else's responsibility to take care of my needs--be they physical, intellectual, or emotional. From a time probably earlier than I can remember, I have looked for validation from external sources. Something recovery programs work to instill from Day ONE is that no one else in this world is responsible for my internal landscape. If I am not at peace with my interactions with the world, then the change must come from within.  How is such a change wrought, you ask? By taking ownership of my choices, finding a God of my understanding, writing out a fearless and searching inventory of my feelings and behaviors, sharing that inventory with another human being, working to pause when agitated, root out the cause of the agitation, and pray to have it removed. By making a list of all the people I've harmed and be willing to make amends -- which entails forgiveness of a whole smattering of things. I need to make direct amends to people when necessary without causing undue harm in the process. Then by a daily "maintenance" program of rigorous honesty, conscious contact with my higher power, and service and connection with other fellow suffering human beings.

In the chapter we read today on Step Twelve, the book outlines "right living" at the very end of the reading: 

Service, gladly rendered, obligations squarely met, troubles well accepted or solved with God’s help, the knowledge that at home or in the world outside we are partners in a common effort, the well-understood fact that in God’s sight all human beings are important, the proof that love freely given surely brings a full return, the certainty that we are no longer isolated and alone in self-constructed prisons, the surety that we need no longer be square pegs in round holes but can fi t and belong in God’s scheme of things—these are the permanent and legitimate satisfactions of right living for which no amount of pomp and circumstance, no heap of material possessions, could possibly be substitutes. . . True ambition is the deep desire to live usefully and walk humbly under the grace of God (124-5).

I don't know what I wanted for myself or what I thought an "adult" life would be before coming into AA. I know, at least, I was misguided in what constituted "grown up" living. I certainly looked to external markers of educational degrees, spouse, children, a house, a car, a dog, a career. The truth, however, is that I achieved all of that while still staying put in "self constructed prisons" and having no earthly concept of a "deep desire to live usefully and walk humbly under the grace of God." A new freedom and a new happiness exist in extricating myself from the swirling vortex of my thoughts and feelings and directing my energy and usefulness toward others.

AA teaches me that when I am lost in self, it's best that I --as quickly as possible-- turn my thoughts to another and how I might be of service to her. This may be another alcoholic, it could be a co-worker, my child, a friend, a sibling, a neighbor, a student.  Lots of need out there. The only real tool I need to be able to make this switch is active participation in recovery, and the switch brings a lasting relief the likes of which no liquid from crushed grapes or malt and hops could ever achieve.  God bless those who never have to journey into the hell of addiction to discover a path toward true adulting :D

Lenten Reflection: Third Sunday

 All the powers in the universe are already ours. It is we who have put our hands before our eyes and cry that it is dark. --Swami Vivekananda (a quotation that popped up in my Facebook feed this morning)

My week has been repeatedly infused with discourse about light. And whenever that happens--that consistent messaging about topic or theme--I think it's worth paying attention to.

I generally think of Advent (not Lent) as the season that presents us with the "darkest before the dawn" lesson, in order to instill the messages of anticipation and hope the holiday incurs.  Jesus' birth, at least for the purposes of aligning Christian practices with the pre-existing pagan rituals around winter solstice, occurs just at that time of year where we have the shortest span of sunlight in the day. And things were dark in Judea in the era of Classical Antiquity. In the macrocosm, King Herod, according to the reputation that has survived him, presents as a bloodthirsty tyrant, obsessed with his own power, and, according to one historian whose identity I did not bother to ascertain, was "prepared to commit any crime in order to gratify his unbounded ambition." I wonder if Herod also wore spray tan, a terrible hair piece, and looked like a fat, hideous orange . . .  Anyway, dark times-- with no reasonable expectation that things would be different anytime soon. On a microcosmic level, a thirteen or fourteen year old Jewish girl, Mary of Nazareth, was pregnant and, as far as anyone could tell, not by the man to whom she was betrothed. Thanks to the misogynistic Mosaic laws of the time, Joseph was entitled to a public stoning of Mary for this bitter humiliation, but decided it more suited his interests to quietly separate from her. Incidentally, this life-saving mercy is Joseph's first demonstration of the agape form of love for which his "foster" son would later be famous. And then executed. Moreover, as an outcome of meditation or hallucination, Joseph decides to not abandon Mary, but stick it out and be a father to this child he knows is not his. If these biblical renderings stick in historical truth, Jesus is literally born from selfless love, sacrifice, faith, and trust in the goodness of people.  At the solstice, the earth turns enough to shift the light/dark balance--and an increasing light pours forth into our days. Faith has a fascinating way of manifesting solutions. Love begets light to combat the darkness of fear.

In today's Gospel reading (and, full disclosure, I did not go to mass today), Jesus encounters a Samaritan woman at a well. Jesus, a Jewish man, has two points of superiority over this woman, yet he asks a service of her--"give me a drink."  She is baffled by his approach and tells him so. In order to convince her of his sincerity and his loving acceptance, Jesus allows the woman to know he sees her--in the light of all her marital flaws--and still believes she can be of vital service to him.  He sees she has something to offer. His friends are baffled by this encounter as well -- something along the lines of, "Bro--what are you talking to this bitch for?" Indeed, it was this mindset of non-judgment and inclusivity that earned this man an uncomfortable perch on a wooden cross in the ensuing months. I like to think of this woman experiencing a dark time. Jesus perceives real loss, real pain. We do not get the sordid backstory of this woman's failed romantic/domestic ventures, but she does not seem to be beaming with pride with her honest admission, "I have no husband." Jesus neither criticizes her status, nor minimizes her precarious social position. He simply states the truth as he understands it: "You are right . . . you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband." No scolding. No interrogation. No threat to publicly shame or punish her. Nothing but a statement of truth and a pause to make space for her next contribution to the conversation. The darkness this woman harbors is met with the light of Jesus' acceptance of her as she is. And the only thing she can imagine is that he must be a prophet--divinely inspired and protected.  How else could he be so . . . kind?

Today, as my secret society newcomer and I progressed through her "moral inventory" of fears and relationship pathologies, she slumped in her chair and said through falling tears, "I'm afraid that I don't like myself." I grabbed her hands and said sternly across the table: "You DON'T like yourself.  That's a fact. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's only the work of correcting that self-destructive position. Let's get to it." Here's the truth that Jesus understands in his conversation with the woman at the well: she's an imperfect human being with her own mistakes and fears to count. She's been judged by society, I'm sure. But there's no need of that. She's judged herself far longer and way more harshly than anyone else ever could. Imagine how freeing it was for the Samaritan woman to understand that she wasn't fooling anyone. That people could know the truth about her and still want to speak to her. To hear from her. Still ask her to be in service to the world. Still find her useful. In having her admit her shame, Jesus forces the woman to acknowledge her own lovability. There's nothing more freeing--more light and life giving than that.

May I share a light of honesty and empathy with others today. May the love light I shine be powered by acceptance and gratitude for what IS. May the gifts I receive include illuminating perspective and shame-destroying connection.

Lenten Reflection: Second Sunday

I belong to two churches. The first I visited last Sunday --it exists in a building that houses pews, an altar, reading missals, a "crying room" for restless children, a baptismal font, confessionals and many other tangible items to allow for the practice of Catholic Christianity.  The other church is pervasive -- it exists in the heart of its fellowship -- a group of men and women who are devoted to soberly living their lives one day at a time and following 12 Steps on a path toward emotional healing, personal growth, and spiritual enlightenment.  I visit this church every Sunday. There are, to be sure, many overlapping components between these two churches. I cannot say for sure that one is greater or lesser.  I cannot say that one is more "legit" than another. I find spiritual benefits to attending both.

I will say the people who sit in the second church (for the most part) are actively working spiritual principles of acceptance, faith, gratitude, forgiveness, and service to others. I will say, perhaps for this reason, the latter church challenges me more than the former. 

This morning, I sat among fellows reading about and discussing a principle of inclusivity. The "Third Tradition" of this church states: "The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop [seeking refuge from internal pain through external sources]." The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop poisoning oneself with false promises of comfort and security.  To enter this church is to accept that pain and suffering are part of the human experience and to have faith that simply not having to go through it alone might be sufficient to changing (and thereby saving) a life. How stunningly countercultural in a human society that loves to enact meritocracies and restrict inclusion of anything that might pose a threat to the significance of the standing board.  Obviously, this membership plan is not desirable for all groups.  I certainly would like to believe my lawyer, architect, or surgeon jumped through a few more hoops than merely the desire to call herself a lawyer, architect, or surgeon. But in the case of a club devoted to the spiritual uplift and emotional progress of its members -- why not cheerfully accept any and all who might come walking through the door?

If I am sitting in judgment of another, it is solely because I am terrified of my own shortcomings I see there. When a woman in a recovery meeting shares about prostituting herself so she could obtain crack, I feel no personal shame. Her share does not directly relate to my lived experience and, therefore, I am not bothered by her presence. When someone walks into a meeting desperately needy for the attention and validation of others in the room, I recoil. I cringe. I tense up. I am reacting to that thing in her that I hate in myself.  And I want her gone.  And this church says, "She has every right to be here. Love her for what she brings to this room. Love her for what she reveals to you about yourself. Love her so that you can love yourself, and we'll go from there."

After the meeting, I went to get coffee with a (relative) "newcomer" whom I am helping to take 12 spiritual steps. We are winding things up with the 4th which states, "Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."  It's been an amazing experience working with someone who is willing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her, God. What surfaces over and over (for me as I listen to her) is this axiom that I am bothered by myself when I am bothered by another human being. Judgment is at the top of both our inventories, and it is the starkest indication of spiritual and emotional unrest. I judge in others that (potential, at least) which I hate most in myself. 

I am grateful for the messages I received from my second church today. They align entirely with the messages of inclusivity that are talked about in my first church. It may feel comfortable, momentarily, to judge another for the things for which I am afraid I will be rejected and abandoned. But the practice does not point to anything other than a fatal soul sickness within me.

Today I will do my best to choose love over hate. Inclusion over exclusion. Compassion over criticism. Faith over fear.