Author Archives: Elizabeth Nordquist

Holy Week: The Lorica

24 Thursday Mar 2016

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The last practice from Joyce Rupp that I am observing this holy season is repeating the “lorica,” a Celtic prayer attributed to St. Patrick, invoked for protection and mindfulness. Last week on St. Patrick’s Day my inbox was filled with images and versions of that prayer, in calligraphy, icon and song. I knew that I was going to pray it myself this week, so I enjoyed the diversity of forms that were shared.  From the extended prayer, I especially like these parts:

I arise today with the strength of God to comfort me, the might of God to uphold me, the wisdom of God to guide me…

Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ with me, Christ within me, Christ around me, Christ about me, Christ on my left, Christ on my right…Christ in the heart of everyone that thinks of me, Christ in each mouth that speaks of me, Christ in each eye that sees me, Christ in each one that hears me.

The cadence and the tempo of the prayer ground me in my present moment, who I am right now, and from whence my help comes. But the image of a lorica is an armored breastplate–from medieval times, metal, sturdy impenetrable. Whether it is too remote by centuries or location or I am not a military type, I don’t find that image helpful. Nor, as I looked through books of painting and sculptures of Christ at the end of his life, did I find one that represented the sense on presence and protection that the lorica gives me. Then I  remembered that for several decades I have always carried with me a postcard of Rembrandt’s “Christ in the Storm.” The painting was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum many years ago, but before it was stolen, I was able to see it hanging there. The painting is huge, impressive, compelling. From the first glance I was captivated by it–the contrast of light and dark, the characters of fear and confusion, and in half-light down toward the right of the painting is Jesus asleep in the boat. The image of the sleeping, yet powerful Christ, stays with me, especially when my own “rough seas” seem to be gigantic and overwhelming. No matter what, I can trust the One who is at rest because he knows that all will be well, and at the right moment, he will rise and say, “Peace, be still,” to the madness, the wreckage, the terror that swirls around me, that swirls in our systems of work and connection, that swirls in the chaotic world.

So in these last days of Lent and Holy Week, I wake each morning saying the words of the Lorica, keeping in the eye of my heart the Christ whose knowledge and power and grace will bring all things to wholeness in the fullness of time.

May Christ guard me today from poison and fire, from drowning and wounding, so my mission may bear fruit in abundance.

 

I prefer my image of Jesus from Rembrandt to the art in this youtube from the Celtic Women, but the song with the words helps me in my planting myself at peace with Jesus in the boat. May each of you have holy days of trust and peace despite the raging of the storm and the roiling of the waters!

Lent 5: A Time of Silence

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Lent, listening, Mindfulness, silence, Uncategorized

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After all the words read and said in my Lenten practices this year, Joyce Rupp invites me to observe a time of silence and solitude each day. What does the silence bring me?

  • a slowing down of my breathing
  • a clearing of my space of external noise, a choice for me to unplug and shut down what creates babble
  • a lens through which to notice the gifts of creation around me–the first rose in bloom, the sprout from the succulent in the box by the gazebo, the hummingbird and the pair of romping squirrels, the endless forming and re-forming of clouds
  • an inner word to anchor my reflection; today, once again, it was GRACE
  • a space in which to spread and to sort all the pieces of my daily life, my memories of past adventures and hopes for the unknown and unfolding future
  • an ear by which to listen to what comes to me from the Spirit–for today, for those closest to me, for creation, for all people everywhere
  • a tangible connection to all others who long for and seek the Holy in all places around the world
  • a context for understanding and hoping in prayer for the broken world that God loves and that I try to love
  • one more encounter with the Mystery we call God, ephemeral, real, numinous, in that slowed down breathing, closer than my own breath.

Thomas Keating says, The root of prayer is interior silence.

I pray in this final week of Lent that what I choose for my exterior practice becomes a reality in my interior heart.

 

Lent 4: Love of Wisdom

11 Friday Mar 2016

Posted by in discovery, Lent, paying attention, peace, sacred reading, wisdom

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It might have been said of me, “She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain.” This quip attributed to Louisa May Alcott certainly captures my best pleasure or best vice, depending on one’s point of view. I am and have been an avid reader since I was four years old. So when Joyce Rupp suggests that in this fourth week of Lent we attend to a love of learning and wisdom by reading spiritual books, I dive in eagerly.

Her suggestion makes me ask some questions not only about what I am reading, but how I read them. Because I am a rapid reader, I can often read without being very careful about every words and nuance. Yet, for this kind of reading I need to slow down, maybe even with the rhythm I use in lectio divina, reading slowly enough to let a word shimmer for me, then meditate with it, pray with it, let it sink into the marrow of my soul. I am prone, I confess, to spiritual “obesity,” reading or gathering as much as I can without letting the full nourishing value reach into the places in me that long for transformation. So in the books that are coming to me of late, I have been invited to read more slowly, pay closer attention, and to let there be space in between intakes, even doing some written reflection on what I am reading and learning, seeking what the invitation there might be for me.

I find myself profoundly grateful to live in a time when so many sources of wisdom are so freely accessible to all. Between the old resources like libraries and newspapers and the newer ones on electronic media, I am never without wisdom at hand, at least on one hand or the other. So in this season I have been touched by memoirs of the dying and those growing older, of those in seminary, of those on the front line caring for others. I have been challenged by theologians, from my own tradition and other traditions; on my stack of books awaiting me is the papal encyclical on the environment, Laudato Si’. I am accompanied by spiritual writers, again from many traditions, from many places in the world, from many location in our own country; I have seen that spiritual practice often has a different face in snowbound or rural settings, far away from my Southern California urban life. Novels continue to touch me, particularly those whose central character seem to be on a quest for touching, feeling, loving the Mystery. And, the dessert course to almost every meal is the poetry, whether it is Malcolm Guite, Jan Richardson, Denise Levertov or Lucille Clifton. The wisdom that lies in the language of the poet touches deeply, lasts long.

I have also had a shocking encounter with an old realization about reading this week in this practice. I am an avid collector of lists of “bests” in reading from magazines and blogs, copy them down, often ordering them on the basis of recommendation only, rather than discerning whether or not they might be a fit for me, for my journey thus far, for my particular sensibilities and ways of knowing. Over my journey I have come to know a great deal about myself, especially what builds me up, what nurtures me and challenges me, and also what diverts or oppresses me. Some events that are reminiscent of past wounds and scars, some language that is punitive and exclusionary, some tones that are arrogant and condemnatory, even if the writer’s intention is pure, are writings that do more harm than good to my spirit. My own wisdom can be a discerning voice, were I to listen to it. This week I didn’t!  I picked up a book from a list and forced myself to read it all the way through, even though a few pages in, I knew it was not good for me. My reading resulted in nightmares, a very infrequent occurrence at this point in my life. Had I listened to Lady Wisdom, I could have prevented that fear and anxiety.  That very good book wasn’t wisdom to me.

I love the quest for wisdom. I take to heart again the words from the book of James:

The wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace. (James 3: 17-18)

As I seek wisdom this week, I will also seek the things that make for peace.

 

 

Lent 3: Journey with High Cross

29 Monday Feb 2016

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A striking feature of Celtic spirituality is the presence of High Crosses all over the landscape, pre-12th Century, primarily placed in sites thought to be as sacred. Not only are they tall and dense, many of them like this one from Monasterboice in Ireland have a circle connecting the arms of the cross close to the top and have scenes of Christian salvation history carved into them, a visual sacred journey review for all to remember. Joyce Rupp suggests that it become a template for this next week’s Lenten practice.

She suggests that as a Lenten practice, I draw a high cross, and then fill it in with pictures or with words that represent the story of my life. Two features call my attention. The first is to look at the “cruciform” shape of my life, places shaped by suffering and joy together, represented in the vertical and horizontal beams of the cross. The other is to look at the connection of heaven and earth, represented by the circle between the beams in the Celtic crosses. What events tell the story of my sacred journey? How would people understand my memoir were they to encounter my “high cross?”

I begin this third week by naming significant time periods or happenings in the sequence of eras in my life. Which are the ones in which I was conscious, either then or now, that this was a sacred encounter or happening? How was each one a “thin place” where God was surely there, even when I did not know it? And in which ones did the Light and darkness, suffering and hope coexist, juxtapose each other in a way that deepened my awareness that the ground I inhabited was holy?

Each day I will try to focus on a few to identify the scenes I would want to include in this review. Some of them will be obvious–childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, first career–teaching; marriage, second career–child rearing; graduate school–twice; third career–ordained ministry in the parish, seminary faculty and spiritual direction; retirement. Other areas will be more amorphous–growing a sense of self, re-imagining the role of women in the Church and in the culture, finding a rhythm for  all the adult roles to which I was called–mother, pastor, custodial parent, wife, friend. (It is becoming clear that this practice may take more than a week!) Also, the ongoing wrestling with theologies that are Reformed, but always in need of being reformed. In addition, the sea-changes going on the the Church and the World. And more.

I set out on this week’s practice gingerly, knowing that the intention of the practice is to lead me more deeply into the Mystery, in which suffering and joy are not mutually exclusive, because the Holy One is present in both. I also want to notice the “thin places” in which for brief shining moments I am very mindful that God is present, around and through me, above and below me, within and outside me. I want to place my story into that cruciform space, as an express intention to acknowledge that all of my life is sacred and that it is evident in the concrete details of the journey I take.

Holy Spirit, be my companion.

 

Lent 2: Discovering the Goodness of Creation

23 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by in beauty, creation, discovery, earth, Lent, Mystery

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As I continue to follow the recommendations of the reflections of Joyce Rupp, I am practicing another the emphases of Celtic spirituality this week–discovering the goodness of Creation. She suggests “listening to creation,” pausing to look at what you see, finding something new to you, and letting creation reveal its deeper meaning. This is much more challenging to me than last week’s call to see God’s presence in the ordinary, in my case blessing each of my children morning and night. I seem, either by nature or nurture, to need to work at connecting with creation.

I have been working hard at trying to engage what Calvin calls the “second book of revelation,” the natural world, and so this invitation to a focused practice is welcome, though not easy. However, I have received a gift that has made the practice more central in this past year which is the installation and blossoming of a drought-resistant garden in our front yard. We chose to embark upon this project for practical reasons: the merciless drought in Southern California has frightened and threatened us all. We have been given standards by which we need to decrease our water usage, and have been seeking ways to be good stewards of the water we do have. The garden took longer to install and cost more than we first estimated, despite the rebate that came from the state government. Yet what has developed where our lawn used to be is a constantly unfolding display of wonder and beauty. Under the tutelage of the marvelous Merilee, a garden designer, we were able to create and execute a garden that not only saves water for our parched land, but gives us examples of the ways that God’s mercies are new every morning, much to our surprise.

It begins in the dark. It is full of surprise. I am never sure when I go to bed at night what I will find in the morning that has blossomed. During Advent our purple bearded iris on the south patch kept us entranced with a new bloom almost every day, a continual parade of glory from one violet sentinel to the next. Now in Lent the white iris on the north side sheltered by the salvia has begun the same array, one blossom per day; is it marching us toward Easter?

The variety seems infinite. Just when I think I have noticed each plant and flower, another one emerges in shape and color utterly different than the one next to it. What are those little neon green capsules all in a row? What are those tall drapy red leaves in a bush? What color are those tiny florets hiding behind that prominent plant? Creation, when I focus my attention, has more manifestations of beauty and design than I can count.

I continue to be challenged by beauty. I have long known that I am “buoyed by beauty,” a phrase that I read in a narrative describing my beloved isle and community of Iona in Scotland. But my own little clusters of drought-resistant plants in front of my house keeps expanding my definition of what beauty is–not only vivid color, now only shapely fronds, not only striking succulents–but odd outcroppings, angular leaves and open patches are beautiful too. And how glad it makes me.

This week I am taking care to observe–truly, madly, deeply–the creative array that proliferates in my front yard, and ask myself how this reveals the Holy One to me. Calvin teaches me that there is much about the Mystery that can become known in creation. I am hoping that is discovering the goodness that is there, I will also have a deeper intimation of the goodness of God.

Personal photo from front garden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Mother God Made Me To Be:” Book Reflection

19 Friday Feb 2016

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This week as I am blessing my own children day and night, I have been asked to reflect on a new book being published by FaithWords, Hachette Press, called The Mother God Made Me To Be, by Karen Valentin, a writer of for Daily Guideposts and a single mother of two young boys. She and I are at opposite ends of the mothering spectrum; she writes about the beginnings and endings of  a marriage, and her call to be the single working mother of young children, responsible for supporting them. I am a retired grandmother in a long marriage, whose days of balancing mothering and vocation are completed. Yet, there are many overlaps in the ways we love and care for our children.

In her book made up of vignettes of her story, Valentin captures both the extreme delight of mothering children, each one a unique miracle, and the overwhelming and unremitting sense of responsibility for their welfare-physical, emotional and spiritual. She is candid about her fatigue and disappointment that is exacerbated by having to raise her boys alone, and having to face the reality of living a life that is not the one of which she dreamed. What she finds through her spiritual journey, supported by family, friends and church, is the Presence of the God who continues to work in and through her, even in her times of most conflicted decisions; she encounters the Spirit in worship, in ministry, in sustenance, in surprise and  quiet moments.

Almost every mother I know struggles at some time or in some situation with their “mothering,” whether their children are tiny, as they were in the middle sections of the Valentin’s book, or older in school, or teenagers, or adults with children of their own. The cultures we in habit in 21st C. North America do not support us well. In this present day mothers of young children are caught in culture wars in which almost every act of nurture is a cause for polarization–breastfeeding, working inside or out of the home, schooling–public, private or home, vaccinations, feeding, sleeping. There seem to be a limitless number of judges and critics who have an opinion on what a mother should do. Karen Valentin in not immune from those pressures, living in New York City, raising two boys on her own. Yet she continues to seek and to find both solace for the sadness and energy for the tasks in front of her, as she listens to the Spirit leading her, even letting her dare to become self-employed and entrepreneurial in her calling to be the kind of mother God wants her to be.

For every mother who is feels challenged by that calling, this book will be an encouragement to keep faith, to seek support and to recognize that we are not alone. The community of faithful, seeking mothers is wide and deep, and Karen Valentin has given voice to many of us in telling her story.

Personal photo from Museum Plaza, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Lent 1: Blessing the Children

13 Saturday Feb 2016

Posted by in blessing, children, Lent, prayer, Uncategorized

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In Lent this year, I am practicing some themes fromGreeneValentine15 Celtic spirituality, suggested by Joyce Rupp, one per week. Her first theme is to notice and celebrate the Presence of the Holy in the ordinary–the small details of our lives–our routines, our surroundings and the people who are front and center. She makes the suggestion that every morning and evening we bless our children.

I have prayed for each of my children and grandchildren since before they were born. But in picking up this Lenten practice which is more regular and more intense, I notice first that my prayers for them now are often either “defensive,” asking for protection or correction, or are just generic, “bless the beasts and the children” kinds of prayers. To bless them in a focused way twice a day is calling me to focus on each of them in his or her particularity, and to see them more deeply and lovingly.

John O’Donahue in his book, To Bless the Space between Us, describes blessing this way:

A blessing is not a sentiment or a question; it is a gracious invocation where the human heart pleads with the divine heart.

So I embark this practice with an open heart. What do I already know about each of them, two of them since their conception?  What do I still need to observe and to learn? In what can I take delight and rejoice? What concerns can I lift to the Holy One for healing, for satisfying, for directing, for deepening? And how can I be a blessing to each of them, without hovering, prying, judging or interfering?

It was a joy-filled exercise to inscribe in my journal the name of each one, and to limn out the qualities and aspects of that personality, as I pray for blessing for her or for him for that morning and evening. In the collection of the eight of them (in-laws included!), there is such diversity in temperament, style and  affections: introverts and extroverts, actors and contemplatives, students and athletes, cheerleaders and followers.  In addition, they all keep growing up, changing, even the adults among them, so that my list keeps inviting additions and subtractions day by day. I bless school assignments, sports events, play dates, rehearsals, and after-school lessons. I bless marriages, job searches, office politics, bank accounts. And I bless the working and loving, the hopes and the dreams, as well as bumps in the road that seem to block those dreams.  And I pray for each unique spirit of that growing one, made in the image of the Holy, that it be preserved and nourished, and, yes, protected, as it follows the path of the Spirit that is meant for it.

Joyce Rupp suggests this prayer of blessing:

May God and the angels guide, guard, and protect you this night.

And so I go to sleep praying this blessing for each one by name…Sean, Erica Lee, Dalton, Malakai, Erica Brooke, Ezra, Theo, Sadie. I am filled with hope as I bless each one, even  as I enter into the arms of the angels who watch and bless me as I sleep, believing that the One who is blessing me will also bless them. A loving way to begin Lent!

 

 

 

 

Finding the Rhythm

08 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by in Discernment, Mindfulness, paying attention, time

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TanDunnWaterMusicSome periods of my living seem quite straightforward and almost orderly, one thing after another in sequence. Then there are the other times in which I am listening to a myriad of melodies, never quiet sure where the downbeat and back beat should be. I begin a day quite sure that I know what its schedules is, and then in an instant, the phone rings or the doorbell chimes or a text message appears, and everything is suddenly rearranged. There also is the matter of density–some periods are blissfully leisurely, some others packed to rafters with deadlines piled atop one another, everything due within the same week. How did that happen? And how does the Holy One appear to me in such changing tempos?

Something in this picture I took of the concert arena at Disney Hall, awaiting the performance of Tan Dunn’s “Water Passion,” gives me some clues. All the necessary elements are ready: instruments, chairs, lights and what appears to be the infrastructure for the performance. They are diverse. Some do not seem to fit the usual categories of musical offerings. Some are part of the visual architecture of the hall itself. But at the right time the music begins at the direction of the conductor. The musicians–singers, players, and movers–all follow the lead of the one who is interpreting the work of the composer, in his rhythm, at his speed, on his cue. Measure after measure unfolds, and it becomes the musical offering it was meant to be.

I do not believe in a puppeteer God, who is managing the strings of my life from far above in the sky. I do believe in a Holy One who knows the set-up of my life–body, psyche, intentions, resources and limitations, the things that I keep in place continually through spiritual practice alone and with the community. I also believe that as Jeremiah the prophet says the plans that the Holy One has are for good–mine and the world around me. So my question must turn from “how did this happen?” to “how is God here?” and “what is the invitation to me when my careful Plan A unravels into Plans B, C and D?” How do I hear the downbeat for the beginning of this magnum opus of a moment?

In the days I have been musing on this, I come back again and again to the way I start  each day, or phase, or month, or year, or decade, when I pause to look at what is before me–the instruments, the risers, the percussion instruments, the water, the lights– to see if I have supplied them, made them ready. Then it is time to listen; I offer the prayer, “Loving God, here I am.” And I wait. Until I sense that the Conductor is starting the downbeat. Now it is time for moving in these 10 minutes, in this hour, in this day, in this time of my life. Each day has its own rhythm, and each day has its own interruptions. I am comforted by Rumi who enjoins me to welcome the uninvited visitor, even if my “plans” are thrown off.

And what about those spaces where there is suddenly nothing scheduled? nothing happening? I have found that these are gifts as well–they are spaces for noticing what is around me–what is blooming, what is growing, what is shining, what is singing. They are opportunities for imagining and dreaming of what might be and where my heart longs to soar. They are fallow times when I take in the beauty, the goodness, the richness of the Word–written or sketched or embodied–all nourishing the resources of my body and soul in preparation for the next downbeat of the Conductor.

This week we enter into Lent, and I will be attending to an external prompt for the rhythm of my life. Yet within each day and its infinite variety, I will still be listening each morning for today’s downbeat and tempo, trying to be a faithful dancer on the journey of following the Holy.

Coming Into A Clearing

21 Thursday Jan 2016

Posted by in listening, Mindfulness, Mystery, opening my mind, paying attention, Spirit, wisdom

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The big pressures of the Season are over, and even though there continues to be much to do, I feel as if I can pause to take a breath. I have been doing a great deal of reading about “mindfulness,” and listening to a multitude of voices who speak from their experiences about what this practice does for, in and through them. In attempting to participate in the practices about which I read, however, I find that they are not intuitive to me, or easy to get the hang of.

This break in the liturgical year between Epiphany and Lent does give me space to try to practice some ways of mindfulness. The calendar is not quite so event-filled, the deadlines have been met for the time being, and the sales forces are losing a little of their steam. I can be a little less in a hurry, a little gentler in my intention, and more expansive in my gaze.  Susan Phillips in her book, The Cultivated Life, (IVP,2014), when speaking of mindfulness for someone on a faith quest, says this: The praying person enters the silence, pays attention to what’s on her heart, and then directs attention to God, aided by the text and the community.” (116)

I am attempting to take that pause, to allow this change of pace to be more mindful and attentive. On a trip to the section of beach where dogs can roam free, accompanied by my grandson, husband and wild dog Max, in the crispness and quiet, I sit shivering, but still, captured by the juxtaposition of motion and stasis: rolling waves, calm ocean farther out; dark mass of clouds softening into promising light; intrepid surfers and quiet watchers. How do I attend to Holy Presence in this moment?

I begin with gratefulness–for being here in this moment to behold the beauty of the Creator in wave, sky and sand; to delight in the weaving of grand-boy, grandfather and dog, up and down the strand; for living in proximity to ocean and mountain both; for ample time to take a day to celebrate the birthday of this unique grandchild, with a love for creatures and a longing to wander untethered in as much wilderness as he can inhabit.

Then with the prayer, Loving God, here I am, I turn my heart to questions for clarity: what do you want me to know? where do you want me to be? how shall I do the next right thing? I experience these prayers as seeds being sown in the garden of my heart, to be brought to fruition when the time in right. For the moment I need only to offer them, and sit with the panorama of Light and Dark before me, and wait. Like the roses in my garden behind and as the irises in my garden in front, the flowering of answers will appear in due season.

The next morning I am in a sanctuary preparing for worship. I am sitting with my husband, there is powerful music, stained glass, and a welcoming liturgy. But first to get quiet. I find that  I routinely need to do things: rest in the truth that I am now a “person in the pew” not a worship leader, and that I need to recycle all the Grace that was extended to me by letting go of any bits and bobs of critique I might carry forward from my years of experience as pastor; then, I need to remind myself that I am gathered here with the people of God in worship of the Mystery we call God, even though I don’t have deep friendships or feel connected. I am ready now to pray, Loving God, here I am, and to see what how the Spirit will catch my attention and nourish my thirsty soul. Will it be words of a new hymn? will it be the reading of the Word by a sweet and adept 10 year old? will it be a line from the Word preached, a cadence sung by the alto soloist, an invitation to participate in the healing of the world close by? I tune my hearts to listen.

The next challenge will be to bring my practice of mindfulness to a committee meeting. Will I be able to lay aside my resistances, my anxieties, my critical spirit long enough to be quiet, pray again Loving God, here I am, and then listen for what prompts the Spirit brings to me: is this a time to speak, to refer to my past experience, to jump into the fray or this is a time to call of the Spirit ot “set a seal on my mouth,” to listen to the deliberations with an open heart, while praying for the common good for all of us gathered?

“Thou will keep her in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee…”  Isaiah 26:3

Loving God, here I am, make me mindful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Longing for Light to Follow

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in Christmas, Epiphany, Hope, illumination, pilgrimage, wisdom

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Today is Epiphany, the daychihulyTampa when the Church remembers and celebrates the arrival of the wise ones who have been following the Light in the shape of a Star in the East and now have stopped over that place where the Child was. I do not envy them the journey over miles and years, but I do envy the vision and clarity of the Star that took them right to the place where their hearts longed to be.

In reading one of my gifts from Christmas, Alexander McCall Smith’s The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine, I saw myself reflected in Mma Precious Ramotswe’s self-reflection after her colleague suggests she might want a holiday:

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her hands, folded passively on her lap. Was she getting stale? She looked at her shoes. at her faithful brown shoes with their broad soles and their flat heels. Were these the shoes of a stale person?  (21)

My shoes are not broad, brown and flat, but  I am wondering if parts of me are stale. I do know that when I have been musing on this part of the Christmas season, my heart is lightened when I think of this part of the ancient story of Epiphany, of wisdom meeting new life, of coming into new territory, of being filled with joy. And I have a longing for some of that lightness.

I didn’t make New Year’s resolutions this year, I usually don’t. However, I did find myself praying for Light and Hope, but the prayers were nestled in vows I took long ago when I was ordained as a Minister of Word and Sacrament. In those vows I promised each time I recited them at each new call,  that I would seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination and love. So my prayer this year has become that I will encounter the Star of Light that will burnish my energy, intelligence, imagination and love, so that they more shine more brightly in me and through me to the people I am given to care for. I am aware that after thirty years, each of those intentions might have become stale–or maybe are just in need of re-calibration after an encounter with the Holy One.

In this decade of my life my energy is not the same as when it needed to meet the requirements of the rhythms of life that tried to balance my calling at church or seminary, commuting, raising children, caring for aging parents and keeping loving alive. My brain does not retain new information, nor does it remember familiar facts with the facility it once did. In some ways my imagination is more lithe and fantastic than it used to be, now that I put it to use only with taking flight with grand-children or hoping for outcomes not constricted by by-laws; that one glistens more brightly. And there is love! Always the Word–the greatest of these, always coming to me from Grace. But in some places and times it has felt more taxing. Weariness in well-doing has tarnished some of that first love; or that sense that one has lived long enough to say with the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, “there is nothing new under the sun,” and it seems that no new thing to savor, to take delight in, no new face to enchant with affection.

And so my prayer on this Epiphany is that the Star will shine in me, for me and through me:

Star of Wonder, shine on and energize my body and spirit so that I can make the treks over mountains and deserts to offer who I am to those who are ready to receive me.

Star of Beauty Bright, enliven my synapses and retrieve my skill sets, so that I can continue to bring ideas and strategies to the tables of conversation and cooperation in the things that make for peace.

Star of Night, shine through my dreams so that my imagination will be further illuminated with things that my eyes have not yet seen or my ears have not heard, but that add beauty and grace to the world around me.

Star of my Heart, keep the fires of Love burning, stoked and warm, brilliant and comforting, as long as my heart will beat.

In the name of that Bright and Morning Star, Amen.

 

 

Personal photo from Dale Chihuly Center, St. Petersburg, FL.