the ice drifted out fish, otter, loons released lake ripples broadly green gradually overcomes brown building up diversity's wisdom awoke, rising, bold every budding leaf shows how justice demands change love is feeding others love is breakfast on the beach love is going out the boat moves over horizons, maps, mystery the plain of blue water the egg cracks open baby robin sings a song yes to this new life love is giving love. open. community. love frees all to be
Around here, deep in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, the signs of spring are starting to emerge — quite appropriately, since Lent means spring. The deep snow piles are gradually starting to shrink and reveal a little green life around their edges. Tiny buds are forming on tree branches. Buckets are lining paths, making more visible the maple trees that have been tapped for syrup.
The season of spring lines up well with Lent, a season of great conversion. Through our fasting, prayer and almsgiving we aim to change our hearts, minds and lives so we can grow closer to Christ.
The transformations found in nature mirror the conversions happening in our hearts. The conversions happening in our hearts connect to the new life emerging worldwide.
In light of the exciting, happy news from last week that Oscar Romero is going to be canonized a saint and the social movements stirring throughout the world (such as the teens who are leading the advocacy for gun reform), I’ve been reflecting on Oscar Romero’s prophetic words and how his message speaks to our time and our call to live the Gospel with boldness and courage. Praying with this book will certainly influence the last part of my Lenten experience.
What follows are just a few of Romero’s quotes, provided for your own Lenten prayer and reflection. I’ll leave it open for you to make your own connections to our time. Feel free to leave a comment, though, sharing your insights with us!
“You know that the air and water are being polluted, as is everything we touch and live with. We go on corrupting the nature that we need. We do not realize that we have a commitment to God to take care of nature. To cut down a tree, to waste water when there is such a great lack of it, to let buses poison our atmosphere with those noxious fumes from their exhausts, to burn garbage haphazardly — all of this concerns our covenant with God.” — March 11, 1979 Homily “Lent, the Transfiguration of Gods People”
“The ministry of the Church involves human rights because she is the defender of the Lord’s law on earth. Therefore everything that tramples upon this dignity and freedom is part of the Church’s mission.” — December 18, 1977 Homily “God Comes to Save Us”
“Participation is one of the actual signs of the time. This refers to the right that every person possesses to participate in the construction of the common good. For this reason one of the most dangerous violations is repression which in fact says: only we have the right to govern; everyone else has to be turned aside. Yet every person can contribute something to the common good and in this way trust is achieved. We should not turn aside those who do not get along with us, as though we alone will enrich the common good of the country. Rather we must try to affirm all that is good in every person and attempt to solicit this goodness in an environment of trust. We must furthermore attempt to solicit this support with a force that is not physical — as though we were dealing with irrational beings. We should use moral force that attracts all people, especially young men and women with all their concerns; moral force that attracts the good so that every one contributes from their heart [interiority], their responsibility and their way of being. In this way we will raise up this beautiful pyramid that is called the common good — the common good that is achieved with the participation of everyone and that creates the conditions for goodness, trust, freedom and peace. Thus everyone will build that which the Republic and which we all have an obligation to build.” — July 10, 1977 Homily “Our Inner Being”
“In good conscience, I believed my position to be that of the gospel. It has aroused a variety of reactions. Now it is necessary to give an explanation of the Church’s stance as a basis for understanding, in the light of our faith, the different reactions aroused. Some have been delighted. They feel that the Church is drawing closer to their problems and anxieties, that she gives them hope, and shares their joys. Others have been disgusted or saddened. They feel that the Church’s new attitude makes a clear demand upon them, too, to change and be converted. Conversion is difficult and painful because the changes required are not only in ways of thinking but also in ways of living. Many Catholics of good will have been disconcerted, even to the point of hesitating to follow the Church in the latest steps she has been taking. Instead they have preferred to seek refuge in the security of a tradition that spurns growth. ” — “The Church, The Body of Christ in History” Second Pastoral Letter of Archbishop Romero. Feast of the Transfiguration. August 6, 1977
“We are therefore invited to embrace the profound philosophy and theology of the cross and to carry this theology in the intimacy of our heart. In this way we become Christians who understand this dimension, namely, that the just are proved through the persecution of the Church and are not ashamed of this fact. We know the meaning of these words because they were applied to Jesus and led him to the gallows. But Jesus knew that he did not die for any other reason except that of obeying the Father who wanted to prove the incredible dimension of truly great people, a dimension that Jesus held in the intimacy of his heart: the dimension of suffering, the dimension of pain.” — September 23, 1979 Homily “In Christ the Three Dimensions of Truly Great People are Revealed”
“Our Lent should awaken a sense of social justice. Let us observe our Lent in this way, giving our sufferings, our bloodshed, and our sorrow the same value that Christ gave to his condition of poverty, oppression, abandonment, and injustice. Let us change all of that into the cross of salvation that redeems the world and our people. With hatred for none, let us be converted and share from our poverty both our joys and material assistance with those who may be even needier.” — March 2, 1980 Homily “Lent, Our Transfiguration through Christ”
With holy people like Oscar Romero praying for us in heaven, may new life and courage emerge in all of us this Lent. Let us pray, fast and give so we grow closer to Christ and are prepared for the joy of the Resurrection. Amen!
The Holy Spirit is coming! The Holy Spirit!!
Easter has ended. Jesus ascended. The power of Pentecost is nearly here. (We’ll celebrate this feast on Sunday.) What sort of wildness is unleashed into the world by way of these turns in the liturgical calendar? How has the energy transformed us and made us more into the people God has called us to be?
I don’t know. I think we each ought to pray and reflect on this individually and communally and come to our own conclusions.
Yet, I believe in the potential—power is active in the world for we’ve all been connected and created anew by the truth that evil, death and ugliness don’t get to have the last word. Hope, love, resurrection, and peacemaking remain the strongest forces in our lives, in our world.
The Holy Spirit can show up each day (no matter the liturgical phase we are in) and blow where She will, energizing and enlivening us with grace. We realize that if we empty and open ourselves to mystery and wonder the Spirit can blow through us and make music. We become instruments of mercy, peace, hope and love in the hurting world.
We are transformed by God’s activity in us. And our “yes” helps transform the world.
Listening to the news each day continually reminds me that the greatest transformation the world so desperately needs is the construction of unity, the building of bridges over the canyons of divisions. I believe God wants us all to participate in the bringing together of divided peoples.
With our cooperation the power of God is wild and fierce; the Holy Spirit can’t be contained. We abandon our fears, judgments and assumptions. We reach outward to our enemies and realize that they can be our friends. Mercy makes us free.
So speak and so act as people who will be judged by the law of freedom. For the judgment is merciless to one who has not shown mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment. ~ James 2:12-13
How does this happen? How does the Holy Spirit move us outward and across enemy lines? What is required of us for this to happen?
Certainly, it starts with prayer. The sort of self-emptying surrender that Jesus modeled for us and demonstrated on the cross. The sort of communion with Christ that opens up spaces where we can hear whispers of guidance from God. The widening of our hearts and minds to make space for thinking beyond categories and the edges of boxes.
Then, we are compelled to consider who it is that we think of as “other,” as unlike ourselves. Who and what do we despise and how can become curious about them?
Then, we move toward them. We trust the Spirit to provide the courage and compassion we need. We enter into their world and try to hear their perspective with a great, loving curiosity. All this from a grounded place of playfulness, of child-like love that assumes everyone is good.
As Courtney E. Martin writes:
In some ways, it’s incredibly complicated to have worthwhile conversations about things you care deeply about with people who disagree with you … Part of why we don’t engage in conversations with people who have different belief systems from our own is because we don’t have the emotional energy. Our lives exhaust us. We’re too busy and too frustrated. It feels better to bond with people we know agree with us than to wade into the unknown waters of a psyche that might anger us. It takes real effort and emotional sturdiness to assume genuineness in someone you perceive as “the other.” It takes a resilient naïveté. Sometimes, it even takes a kind of playfulness.
(Read her entire essay “To be Surprised by Your Enemies, Stay Sturdy and Playful.“)
Lastly, if the Spirit is to use as an instrument in this way, we must be willing to change, to compromise. We find common ground and then build new things together in that solid place. This video, which I love, demonstrates it very, very well:
Come Holy Spirit! Make us into instruments of your love!! AMEN!
Veni, Sancte Spiritus
Come, Holy Spirit, come!
And from your celestial home
Shed a ray of light divine!
Come, Father of the poor!
Come, source of all our store!
Come, within our bosoms shine.
You, of comforters the best;
You, the soul’s most welcome guest;
Sweet refreshment here below;
In our labor, rest most sweet;
Grateful coolness in the heat;
Solace in the midst of woe.
O most blessed Light divine,
Shine within these hearts of yours,
And our inmost being fill!
Where you are not, we have naught,
Nothing good in deed or thought,
Nothing free from taint of ill.
Heal our wounds, our strength renew;
On our dryness pour your dew;
Wash the stains of guilt away:
Bend the stubborn heart and will;
Melt the frozen, warm the chill;
Guide the steps that go astray.
On the faithful, who adore
And confess you, evermore
In your sevenfold gift descend;
Give them virtue’s sure reward;
Give them your salvation, Lord;
Give them joys that never end. Amen.
An old building in disrepair, collapsing toward the ground.
A rusting, defective car, stuck in layers of mud.
The sight of the simplest crack in a sidewalk can still my body, stun my soul.
The colors and textures of a simple, broken branch can inspire poetry.
It may be a bit bizarre, but brokenness really can become a gallery art piece to me.
I am in awe of the beauty of brokenness because I relate to the ordinary being an un-mended mess—a mix of decay and transformation. The objects all around me feel familiar because I have been broken and mended, again and again.
I love this poem about brokenness.
This Psalm also speaks to me, deeply:
Into your hands I commend my spirit;
you will redeem me, LORD, God of truth.
Be gracious to me, LORD, for I am in distress;
affliction is wearing down my eyes,
my throat and my insides.
My life is worn out by sorrow,
and my years by sighing.
My strength fails in my affliction;
my bones are wearing down.
Be strong and take heart,
all who hope in the LORD.
I am forgotten, out of mind like the dead;
I am like a worn-out tool.
I hear the whispers of the crowd;
terrors are all around me.
But I trust in you, LORD;
I say, “You are my God.”
Let your face shine on your servant;
save me in your mercy.
Oftentimes, it seems that brokenness is what helps me to become most in touch with my humanity; I know that this part of my nature doesn’t make me unique. In service and contemplation, I have touched physical and mental wounds in myself and others. I have heard people pour forth the worse of spiritual sorrow, anguish and misery. At times, my own doubts and struggles have been so intense that I felt incapable of doing anything but collapsing, quitting. Don’t we all feel dysfunctional, inoperable and crumbled in certain circumstances, in one way or another?
It seems to me that the season of Lent has much to do with this brokenness. As Holy Week nears and we enter into the most sacred days of the Church year, let us check in. What has happened in our hearts and in our lives as a result of our fasting, praying and penance in the desert? How have these desert days helped us to recognize where we are in need of mending, healing and reconciliation in our lives? How have our eyes been opened to the truth of our interdependence, of how we are made for community, for Christ, for others? How have we been transformed and changed? And what scars can we now bear more courageously?
A few weeks ago, I presented a program at the spirituality center where I minister about this passion of mine, the beauty of brokenness. After shared contemplation, we attempted to convey our reflections through the Japanese craft of kintsugi, which repairs objects with gold in order to highlight and honor the history of the object: the beauty of the cracks.
Here is where I learned about how to experience kintsugi, without becoming an apprentice in Japan.
During the workshop, we considered how we all might be like broken cups within God’s hands as we tried to piece them together—a complex, layered puzzle. Another poem, “The Perfect Cup” by Joyce Rupp, helped foster this reflection.
Honestly, I found it challenging to try kintsugi. My fingers became sticky, gold-spattered messes. I even cut my fingers a little on the broken cup I tried to repair. In the end, though, I really liked what I held in my hands.
In fact, I have decided that what I created is a perfect vessel for light, a beautiful place to burn candles within.
Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” includes the lyrics “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” My experience trying kintsugi and reflecting on my likeness to a broken cup in God’s hands caused a spin on Cohen’s wisdom to emerge.
I believe we all are broken so that God’s light can shine out through our cracks.
By God’s grace, let us be strengthened and transformed so we can see the beauty of our brokenness. With the arrival of Holy Week around the corner, may we be ready for God’s light to beam brightly from us all. May the resurrection energy shine through our cracks, so we can help illumine dimness near and far. Amen!
Hypocrisy. According to Google, it’s “The practice of claiming to have moral standards or beliefs to which one’s own behavior does not conform; pretense.” It’s a dirty word; the worst of insults in religious circles. Why, then, do those who consider themselves clean of heart, hand and tongue seem to so relish the taste of it in their mouths?
Recently, I came across a conversation in the vortex of Facebook that inspired this reflection. It began with a link to an article for the latest pop aggrandizement of abusive relationships, “Fifty Shades Darker.” The person who posted it had commented “I can’t help but wonder how many who claimed to march for women turn around and support this as healthy entertainment. Shaking my head!” Her expression of disgust led to a comment from one of her friends who replied, “How many of these women who either read the book(s) or saw or will see these movies are also the ones so outraged by comments made by Trump? The hypocrisy is amazing!”
My gut reaction was to devise ways in which I might remind this woman, whom I’ve never met, of her own potential conflicting ideologies. It’s easy to make assumptions and I’m quite adept. I quickly conjured up a litany of instances in which this person, completely unknown to me, may herself be “claiming to have moral standards or beliefs” to which her behavior did not conform. They were harsh and pointed and quite possibly accurate. But then, an intervening thought: What would be my motivation in crafting this comment? Would I not be mirroring the very practice of generalized accusation that had triggered my own anger? Even if what I was saying was true, would I be speaking truth in love? Was my goal mutual clarification and conversion, or self-defense and condemnation? St. Paul wrote in his first letter to the Corinthians, “I may have the gift of prophecy, and know every hidden truth; I may have faith strong enough to move mountains; but if I have not love, I am nothing.” Intent matters. However right or pure we may be, what attitude toward that other person and outcome are we desiring–for ourselves–as we slap others with our truth?
It strikes me that implicit in the use of the words “hypocrite” and “hypocrisy” is a reflexive attempt to discredit ideas and actions of those who differ from, challenge, disgust, or in other ways stimulate discomfort. Denigrating the other allows those of us who do so to prop up our own fragile sense of righteousness while simultaneously freeing ourselves from any obligation to do the hard work of trying to listen or understand. In doing so we are rejecting the call to love or, at the very least, to respect the dignity of the other.
Trying to understand would require the mindfulness to overcome impulsive, emotional reaction and look more deeply at the words, actions or images that have triggered such reactive response. Trying to understand would mean developing an awareness of our own tendency toward generalizations and assumptions and to willfully discard such tools as they inhibit our capacity to think creatively, compassionately and clearly–very hard work but necessary if what we genuinely desire is to create love and peace in our hearts and in the world. If that is not what we desire, an examination of conscience is in order.
Recently, during the Gospel reading at Mass, Jesus said, “I tell you unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven (Matthew 5:21).” The following week; “Be perfect, as your heavenly father (a.k.a. the God of All Things!) is perfect.” These can be felt as discouraging, improbable, even impossible exhortations. But if we consider the lens through which Jesus was gazing as he spoke, it may change how we receive the words.
I have been slowly reading Henri Nouwen’s “The Life of the Beloved,” a short, sweet book that articulates in simple and profound language how deeply loved we each are by God. As Nouwen emphatically asserts the belovedness of the individual, he indicates how an awareness and embrace of one’s own condition as beloved can transform the way in which that person engages with the world. A perception of ourselves as foundationally beloved would fill us with such a sense of confidence, gratitude, grace and generosity that we would manifest these qualities as we related to others and the world we share.
“How different our life would be,” he writes, “if we could but believe that every little act of faithfulness, every gesture of love, every word of forgiveness, every little bit of joy and peace will multiply and multiply … Imagine your kindness to your friends and your generosity to the poor are little mustard seeds that will become strong trees in which many birds can build their nests … Imagine that you’re trusting that every little movement of love you make will ripple out into ever new and wider circles.”
How different indeed, but what hard work to be ever mindful, ever transforming! Much easier to point out someone else’s hypocrisy! And yet, what purpose does such labeling serve, accusing others of what we would excuse in ourselves? Does it bring assurance or peace or joy? Does it create positive change? I find that the time I’m most ready to cast judgment tends to coincide with when I am most insecure and serves only–ultimately–to exacerbate my own insecurity and anxiety.
No doubt there are times when the hard and loving work we have to do is indeed to name sin when it rears its ugly head, or to get in the way of someone who is causing harm to another either with words or actions or both. But let us be vigilantly mindful of our motivation and carefully conscious of what we hope will grow from the seeds planted by our every word and deed. Let us remember that when Jesus said “Be perfect,” it wasn’t a condemnation, but a vote of confidence.
“I know that you can do better. I love you, no matter what.”
ABOUT THE RABBLE ROUSER
Amy Nee-Walker grew up in the middle of a large and lovely family in Central Florida. Living into questions about truth and love has led her to the Catholic Worker, the Catholic Church, her incredible husband, two audacious, adorable children, and (for the time being) a home in the hills of Appalachia.
I love hearing the stories of the early Church, especially as they are proclaimed everyday at Mass during the Easter season. Their adventures, as are found in the Book of Acts, reminds me that the truth and joy that come from Christ’s resurrection has truly established renewal for all creation. We are one. We are free!
The energy and courage found in the early Church can enliven us today. None of us need to be afraid to share our faith. We can let go of our fears to take risks for the reign of God. We can live with strong trust in God and faith — such courage can set all sorts of miracles into motion.
God has graced us with all we need to truly change the world!
Certainly, we don’t need to look too far to see that Christ-centered change is actually very messy. The season of spring — of beauty and life poking out of the mud and muck of what was once dead and dormant — shows us that being courageous with our compassion and witness is far from neat and tidy. The mess of transformation is demanding, active, and fierce.
Parker Palmer’s recent reflection Spring is Mud and Miracle (published online at On Being with Krista Tippet) reminded me of this:
There’s a miracle inside that muddy mess: those fields are a seedbed for rebirth. I love the fact that the word humus, the decayed organic matter that feeds the roots of plants, comes from the same word-root that gives rise to humility. It’s an etymology in which I find forgiveness, blessing, and grace. It reminds me that the humiliating events of life — events that leave “mud on my face” or “make my name mud” — can create the fertile soil that nourishes new growth.
Spring begins tentatively, but it advances with a tenacity that never fails to touch me. The smallest and most tender shoots insist on having their way, pressing up through ground that looked, only a few weeks earlier, as if it would never grow anything again. The crocuses and snowdrops don’t bloom for long. But their mere appearance, however brief, is always a harbinger of hope — and from those small beginnings, hope grows at a geometric rate.
During this Easter season I desire to accept the mess and muck as natural. My humanity is a gift. The muck of life can be thick and heavy, but it really is a sign of hope out of which can spring forth the determination of goodness.
True, it is messy and disturbing to encounter the world, but the muck is a necessary part of the freedom that comes from growth. We can have courage to change. Even though it can be hard to learn the truth, new awareness can crack light into my soul. Yes, service may wear me out but my weakness can open a way for me to get closer to my community. Although reaching out will mean I’ll inevitably encounter the hurting parts of our world that I’d rather hide from: witnessing as a healer, lover, server and friend may mean that I will end up bruised and broken. And changed.
In the midst of the muddy mess, I will choose to be encouraged. It is only through decay that new life can come. It is only through the stink, the goo, the pain of life that transformations will emerge. I know I am on the right path and really walking with The Way if I am breaking through barriers and getting hurt outside my comfort zone. This is the life of abundance, life to the fullest, the real Gospel way. The mud means I am moving in the right direction, serving and loving in union with Christ.
Yes, let us move out, singing songs of service and love, not afraid of the inevitable mess and muck, because it is part of transformation! Pope Francis encourages us:
“I prefer a Church which is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a Church which is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security.” – Pope Francis (Evangelii Gaudium, #49)
And, Alex Street’s song Beautiful Mess can be our anthem as we go:
A couple weeks ago I was asked to play a giant game of foursquare at a school pep rally.
I tend to make a fool of myself a lot.
I believe that when we live the Gospel we must be wiling to sacrifice and risk, and sometimes the price is embarrassment. We must not be too concerned about our image or consequences or what others think of us. We must be wiling to put ourselves out there, on the line, no matter the cost.
Ultimately, we must be detached and trust God because the actions that require courage- whether they are bold or subtle- are the ones that build up the reign of God. When we are fearless about being strange and different, we allow God to use us as an instrument. That’s when all sorts of transformations occur- for us and the larger community.
I knew the game of foursquare was going to be a giant gym-sized game with a great big exercise ball, totally unlike what I tried to play on the playground in elementary school. This frightened me a bit.
I have practically no athletic skills. In fact, I am quite uncoordinated and clumsy. A group of students were putting together the faculty team and I figured that they asked me to participate to give the student team an advantage.
Naturally, I was a little freaked out. I was very nervous and scared I would hurt myself and end up in the ER with a broken bone or something. Or worse, maybe I would hurt someone else. Was I really capable of doing this?
Then there were the rules. Despite multiple explanations, I didn’t understand the way the game worked. I basically entered the court clueless about what was happening; I only understood I needed to keep the ball out of the square I was in.
Why did I agree to this potentially humiliating task? In a sense, because I knew that a “yes” to the invitation to participate was a kind of ritual of accepting approval and love of my students. I love my students and am so thankful for the moments when I feel loved by them. I wanted return the love.
Once the game began, I started being surprised. I quickly found out that I was capable and that I enjoyed it! I discovered that I can be ambitious and not intimidated by a crowd of a few hundred students and adults I admire, and just let go and get into it. (When we are living the Gospel we also have to just let go and get into it!)
Transformations were happening all over the place. I was personally surprised and transformed as I discovered that I could play the game well. I found myself having several “dumb luck” moments; I would hit the ball and the crowd would cheer and I didn’t understand why. Basically every time I had success, I shared a gift and heard joy erupt from the crowd: a communal transformation.
In the end, I was very surprised that I could actually play well and I enjoyed playing, too. I was thrilled that my participation brought joy to others and built up the school community. And, it felt great to go around the school building afterward and hear “great job in foursquare Sister! Wow, you’re really good!” Ha!
I guess we never know what God might do with us when we say yes to love, to community, and to making fools of ourselves. In this case and many others, I’ve learned that we just might end up being transformed. Amen!
Guest blogger: Steven Cottam
Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness… it strikes us when year after year, the longed for perfection of life does not appear, when the old compulsions reign within us as they have for decades, when despair destroys all joy and courage. Sometimes 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 anything; do not intend anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted. If that happens to us, we experience grace. After such an experience we may not be better than before, and we may not believe more than before. But everything is transformed.
January is usually a very frustrating month for me. The reason is that I always make New Year’s Resolutions… and I almost always fail to keep them. December always ends in a flurry of nearly crazed exclamations: This is the year I will get organized! This is the year I will exercise more! This is the year I will drink less; and I will pray a rosary every day; and I will learn Spanish! Truly, this is the year I shall become a veritable superhero, doing everything right and nothing wrong, forever and ever, amen!
As you can guess, by January 7 most of my resolutions have already begun to fade, and before long I’m pretty much back right where I started. The truth is, these things are things I have wanted to change all year—things that I have struggled with all year—yet somehow I always imagine that the moment when Earth’s odometer rolls over has enough magic in it to banish all my demons in one fell swoop.
It is for that reason that Paul Tillich’s words resonate with me so strongly, and why I try and read them at this time of year. It is startling to think, as I sit among my pile of shattered resolutions, feeling grubby and small, that God accepts me. God loves me. God will not merely love me tomorrow; God will not love the me who has learned Spanish and files his taxes early. God loves me today just as I am.
To really believe this is, I think, far harder than it appears. We pay this idea a lot of lip service, but I think we fail to truly internalize it; I know that I do. We have this inkling that God likes us, maybe, but we believe that he would like us just a little bit more if we were a little bit better. It’s tempting to allow that idea to propel us to greater sanctity, but behind it lurks something of a poison. If we cannot allow God to accept us as we are, if we cannot allow infinite love to embrace us, it is nigh impossible to accept people as they are. If we demand constant improvement from ourselves, if we must earn God’s love, we end up demanding the same from others.
So, in the midst of whatever resolutions you might have made, try and sit for a few seconds and really contemplate this fact: You Are Accepted. Don’t do anything with it. Instead of trying so hard to do something, to make another resolution, to add another item to your to-do list, take a second and just be accepted. Invite a moment of grace. And then see not what you can do with that grace, but what that grace can do with you.
Lately my spirit has been contemplating what it really means to be poor and surrender all. If I admit that nothing at all is mine, and truly everything is God’s, then what will become of me? If I give up my possessions and follow Jesus, certainly my life shall be transformed. But, what if I also give up my dreams, desires, hopes, pride, ideas, time, preferences, feelings and thoughts? Nothing at all is mine, all is gift that is temporary and belongs to God. I am asked to pass the gift.
Maybe the the surrendering will transform me. Can I stop clinging from the outcomes that I desire too? Can I truly be open and trust? Will I let Love lead the way?