Receiving the gifts of those very different from ourselves

A few days ago, I sat on a train, headed to Los Angeles for meetings. I was minding my own business. Since Amtrak has wireless, I was grading student reflections on their reading of Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen. The readings invited them to move out of the zone of their own comfort to encounter God in others. One of them, Joseph, wrote:

"God created us to be in relationship with one another. It is my tendency (and I believe most of humanity's tendency) to shut out those around us. I can no longer assume that God can't use all people and all relationships to speak to me."

No sooner had I read this, than a man behind me asked if he could use my cell phone. Busy with my "work" I'd taken no real notice of him. "I said 'no.'" And went back to my work. He stood up and started down the aisle with an handful of five dollar bills asking people if he could pay to use a phone.

He was a middle aged black man, dressed in a black T-shirt and sweat pants. The T-shirt was new. It still had the crease lines from being recently liberated from its package.

"I need to call my wife and tell her I'm arriving at Union Station in LA."

He looked desperate. And his desperation pulled me out of my cramped, little world just enough for me to say, "Hey, use mine. But you don't have to pay for it."

After he'd made the call, I learned that he was on his way home after several years in prison. "Just out this morning," he told me. "Can't wait to see my wife. But I can't walk from the station, 'cause the shoes she sent me are too small."

He grinned happily despite his discomfort. A man who'd just be let out of prison was seeing the world with new eyes.

I've never known a day behind bars, but captivity doesn't require a jail cell. I need others, people very different from myself, to step out of all that holds me captive inside my own cramped little world.

Intention: Help me today, Lord Christ, to see the world with the eyes of one who's not so used to it all that I can't enjoy its wonder.

Others

"We should not be too sure of having found Christ in ourselves until we have found him also in the part of our humanity that is most remote from our own."

Thomas Merton

What will it take for a true Christian revolution to take hold of us?  It's too easy for us to build walls between us.  Who's right.  Who's wrong.  Who's in.  Who's out.  The dividing walls are becoming more numerous.  Thicker too.  Before long we'll be trapped in a maze of our own making.  Prisoners in our own little worlds, having excluded everyone else but those who are just like us.  Far from what it truly means to be human, in-dwelt by the Divine.

Intention: Today, I'll open myself to someone who I would otherwise ignore as too different from myself.  As I do I'll find something of myself, some part of me I've ignored, judged, dismissed, and excluded from the loving embrace of Christ.

Loss

A friend's mother died suddenly early this morning. I got the call at 3:30am. After comforting the family, I found myself plunged back into my own experiences of grief--my own mother's, years ago, and a few more recent ones. I also found myself tumbling back into experiences of loss I thought would undo me, but didn't. Loss is inevitable. And it hurts. Frightens us too. Loss is a reminder of how vulnerable we are, how much we're not in control after all. Loss of any kind can send us spinning, craving firm footing again.

When we do so, it's not hard to bury ourselves in work or anything else that might distract us, numb us, and help us avoid the pain.

But loss is an invitation. There's grace in it, hidden beneath the pain. Through loss we can come to greater clarity about what really matters in life.

Through some losses I thought would destroy me, I've learned that a lot of what I thought I needed, I don't really need, and so much I thought I could not live without, I can, in fact, live without.

Grief has taught me how involved I am in humanity, how much I'm made for love. And loss has taught me that the one thing I need most can never be taken from me.

Perhaps that's what it means to live Holy Saturday, halfway between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

Intention: Today, I'll let my losses shift my priorities again. I'll look back upon them gratefully--even through my pain--and realize they can be my teachers.  Every loss can open me to embrace life more fully.

Dysfunction

Today I read about a new Lindsay Lohan film, "The Canyons." It's a microbudget film that's an attempt to aid in the recovery of just about everybody who's making it--director, writers, and, of course, Lohan . . . who has pretty much made herself a walking disaster, and frightened away just about anyone who thinks of working with her. The article paints a portrait of Lohan that compares her to notoriously difficult George C. Scott, the alcoholic actor who's made many a director shake in his boots. Only Lohan looks even more challenging than Scott.

"We don't have to save her," says director Shrader. "We just have to get her through three weeks in July."

There's a little of Lohan in each of us, more or less.

If you're struggling against dysfunction, some part of you that makes life difficult for you and those around you, you may be tempted to think things will never change. Never's a long time. But can you work with that part of you, give it some kind of container, a second (or third chance), a ton of patience . . . for just "three weeks in July"?

Three weeks of sane and sober living may not be enough to save Lohan. But then again, it could. It might be the footing she needs for a whole new beginning.

Intention: Today, I'll face that challenging actor within; the one that whines and roars, and drives me nearly insane. I won't walk away, nor will I let that part of me rule the set for the next 24 hours. I'll try it again tomorrow, and the day after that too. Maybe get a little help from someone who knows how to tame the craziness within. I'll give it a shot for a few weeks and see what kind of saving God's up to within.

Mess

Most of us don't mean to make a mess of our lives.  But a mess is what most of our lives become from time to time: . . . sometimes for much longer than we'd like

. . . and occasionally without much hope of good coming from it.

If we're human, we can't avoid the mess.  In fact, as I testify here in a recent episode of the new podcast Parenting ReImagined, the mess of life is precisely where we work out a robust spirituality in the midst of daily life, where we find ourselves nearest to God, and God nearest to us.

Take a listen.  Dr. Sherry Walling is a winsome and warm interviewer (much like Krista Tippett of On Being fame, but wonderfully also her own person). In this podcast, Remembering to Breathe, she gets yours-truly talking about the darkness, brokenness, and mess of my own life, and the astonishing beauty that is emerging from it.  She helps me explore family life, parenting, spirituality, and concrete practices for living in the mess without getting sucked down into the mire.

It's not a bad Lenten meditation on humanity, divinity, death, and rebirth.

Intention: Today, I'll breathe.  And by breathing, I'll pray myself nearer to my own humanity.  And by paying attention to the life that's living in me, I'll stop trying to escape the mess and instead, let God meet me here.