Father Richard recognizes in Mary a feminine symbol or archetype for the divine presence in creation:
Although Jesus was a man, the Christ is beyond gender, so it should be expected that Christian Tradition would have found feminine ways, consciously or unconsciously, to symbolize the full divine incarnation and to give God a more feminine character—as the Bible itself often does.
Why did Christianity, in both the East and West, fall head over heels in love with this seemingly ordinary woman Mary, who is a minor figure in the New Testament? We gave her names like Theotokos, Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, NotreDame, the Virgin of this or that, Nuestra Señora, Our Mother of Sorrows, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, and Our Lady of just about every village or shrine in Europe. We are clearly dealing not just with a single woman here but a foundational symbol—or, to borrow the language of Carl Jung, an “archetype”—an image that constellates a whole host of meanings that cannot be communicated logically but is grounded in our collective unconscious.
In the mythic imagination, I think Mary intuitively symbolizes the first incarnation—or Mother Earth, if you will allow me. (I am not saying that Mary is the first incarnation, only that she became the natural archetype and symbol for it, particularly in art.) I believe that Mary is the major femininearchetype for the Christ mystery. This archetype had already shown herself as Sophia or Holy Wisdom (see Proverbs 8:1–3; Wisdom 7:7–14), and again in the Book of Revelation (12:1–17) in the cosmic symbol of “a woman clothed with the sun and standing on the moon.” Neither Sophia nor the woman of Revelation is precisely Mary of Nazareth, yet in so many ways, both are—and each broadens our understanding of the divine feminine.
Jung believed that humans produce in art the inner images the soul needs in order to seeitself and to allow its own transformation. Try to count how many paintings in art museums, churches, and homes show a wonderfully dressed woman offering for your admiration—and hers—an often-naked baby boy. What is the very ubiquity of this image saying on the soul level? I think it looks something like this:
The first incarnation (creation) is symbolized by Sophia-Incarnate, a beautiful, feminine, multicolored, graceful Mary.
She is invariably offering us Jesus, God incarnated into vulnerability and nakedness.
Mary became the symbol of the first universal incarnation.
She then hands the second incarnation on to us, while remaining in the background; the focus is always on the child.
Earth Mother presenting Spiritual Son, the two first stages of the incarnation.
Feminine Receptivity, handing on the fruit of her yes.
And inviting us to offer our own yes.
Faith Makes the Effort
We can’t possibly explore the issue of miracles in the gospels without discussing the role of faith. Very often, a miracle performed by Jesus is preceded by his affirmation of a person’s faith. For example, in Matthew 8, when a Roman Centurion came and asked Jesus to heal his paralyzed servant with just a word, Jesus marveled and said, “Truly I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith” (Matthew 8:10).In another story, a ritually unclean woman who had been bleeding for twelve years risked social exile and punishment by pushing her way through a crowd and touching the edge of Jesus’ robes. He turned and confronted her for her boldness, but rather than being rebuked by Jesus, the woman was blessed. “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace” (Luke 8:48). These themes occur over and over in the gospels. Blind Bartimaeus, Zaccheus the tax collector, the Canaanite woman, and many others take significant risks to experience the goodness of Jesus. In all of these stories, Jesus affirms their faith. He blesses those who show tenacity and persistence; those who believe so deeply in his power, authority, and mercy that they will go to extraordinary lengths to encounter him. And that’s precisely what we discover in the story of the paralyzed man in Mark 2. Before healing him, Jesus praises the faith of his companions who were undeterred by the crowds and instead lowered the man in front of Jesus through the roof. Their bold faith led to both the man’s physical healing and the forgiveness of his sins (see Mark 2:5). All of these stories, however, challenge a commonly held assumption about faith. Many of us have been taught that being blessed, healed, or forgiven by God is purely a matter of grace, and that grace is above all a passive thing because if grace involves any effort on our part, it means we’re trusting in our works rather than faith alone. Unfortunately, this anemic understanding of grace and faith as inactive qualities has kept too many Christians in a state of both immaturity and unreceptiveness to God’s blessings.We see in the gospels and what Jesus affirms are people whose faith motivated them to act. Faith is what caused the bleeding woman to risk punishment and touch Jesus’ robe. Faith is why the Roman Centurion risked humiliation by asking a Jewish rabbi to heal his servant. Faith is why Zacchaeus climbed the tree, why Bartimaeus shouted when the crowds told him to shut up, and why the Canaanite woman asked for crumbs from Jesus’ table. This is what we so often get wrong. As Dallas Willard said, “Grace is not opposed to effort. It is opposed to earning. Effort is action. Earning is attitude. You have never seen people more active than those who have been set on fire by the grace of God.”None of the people Jesus touched earned their healing. Nor did they deserve to have their sins forgiven. As the Apostle Paul wrote, “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast” (Ephesians 2:8-9). Indeed, Jesus freely healed and forgave the paralyzed man. He did not earn this grace; it came through faith. Faith in the power of Jesus is why those men put a hole in the roof and lowered their friend through it. Their hard work was not a betrayal of faith, but the evidence of it.
Behold, Lord, an empty vessel that needs to be filled. My Lord, fill it. I am weak in the faith; strengthen me. I am cold in love; warm me and make me fervent that my love may go out to my neighbor. I do not have a strong and firm faith; at times I doubt and am unable to trust you altogether. O Lord, help me. Strengthen my faith and trust in you. Amen.
Father Richard Rohr speaks of the significance of our first images of God:
Most people first experience unconditional love not through the image of a man, but through the image of a woman—in most cases, their mother. It seems that for much of the human race, the mother is the one who first parts the veil and allows us to glimpse what love is, through experiences of grounding, intimacy, tenderness, and safety—things that most of us associate with God at God’s best. One of the disappointing things I have witnessed as a priest and spiritual director is how many people operate from the opposite of that—from a toxic and negative image of God. Nothing wonderful and nothing transformative is ever going to happen as long as that’s the case.
One of the reasons I started to do men’s work was because I realized that an awful lot of people didn’t experience, expect, or trust that beloved relationship through the masculine. The more cultures I traveled to around the globe, the more convinced I became of the universal nature of what I call the father-wound. It seems to be a wound that many people cannot break through; they don’t expect love to come from that place.
Author Shannon K. Evans considers the importance of allowing both masculine and feminine qualities in our experience of God:
The feminine elements in God are an important balance to the masculine ones. If all we have known of the divine is God the Father, we are walking with a spiritual limp, yes, even those of us who were lucky enough to be raised to see “him” as loving and tender rather than aloof or stern….
The masculinity of God is not the culprit here. Imaging God as male is valuable and good for our spiritual selves…. But left unbalanced, a belief in a God who is exclusively male can lead us down a road of legalism, perfectionism, fear, self-criticism, and a plaguing sense of unworthiness. Sadly, many of our religious experiences have been marked by such things.
On the other hand, when we integrate the divine feminine into our understanding of God, we find we have an easier time internalizing compassion, inclusivity, radical acceptance, justice for the outcast, and unconditional love. In my own life the divine feminine has offered me a maternal invitation to rest and be present. After a lifetime of assuming that striving and sacrifice would always be required for my spiritual growth, this was good news indeed. [1]
Richard concludes:
Whoever God is, God is somehow profoundly revealed in what it means to be feminine and masculine—both! But in our time, we have to find a way to recognize, to fall in love with, and to trust the feminine face of God. Most of us were not given that face in our churches, although we Catholics resolved it in an ingenious way through Mary. She, for many people, has become the accessible, trustworthy, and safe face of God.
Why “She” Matters
Novelist Sue Monk Kidd describes why cultivating an image of the Sacred Feminine is so important, particularly for women raised within Christianity:
A young girl learns Bible stories in which vital women are generally absent, in the background, or devoid of power. She learns that men go on quests, encounter God, and change history, while women support and wait for them. She hears sermons where traditional (nonthreatening) feminine roles are lifted up as God’s ideal. A girl is likely to see only a few women in the higher echelons of church power.
And what does a girl, who is forming her identity, do with all the scriptures admonishing women to submission and silence? Having them “explained away” as the product of an ancient time does not entirely erase her unease. She also experiences herself missing from pronouns in scripture, hymns, and prayers. And most of all, as long as God “himself” is exclusively male, she will experience the otherness, the lessness of herself; all the pious talk in the world about females being equal to males will fail to compute in the deeper places inside her.
When we truly grasp for the first time that the symbol of woman can be a vessel of the sacred, that it too can be an image of the Divine, our lives will begin to pivot…. Internalizing the Divine Feminine provides women with the healing affirmation that they are persons in their own right, that they can make choices, that they are worthy and entitled and do not need permission. The internalization of the Sacred Feminine tells us our gender is a valuable and marvelous thing to be. [1]
Public theologian Christena Cleveland explores how an exclusively white, male image of God is limiting and even oppressive. She shares a mystical experience of encountering the unconditional love of the Sacred Black Feminine while on a mindfulness retreat:
I sat cross-legged on my mat, and as soon as I closed my eyes and turned inward, a wave of Love crashed into me, a wave so formidable that it forced my upright body backward and onto the floor pillows behind me…. This was a mighty force that didn’t abuse. It was force without manipulation, force without control, and force without shame. It was the force of Love—a force I had never encountered in whitemalegod’s world….
I had never before experienced formidable strength in the form of Love and it undid me. I marveled that after an entire day of earnestly clearing my mind of fearful clutter, what lay beneath it all was not another to-do list from whitemalegod…. No, Love was underneath it all, just as I had hoped. That day, I discovered that at the heart of reality … flows wave after wave after wave of Love … for me….
This experience showed me that no matter what is going on around me and no matter how much fear tries to consume me, the Sacred Black Feminine is always available to guide me into Love.
Pastor Samm and Vicar Sa7ah were already on the other side of the metal detector when I got to the women’s prison yesterday. I signed in and joined them as quickly as I could, grabbing a couple bags of sopapillas to help lighten their load.
We are allowed, just a couple times a year, to bring a special meal in to be shared with New Beginnings church council, and as is our tradition, we like to share a Mother’s Day dinner together.
So the three of us made our way through the clanking security gates and sally ports crowned with billowing razor wire, before crossing the prison yard and into the gym.
We forgot paper plates, but these women know nothing if not how to be creative with limited resources, so they separated the two halves of the clamshell to-go containers and no one seemed to mind the dusting of sugar at the bottom of their makeshift dinner plates.
Before us, a feast of street tacos: crispy birria (with consume), cilantro dusted carnitas, pulled pork, abundant elote, and so many sopapillas (now piled in a shopping bag after the repurposing of their containers).
For an hour and a half we got to feast and fellowship. It felt joyous. Liberatory. And at the same time, normal.
I worked my way around the table eager for updates from everyone. N. spoke of having her first child when she herself was just 15 years old. Another gal (a woman whose determination to heal from and still be accountable for her addiction inspires me every time I speak to her) teared up saying her own teenage son was just charged with a class A felony and will likely be inside for most of his life now. Then S. described how, now that she’s clear headed and off of meth, the conversations she is having with her own children are more honest and tender than ever. Motherhood from inside a prison is complicated, and has its own beauty to it.
Not everyone is inside here for drug charges or crimes committed while the throes of their own addictions, or as a result of fetal alcohol syndrome, or as a result of a childhood surrounded by addicted adults, but it sure feels like most are.
There was far more than just heartbreaking updates from their loved ones shared that night. We also spoke of things we were grateful for in each other, and there was some good-hearted teasing for everyone (me included), one gal got to celebrate getting paroled early than expected, and then D. somehow showed off her handstand pushups after eating tacos, which felt very risky.
God set a table before us in the presence of prison guards, and the savory goodness of the carnitas was un-dampened by the accidental sugar in the bottom of our makeshift dinner plates.
Wednesday night: A Wild God
I drove home and quickly changed before friends picked us up for dinner and a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show. Walking into the Butcher Block Café, my heart lifted when I saw a booth filled with people I love from House For All Sinners and Saints days. When our dinner came, I tried to hide the fact that, like a child, I was obsessively trying to keep my eggs and bacon away from my French toast and syrup. WHY are they served on the same plate?
The Wild God show, at moments, felt like a trance of exultation. Thousands of people, arms in the air, singing bring your spirit down. Cave, our unlikely liturgist: former heroin addict. Goth-chaos post-punk rock monster. Grieving father. A dark evangelist for joy.
So many times that night I turned to Eric and say “wow”. He responded by just gently nodding his head as if to say, “exactly”.
During a quieter song I slipped away to the women’s room. Washing my hands, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Stella?” (name changed) I asked.
“Girl. What the HELL?” she said as she hugged me.
She and I spent years together as sober sisters, going to meetings, swapping stories, laughing too loudly over mugs of translucent diner coffee.
When I looked in her eyes I could see she was high as a kite. In that unmistakable clattering speech pattern she tells me she left the respectable job she had studied hard for and was eventually certified in, and has instead returned to . . . sex work.
Fucking addiction.
The gift that keeps on taking.
I returned to Eric and our friends and soaked up the rest of a magnificent performance which felt like being taken to church…like being held in the telling of a magnificent story by a reliable narrator with back-up Gospel singers. It was soaring.
A ghost in giant sneakers
In 2015 Cave’s 15 year-old son Arthur fell off a cliff and died. The coroner’s report showed he’d ingested LSD. Anyone who has followed his career knows that this unspeakable tragedy stripped him down into a man who writes from the point of view “that something can happen to your life that is absolutely shattering that can also be redemptive and beautiful.”
So when I returned to my seat to the song Joy, I felt it.
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I felt like someone in my family was dead
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called out all around me, said have mercy on me please
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
Spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow
Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation?
It’s half past midnight! Why disturb me so late!
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy
And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words
And all across the world they shout out their angry words
About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Blinding us all who care to stand and look beyond and care to stand and look beyond above
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called all around me, have mercy on me please
Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy
-Nick Cave
I’m not sure what I’m trying to get at here. Maybe that I cannot manage through my own sobriety to keep the wrenching reality of addiction from infecting my life.
Or maybe that some days are an unbelievable mind-fuck of crushing sadness and liberating effervescence.
Or maybe just that pain and sorrow are always served on the same plate as joy and despite my best efforts, I cannot keep them from touching.
Novelist Sue Monk Kidd describes why cultivating an image of the Sacred Feminine is so important, particularly for women raised within Christianity:
A young girl learns Bible stories in which vital women are generally absent, in the background, or devoid of power. She learns that men go on quests, encounter God, and change history, while women support and wait for them. She hears sermons where traditional (nonthreatening) feminine roles are lifted up as God’s ideal. A girl is likely to see only a few women in the higher echelons of church power.
And what does a girl, who is forming her identity, do with all the scriptures admonishing women to submission and silence? Having them “explained away” as the product of an ancient time does not entirely erase her unease. She also experiences herself missing from pronouns in scripture, hymns, and prayers. And most of all, as long as God “himself” is exclusively male, she will experience the otherness, the lessness of herself; all the pious talk in the world about females being equal to males will fail to compute in the deeper places inside her.
When we truly grasp for the first time that the symbol of woman can be a vessel of the sacred, that it too can be an image of the Divine, our lives will begin to pivot…. Internalizing the Divine Feminine provides women with the healing affirmation that they are persons in their own right, that they can make choices, that they are worthy and entitled and do not need permission. The internalization of the Sacred Feminine tells us our gender is a valuable and marvelous thing to be. [1]
Public theologian Christena Cleveland explores how an exclusively white, male image of God is limiting and even oppressive. She shares a mystical experience of encountering the unconditional love of the Sacred Black Feminine while on a mindfulness retreat:
I sat cross-legged on my mat, and as soon as I closed my eyes and turned inward, a wave of Love crashed into me, a wave so formidable that it forced my upright body backward and onto the floor pillows behind me…. This was a mighty force that didn’t abuse. It was force without manipulation, force without control, and force without shame. It was the force of Love—a force I had never encountered in whitemalegod’s world….
I had never before experienced formidable strength in the form of Love and it undid me. I marveled that after an entire day of earnestly clearing my mind of fearful clutter, what lay beneath it all was not another to-do list from whitemalegod…. No, Love was underneath it all, just as I had hoped. That day, I discovered that at the heart of reality … flows wave after wave after wave of Love … for me….
This experience showed me that no matter what is going on around me and no matter how much fear tries to consume me, the Sacred Black Feminine is always available to guide me into Love.
Pastor Samm and Vicar Sa7ah were already on the other side of the metal detector when I got to the women’s prison yesterday. I signed in and joined them as quickly as I could, grabbing a couple bags of sopapillas to help lighten their load.
We are allowed, just a couple times a year, to bring a special meal in to be shared with New Beginnings church council, and as is our tradition, we like to share a Mother’s Day dinner together.
So the three of us made our way through the clanking security gates and sally ports crowned with billowing razor wire, before crossing the prison yard and into the gym.
We forgot paper plates, but these women know nothing if not how to be creative with limited resources, so they separated the two halves of the clamshell to-go containers and no one seemed to mind the dusting of sugar at the bottom of their makeshift dinner plates.
Before us, a feast of street tacos: crispy birria (with consume), cilantro dusted carnitas, pulled pork, abundant elote, and so many sopapillas (now piled in a shopping bag after the repurposing of their containers).
For an hour and a half we got to feast and fellowship. It felt joyous. Liberatory. And at the same time, normal.
I worked my way around the table eager for updates from everyone. N. spoke of having her first child when she herself was just 15 years old. Another gal (a woman whose determination to heal from and still be accountable for her addiction inspires me every time I speak to her) teared up saying her own teenage son was just charged with a class A felony and will likely be inside for most of his life now. Then S. described how, now that she’s clear headed and off of meth, the conversations she is having with her own children are more honest and tender than ever. Motherhood from inside a prison is complicated, and has its own beauty to it.
Not everyone is inside here for drug charges or crimes committed while the throes of their own addictions, or as a result of fetal alcohol syndrome, or as a result of a childhood surrounded by addicted adults, but it sure feels like most are.
There was far more than just heartbreaking updates from their loved ones shared that night. We also spoke of things we were grateful for in each other, and there was some good-hearted teasing for everyone (me included), one gal got to celebrate getting paroled early than expected, and then D. somehow showed off her handstand pushups after eating tacos, which felt very risky.
God set a table before us in the presence of prison guards, and the savory goodness of the carnitas was un-dampened by the accidental sugar in the bottom of our makeshift dinner plates.
Wednesday night: A Wild God
I drove home and quickly changed before friends picked us up for dinner and a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show. Walking into the Butcher Block Café, my heart lifted when I saw a booth filled with people I love from House For All Sinners and Saints days. When our dinner came, I tried to hide the fact that, like a child, I was obsessively trying to keep my eggs and bacon away from my French toast and syrup. WHY are they served on the same plate?
The Wild God show, at moments, felt like a trance of exultation. Thousands of people, arms in the air, singing bring your spirit down. Cave, our unlikely liturgist: former heroin addict. Goth-chaos post-punk rock monster. Grieving father. A dark evangelist for joy.
So many times that night I turned to Eric and say “wow”. He responded by just gently nodding his head as if to say, “exactly”.
During a quieter song I slipped away to the women’s room. Washing my hands, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Stella?” (name changed) I asked.
“Girl. What the HELL?” she said as she hugged me.
She and I spent years together as sober sisters, going to meetings, swapping stories, laughing too loudly over mugs of translucent diner coffee.
When I looked in her eyes I could see she was high as a kite. In that unmistakable clattering speech pattern she tells me she left the respectable job she had studied hard for and was eventually certified in, and has instead returned to . . . sex work.
Fucking addiction.
The gift that keeps on taking.
I returned to Eric and our friends and soaked up the rest of a magnificent performance which felt like being taken to church…like being held in the telling of a magnificent story by a reliable narrator with back-up Gospel singers. It was soaring.
A ghost in giant sneakers
In 2015 Cave’s 15 year-old son Arthur fell off a cliff and died. The coroner’s report showed he’d ingested LSD. Anyone who has followed his career knows that this unspeakable tragedy stripped him down into a man who writes from the point of view “that something can happen to your life that is absolutely shattering that can also be redemptive and beautiful.”
So when I returned to my seat to the song Joy, I felt it.
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I felt like someone in my family was dead
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called out all around me, said have mercy on me please
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
Spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow
Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation?
It’s half past midnight! Why disturb me so late!
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy
And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words
And all across the world they shout out their angry words
About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Blinding us all who care to stand and look beyond and care to stand and look beyond above
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called all around me, have mercy on me please
Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy
-Nick Cave
I’m not sure what I’m trying to get at here. Maybe that I cannot manage through my own sobriety to keep the wrenching reality of addiction from infecting my life.
Or maybe that some days are an unbelievable mind-fuck of crushing sadness and liberating effervescence.
Or maybe just that pain and sorrow are always served on the same plate as joy and despite my best efforts, I cannot keep them from touching.
Pastor Samm and Vicar Sa7ah were already on the other side of the metal detector when I got to the women’s prison yesterday. I signed in and joined them as quickly as I could, grabbing a couple bags of sopapillas to help lighten their load.
We are allowed, just a couple times a year, to bring a special meal in to be shared with New Beginnings church council, and as is our tradition, we like to share a Mother’s Day dinner together.
So the three of us made our way through the clanking security gates and sally ports crowned with billowing razor wire, before crossing the prison yard and into the gym.
We forgot paper plates, but these women know nothing if not how to be creative with limited resources, so they separated the two halves of the clamshell to-go containers and no one seemed to mind the dusting of sugar at the bottom of their makeshift dinner plates.
Before us, a feast of street tacos: crispy birria (with consume), cilantro dusted carnitas, pulled pork, abundant elote, and so many sopapillas (now piled in a shopping bag after the repurposing of their containers).
For an hour and a half we got to feast and fellowship. It felt joyous. Liberatory. And at the same time, normal.
I worked my way around the table eager for updates from everyone. N. spoke of having her first child when she herself was just 15 years old. Another gal (a woman whose determination to heal from and still be accountable for her addiction inspires me every time I speak to her) teared up saying her own teenage son was just charged with a class A felony and will likely be inside for most of his life now. Then S. described how, now that she’s clear headed and off of meth, the conversations she is having with her own children are more honest and tender than ever. Motherhood from inside a prison is complicated, and has its own beauty to it.
Not everyone is inside here for drug charges or crimes committed while the throes of their own addictions, or as a result of fetal alcohol syndrome, or as a result of a childhood surrounded by addicted adults, but it sure feels like most are.
There was far more than just heartbreaking updates from their loved ones shared that night. We also spoke of things we were grateful for in each other, and there was some good-hearted teasing for everyone (me included), one gal got to celebrate getting paroled early than expected, and then D. somehow showed off her handstand pushups after eating tacos, which felt very risky.
God set a table before us in the presence of prison guards, and the savory goodness of the carnitas was un-dampened by the accidental sugar in the bottom of our makeshift dinner plates.
Wednesday night: A Wild God
I drove home and quickly changed before friends picked us up for dinner and a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show. Walking into the Butcher Block Café, my heart lifted when I saw a booth filled with people I love from House For All Sinners and Saints days. When our dinner came, I tried to hide the fact that, like a child, I was obsessively trying to keep my eggs and bacon away from my French toast and syrup. WHY are they served on the same plate?
The Wild God show, at moments, felt like a trance of exultation. Thousands of people, arms in the air, singing bring your spirit down. Cave, our unlikely liturgist: former heroin addict. Goth-chaos post-punk rock monster. Grieving father. A dark evangelist for joy.
So many times that night I turned to Eric and say “wow”. He responded by just gently nodding his head as if to say, “exactly”.
During a quieter song I slipped away to the women’s room. Washing my hands, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Stella?” (name changed) I asked.
“Girl. What the HELL?” she said as she hugged me.
She and I spent years together as sober sisters, going to meetings, swapping stories, laughing too loudly over mugs of translucent diner coffee.
When I looked in her eyes I could see she was high as a kite. In that unmistakable clattering speech pattern she tells me she left the respectable job she had studied hard for and was eventually certified in, and has instead returned to . . . sex work.
Fucking addiction.
The gift that keeps on taking.
I returned to Eric and our friends and soaked up the rest of a magnificent performance which felt like being taken to church…like being held in the telling of a magnificent story by a reliable narrator with back-up Gospel singers. It was soaring.
A ghost in giant sneakers
In 2015 Cave’s 15 year-old son Arthur fell off a cliff and died. The coroner’s report showed he’d ingested LSD. Anyone who has followed his career knows that this unspeakable tragedy stripped him down into a man who writes from the point of view “that something can happen to your life that is absolutely shattering that can also be redemptive and beautiful.”
So when I returned to my seat to the song Joy, I felt it.
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I felt like someone in my family was dead
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called out all around me, said have mercy on me please
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
Spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow
Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation?
It’s half past midnight! Why disturb me so late!
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy
And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words
And all across the world they shout out their angry words
About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Blinding us all who care to stand and look beyond and care to stand and look beyond above
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called all around me, have mercy on me please
Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy
-Nick Cave
I’m not sure what I’m trying to get at here. Maybe that I cannot manage through my own sobriety to keep the wrenching reality of addiction from infecting my life.
Or maybe that some days are an unbelievable mind-fuck of crushing sadness and liberating effervescence.
Or maybe just that pain and sorrow are always served on the same plate as joy and despite my best efforts, I cannot keep them from touching.
Father Richard Rohr speaks of the significance of our first images of God:
Most people first experience unconditional love not through the image of a man, but through the image of a woman—in most cases, their mother. It seems that for much of the human race, the mother is the one who first parts the veil and allows us to glimpse what love is, through experiences of grounding, intimacy, tenderness, and safety—things that most of us associate with God at God’s best. One of the disappointing things I have witnessed as a priest and spiritual director is how many people operate from the opposite of that—from a toxic and negative image of God. Nothing wonderful and nothing transformative is ever going to happen as long as that’s the case.
One of the reasons I started to do men’s work was because I realized that an awful lot of people didn’t experience, expect, or trust that beloved relationship through the masculine. The more cultures I traveled to around the globe, the more convinced I became of the universal nature of what I call the father-wound. It seems to be a wound that many people cannot break through; they don’t expect love to come from that place.
Author Shannon K. Evans considers the importance of allowing both masculine and feminine qualities in our experience of God:
The feminine elements in God are an important balance to the masculine ones. If all we have known of the divine is God the Father, we are walking with a spiritual limp, yes, even those of us who were lucky enough to be raised to see “him” as loving and tender rather than aloof or stern….
The masculinity of God is not the culprit here. Imaging God as male is valuable and good for our spiritual selves…. But left unbalanced, a belief in a God who is exclusively male can lead us down a road of legalism, perfectionism, fear, self-criticism, and a plaguing sense of unworthiness. Sadly, many of our religious experiences have been marked by such things.
On the other hand, when we integrate the divine feminine into our understanding of God, we find we have an easier time internalizing compassion, inclusivity, radical acceptance, justice for the outcast, and unconditional love. In my own life the divine feminine has offered me a maternal invitation to rest and be present. After a lifetime of assuming that striving and sacrifice would always be required for my spiritual growth, this was good news indeed. [1]
Richard concludes:
Whoever God is, God is somehow profoundly revealed in what it means to be feminine and masculine—both! But in our time, we have to find a way to recognize, to fall in love with, and to trust the feminine face of God. Most of us were not given that face in our churches, although we Catholics resolved it in an ingenious way through Mary. She, for many people, has become the accessible, trustworthy, and safe face of God.
Why “She” Matters
Novelist Sue Monk Kidd describes why cultivating an image of the Sacred Feminine is so important, particularly for women raised within Christianity:
A young girl learns Bible stories in which vital women are generally absent, in the background, or devoid of power. She learns that men go on quests, encounter God, and change history, while women support and wait for them. She hears sermons where traditional (nonthreatening) feminine roles are lifted up as God’s ideal. A girl is likely to see only a few women in the higher echelons of church power.
And what does a girl, who is forming her identity, do with all the scriptures admonishing women to submission and silence? Having them “explained away” as the product of an ancient time does not entirely erase her unease. She also experiences herself missing from pronouns in scripture, hymns, and prayers. And most of all, as long as God “himself” is exclusively male, she will experience the otherness, the lessness of herself; all the pious talk in the world about females being equal to males will fail to compute in the deeper places inside her.
When we truly grasp for the first time that the symbol of woman can be a vessel of the sacred, that it too can be an image of the Divine, our lives will begin to pivot…. Internalizing the Divine Feminine provides women with the healing affirmation that they are persons in their own right, that they can make choices, that they are worthy and entitled and do not need permission. The internalization of the Sacred Feminine tells us our gender is a valuable and marvelous thing to be. [1]
Public theologian Christena Cleveland explores how an exclusively white, male image of God is limiting and even oppressive. She shares a mystical experience of encountering the unconditional love of the Sacred Black Feminine while on a mindfulness retreat:
I sat cross-legged on my mat, and as soon as I closed my eyes and turned inward, a wave of Love crashed into me, a wave so formidable that it forced my upright body backward and onto the floor pillows behind me…. This was a mighty force that didn’t abuse. It was force without manipulation, force without control, and force without shame. It was the force of Love—a force I had never encountered in whitemalegod’s world….
I had never before experienced formidable strength in the form of Love and it undid me. I marveled that after an entire day of earnestly clearing my mind of fearful clutter, what lay beneath it all was not another to-do list from whitemalegod…. No, Love was underneath it all, just as I had hoped. That day, I discovered that at the heart of reality … flows wave after wave after wave of Love … for me….
This experience showed me that no matter what is going on around me and no matter how much fear tries to consume me, the Sacred Black Feminine is always available to guide me into Love. [2]
Father Richard Rohr speaks of the significance of our first images of God:
Most people first experience unconditional love not through the image of a man, but through the image of a woman—in most cases, their mother. It seems that for much of the human race, the mother is the one who first parts the veil and allows us to glimpse what love is, through experiences of grounding, intimacy, tenderness, and safety—things that most of us associate with God at God’s best. One of the disappointing things I have witnessed as a priest and spiritual director is how many people operate from the opposite of that—from a toxic and negative image of God. Nothing wonderful and nothing transformative is ever going to happen as long as that’s the case.
One of the reasons I started to do men’s work was because I realized that an awful lot of people didn’t experience, expect, or trust that beloved relationship through the masculine. The more cultures I traveled to around the globe, the more convinced I became of the universal nature of what I call the father-wound. It seems to be a wound that many people cannot break through; they don’t expect love to come from that place.
Author Shannon K. Evans considers the importance of allowing both masculine and feminine qualities in our experience of God:
The feminine elements in God are an important balance to the masculine ones. If all we have known of the divine is God the Father, we are walking with a spiritual limp, yes, even those of us who were lucky enough to be raised to see “him” as loving and tender rather than aloof or stern….
The masculinity of God is not the culprit here. Imaging God as male is valuable and good for our spiritual selves…. But left unbalanced, a belief in a God who is exclusively male can lead us down a road of legalism, perfectionism, fear, self-criticism, and a plaguing sense of unworthiness. Sadly, many of our religious experiences have been marked by such things.
On the other hand, when we integrate the divine feminine into our understanding of God, we find we have an easier time internalizing compassion, inclusivity, radical acceptance, justice for the outcast, and unconditional love. In my own life the divine feminine has offered me a maternal invitation to rest and be present. After a lifetime of assuming that striving and sacrifice would always be required for my spiritual growth, this was good news indeed. [1]
Richard concludes:
Why “She” Matters
Whoever God is, God is somehow profoundly revealed in what it means to be feminine and masculine—both! But in our time, we have to find a way to recognize, to fall in love with, and to trust the feminine face of God. Most of us were not given that face in our churches, although we Catholics resolved it in an ingenious way through Mary. She, for many people, has become the accessible, trustworthy, and safe face of God.
Novelist Sue Monk Kidd describes why cultivating an image of the Sacred Feminine is so important, particularly for women raised within Christianity:
A young girl learns Bible stories in which vital women are generally absent, in the background, or devoid of power. She learns that men go on quests, encounter God, and change history, while women support and wait for them. She hears sermons where traditional (nonthreatening) feminine roles are lifted up as God’s ideal. A girl is likely to see only a few women in the higher echelons of church power.
And what does a girl, who is forming her identity, do with all the scriptures admonishing women to submission and silence? Having them “explained away” as the product of an ancient time does not entirely erase her unease. She also experiences herself missing from pronouns in scripture, hymns, and prayers. And most of all, as long as God “himself” is exclusively male, she will experience the otherness, the lessness of herself; all the pious talk in the world about females being equal to males will fail to compute in the deeper places inside her.
When we truly grasp for the first time that the symbol of woman can be a vessel of the sacred, that it too can be an image of the Divine, our lives will begin to pivot…. Internalizing the Divine Feminine provides women with the healing affirmation that they are persons in their own right, that they can make choices, that they are worthy and entitled and do not need permission. The internalization of the Sacred Feminine tells us our gender is a valuable and marvelous thing to be. [1]
Public theologian Christena Cleveland explores how an exclusively white, male image of God is limiting and even oppressive. She shares a mystical experience of encountering the unconditional love of the Sacred Black Feminine while on a mindfulness retreat:
I sat cross-legged on my mat, and as soon as I closed my eyes and turned inward, a wave of Love crashed into me, a wave so formidable that it forced my upright body backward and onto the floor pillows behind me…. This was a mighty force that didn’t abuse. It was force without manipulation, force without control, and force without shame. It was the force of Love—a force I had never encountered in whitemalegod’s world….
I had never before experienced formidable strength in the form of Love and it undid me. I marveled that after an entire day of earnestly clearing my mind of fearful clutter, what lay beneath it all was not another to-do list from whitemalegod…. No, Love was underneath it all, just as I had hoped. That day, I discovered that at the heart of reality … flows wave after wave after wave of Love … for me….
This experience showed me that no matter what is going on around me and no matter how much fear tries to consume me, the Sacred Black Feminine is always available to guide me into Love. [2]
Wednesday afternoon: Sugar under the carnitas Pastor Samm and Vicar Sa7ah were already on the other side of the metal detector when I got to the women’s prison yesterday. I signed in and joined them as quickly as I could, grabbing a couple bags of sopapillas to help lighten their load. We are allowed, just a couple times a year, to bring a special meal in to be shared with New Beginnings church council, and as is our tradition, we like to share a Mother’s Day dinner together. So the three of us made our way through the clanking security gates and sally ports crowned with billowing razor wire, before crossing the prison yard and into the gym. We forgot paper plates, but these women know nothing if not how to be creative with limited resources, so they separated the two halves of the clamshell to-go containers and no one seemed to mind the dusting of sugar at the bottom of their makeshift dinner plates. Before us, a feast of street tacos: crispy birria (with consume), cilantro dusted carnitas, pulled pork, abundant elote, and so many sopapillas (now piled in a shopping bag after the repurposing of their containers). For an hour and a half we got to feast and fellowship. It felt joyous. Liberatory. And at the same time, normal. I worked my way around the table eager for updates from everyone. N. spoke of having her first child when she herself was just 15 years old. Another gal (a woman whose determination to heal from and still be accountable for her addiction inspires me every time I speak to her) teared up saying her own teenage son was just charged with a class A felony and will likely be inside for most of his life now. Then S. described how, now that she’s clear headed and off of meth, the conversations she is having with her own children are more honest and tender than ever. Motherhood from inside a prison is complicated, and has its own beauty to it. Not everyone is inside here for drug charges or crimes committed while the throes of their own addictions, or as a result of fetal alcohol syndrome, or as a result of a childhood surrounded by addicted adults, but it sure feels like most are. There was far more than just heartbreaking updates from their loved ones shared that night. We also spoke of things we were grateful for in each other, and there was some good-hearted teasing for everyone (me included), one gal got to celebrate getting paroled early than expected, and then D. somehow showed off her handstand pushups after eating tacos, which felt very risky. God set a table before us in the presence of prison guards, and the savory goodness of the carnitas was un-dampened by the accidental sugar in the bottom of our makeshift dinner plates. Wednesday night: A Wild God I drove home and quickly changed before friends picked us up for dinner and a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show. Walking into the Butcher Block Café, my heart lifted when I saw a booth filled with people I love from House For All Sinners and Saints days. When our dinner came, I tried to hide the fact that, like a child, I was obsessively trying to keep my eggs and bacon away from my French toast and syrup. WHY are they served on the same plate? The Wild God show, at moments, felt like a trance of exultation. Thousands of people, arms in the air, singing bring your spirit down. Cave, our unlikely liturgist: former heroin addict. Goth-chaos post-punk rock monster. Grieving father. A dark evangelist for joy. So many times that night I turned to Eric and say “wow”. He responded by just gently nodding his head as if to say, “exactly”. During a quieter song I slipped away to the women’s room. Washing my hands, I hear a familiar voice behind me. “Stella?” (name changed) I asked. “Girl. What the HELL?” she said as she hugged me. She and I spent years together as sober sisters, going to meetings, swapping stories, laughing too loudly over mugs of translucent diner coffee. When I looked in her eyes I could see she was high as a kite. In that unmistakable clattering speech pattern she tells me she left the respectable job she had studied hard for and was eventually certified in, and has instead returned to . . . sex work. Fucking addiction. The gift that keeps on taking. I returned to Eric and our friends and soaked up the rest of a magnificent performance which felt like being taken to church…like being held in the telling of a magnificent story by a reliable narrator with back-up Gospel singers. It was soaring. A ghost in giant sneakers In 2015 Cave’s 15 year-old son Arthur fell off a cliff and died. The coroner’s report showed he’d ingested LSD. Anyone who has followed his career knows that this unspeakable tragedy stripped him down into a man who writes from the point of view “that something can happen to your life that is absolutely shattering that can also be redemptive and beautiful.” So when I returned to my seat to the song Joy, I felt it. I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head I felt like someone in my family was dead I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees I called out all around me, said have mercy on me please And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow Spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? It’s half past midnight! Why disturb me so late! And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words And all across the world they shout out their angry words About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth Bright, triumphant metaphors of love Bright, triumphant metaphors of love Blinding us all who care to stand and look beyond and care to stand and look beyond above And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees I called all around me, have mercy on me please Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy -Nick Cave I’m not sure what I’m trying to get at here. Maybe that I cannot manage through my own sobriety to keep the wrenching reality of addiction from infecting my life. Or maybe that some days are an unbelievable mind-fuck of crushing sadness and liberating effervescence. Or maybe just that pain and sorrow are always served on the same plate as joy and despite my best efforts, I cannot keep them from touching. Whatever it is, know I am in it with you, Love, Nadia
Wednesday afternoon: Sugar under the carnitas
Pastor Samm and Vicar Sa7ah were already on the other side of the metal detector when I got to the women’s prison yesterday. I signed in and joined them as quickly as I could, grabbing a couple bags of sopapillas to help lighten their load.
We are allowed, just a couple times a year, to bring a special meal in to be shared with New Beginnings church council, and as is our tradition, we like to share a Mother’s Day dinner together.
So the three of us made our way through the clanking security gates and sally ports crowned with billowing razor wire, before crossing the prison yard and into the gym.
We forgot paper plates, but these women know nothing if not how to be creative with limited resources, so they separated the two halves of the clamshell to-go containers and no one seemed to mind the dusting of sugar at the bottom of their makeshift dinner plates.
Before us, a feast of street tacos: crispy birria (with consume), cilantro dusted carnitas, pulled pork, abundant elote, and so many sopapillas (now piled in a shopping bag after the repurposing of their containers).
For an hour and a half we got to feast and fellowship. It felt joyous. Liberatory. And at the same time, normal.
I worked my way around the table eager for updates from everyone. N. spoke of having her first child when she herself was just 15 years old. Another gal (a woman whose determination to heal from and still be accountable for her addiction inspires me every time I speak to her) teared up saying her own teenage son was just charged with a class A felony and will likely be inside for most of his life now. Then S. described how, now that she’s clear headed and off of meth, the conversations she is having with her own children are more honest and tender than ever. Motherhood from inside a prison is complicated, and has its own beauty to it.
Not everyone is inside here for drug charges or crimes committed while the throes of their own addictions, or as a result of fetal alcohol syndrome, or as a result of a childhood surrounded by addicted adults, but it sure feels like most are.
There was far more than just heartbreaking updates from their loved ones shared that night. We also spoke of things we were grateful for in each other, and there was some good-hearted teasing for everyone (me included), one gal got to celebrate getting paroled early than expected, and then D. somehow showed off her handstand pushups after eating tacos, which felt very risky.
God set a table before us in the presence of prison guards, and the savory goodness of the carnitas was un-dampened by the accidental sugar in the bottom of our makeshift dinner plates.
Wednesday night: A Wild God
I drove home and quickly changed before friends picked us up for dinner and a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show. Walking into the Butcher Block Café, my heart lifted when I saw a booth filled with people I love from House For All Sinners and Saints days. When our dinner came, I tried to hide the fact that, like a child, I was obsessively trying to keep my eggs and bacon away from my French toast and syrup. WHY are they served on the same plate?
The Wild God show, at moments, felt like a trance of exultation. Thousands of people, arms in the air, singing bring your spirit down. Cave, our unlikely liturgist: former heroin addict. Goth-chaos post-punk rock monster. Grieving father. A dark evangelist for joy.
So many times that night I turned to Eric and say “wow”. He responded by just gently nodding his head as if to say, “exactly”.
During a quieter song I slipped away to the women’s room. Washing my hands, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Stella?” (name changed) I asked.
“Girl. What the HELL?” she said as she hugged me.
She and I spent years together as sober sisters, going to meetings, swapping stories, laughing too loudly over mugs of translucent diner coffee.
When I looked in her eyes I could see she was high as a kite. In that unmistakable clattering speech pattern she tells me she left the respectable job she had studied hard for and was eventually certified in, and has instead returned to . . . sex work.
Fucking addiction.
The gift that keeps on taking.
I returned to Eric and our friends and soaked up the rest of a magnificent performance which felt like being taken to church…like being held in the telling of a magnificent story by a reliable narrator with back-up Gospel singers. It was soaring.
A ghost in giant sneakers
In 2015 Cave’s 15 year-old son Arthur fell off a cliff and died. The coroner’s report showed he’d ingested LSD. Anyone who has followed his career knows that this unspeakable tragedy stripped him down into a man who writes from the point of view “that something can happen to your life that is absolutely shattering that can also be redemptive and beautiful.”
So when I returned to my seat to the song Joy, I felt it.
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I felt like someone in my family was dead
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called out all around me, said have mercy on me please
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
And over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
Spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow
Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation? Who is it, I cried, what wild ghost has come in agitation?
It’s half past midnight! Why disturb me so late!
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy
And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words
And all across the world they shout out their angry words
About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Blinding us all who care to stand and look beyond and care to stand and look beyond above
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called all around me, have mercy on me please
Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy
-Nick Cave
I’m not sure what I’m trying to get at here. Maybe that I cannot manage through my own sobriety to keep the wrenching reality of addiction from infecting my life.
Or maybe that some days are an unbelievable mind-fuck of crushing sadness and liberating effervescence.
Or maybe just that pain and sorrow are always served on the same plate as joy and despite my best efforts, I cannot keep them from touching.
A primary or foundational sense of order can sustain us in times of exile and disorder. Richard Rohr explains:
We must first honor the plank of order, next walk the plank that is always disorder, and only then fall into the ocean of infinite everything. When we are committed to the law of Torah, or basic law and justice, for example, we can then dare venture into the disruption of the Old Testament’s prophets, and trust that we’re being led on a great journey. There must be enough order to contain the disorder, enough authentic conservativism to hold together the scary advance of history, enough containment to hold a lot of variation. This very real tension is necessary to make us clarify our thinking, refine our laws, and stretch our humanity. Paul called this phenomenon “the folly of the cross” (1 Corinthians 1:18), where God took the worst thing, the killing of the Christ-Man, and made it into the best thing, the very redemption of the world.
We can recognize this new order (reorder) when it is less violent and more universal than the previous arrangement. Jeremiah leaps toward such a reorder by introducing the unthinkable idea of a whole new covenant (31:31–34) to replace the old one. Hear YHWH speaking to him:
I will not cease in my efforts for their good, and I will put respect for me into their hearts, so that they turn from me no more. It will be my pleasure to bring about their good, and I will plant them firmly in this land, with all my heart and soul. —Jeremiah 32:40–41
Jeremiah has successfully walked us through the trauma of exile, all the while breaking the logic of vengeance and privilege that we normally use to interpret such events. Jeremiah proclaims that YHWH loves Israel even more when they sin: “I have loved you with an everlasting love, so I am constant in my affection for you” (Jeremiah 31:3).
Where did Jeremiah get the freedom and courage to talk this way? Only God could have provoked such generosity. Whatever inner experience Jeremiah underwent to transform his theology, it must be allowed to fully transform ours. It’s the movement from external signs of belonging to the internal “heart” religion (Jeremiah 32:39–41) so treasured by Jesus. Let’s just move entirely beyond any notion of retribution or punishment, he joyously promises, as the frame for how God’s justice is done!
Sincerely religious people, trained in forgiveness, exodus, exile, and crucifixion, should be the readiest andmost prepared for this full journey into unconditional love, but up until now that has only been the case in a small remnant of every group. These are the evolved people whom we called “saints” and “prophets.” Like Moses, Jeremiah, Harriet Tubman, the suffragettes, and others, they always emerge before, during, and after any big societal event—be it a disaster or a major rearrangement of the historical reality.
The centrality of the Cross was a significant marker in Martin Luther’s theology and pastoral work. For him, it was the epicenter of all converging thought for Christianity, and every theological system or belief structure must “prove itself in light of the cross.”
For Luther, the Cross was so important because in his day, there was something he dubbed “a Theology of Glory.” It was an approach to teaching and preaching that said our lives should be moving from one success to another, with increasing intensity and glory. Life with God should always be looking up and up and up and up…
The only problem is that it did not even happen for Jesus. Instead, the path for Christ involved being crucified naked outside the city of Jerusalem.
Not so glorious.
As a result, Luther was adamant about “a Theology of the Cross.” Struggle, hardship, disappointment, loneliness, failure, etc., are all baked into the experience of life. These are not things to be avoided, but on some inexplicable level must be accepted.
Hence, Luther’s insistence that “the Cross proves/challenges/probes everything.”
2.
“Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law.”
The older I get, the softer I think I become. I look back at earlier versions of myself and feel remorse over how harsh, stubborn, and cynical I might have been.
Love is the only thing that matters.
3.
“I do not believe in universalism, but I do believe in Jesus Christ, reconciler of all.”
For many people, the conventional theology of Christianity is displeasing and irreconcilable with the person of Jesus. Over the years, I can remember many conversations with people who struggle with the idea of a God who “keeps account of wrongs” and therefore cannot live up to the definition of love in 1 Corinthians 13:4-8.
Years ago, I had a conversation with a pastor in a stairwell.
He asked, “John, are you a universalist?”
I replied, “No, I did not say that. I said that I believe in the reconciliation of all, which Paul says in Colossians 1:15-20. So, if you have an issue with me teaching the reconciliation of all, then you have an issue with me quoting Paul verbatim. Are you saying you don’t believe the words of Paul?”
The conversation was a significant marker for me.
It gave me the clarity to realize that the bulk of Western Christianity is not interested in teaching what the Scriptures say but only in teaching a small segment of the Bible that overlaps with what it means to be “a good American.” It also gave me a fork in the road; it forced me to choose whether I wanted to fall into rank or break with the conventional definitions of Christianity and side with the Bible passages that are intentionally overlooked.
The Gospel is disruptive, but only in the ways it needs to be. It shatters our conceptions of who is in and out, how there can be full accountability and amnesty, and that our ethics can be entirely built on love and what is healthy, rather than any reward or punishment system.
4.
“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.”
Or, as Brennan Manning used to say, “The Church ought to be a hospital for sinners, not a museum of saints.”
The faith has so much more life and adventure than people realize. It is not meant to be a spectator sport where we sit back and watch God fix everything. Instead, it is a co-redemptive project. God invites our participation as co-laborers for the betterment of the world.
Sometimes, it is possible to create for the audience or to make money. It is another thing entirely to create for the sake of the enjoyment of the process of creating.
God too is necessarily dependent on love.… God would not exist unless there is someone to love. In such love, we are all invited out of exile and into the holy life. —Michael Battle, “A Holy Exile”
CAC affiliate faculty Dr. Michael Battle served as chaplain for South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu (1931–2021). He writes about Tutu’s passionate belief that we all belong and are invited out of exile:
For Tutu, God is a fellowship, a community, not an individual or modality. God is unified because love binds the three persons of God together. So, God created us the same way—out of love, not out of necessity. Herein is one of Tutu’s greatest contributions to how a holy life moves out of exile—namely, no one can be human alone.…
I heard Tutu preach often when I served as his chaplain. One of his common refrains was that each of us represents God, not just the clever, the strong, the rich, the beautiful, the tall, or the impressive ones.… Tutu would go on to explain how monumental this was in terms of a paradigm shift—namely that in God, no one is exiled. Now, the old black lady that cleans houses and takes care of white children, whose employers do not even use her real name “because it is too difficult” and simply call her a generic name like Mary or Jane—when she walks down the street, and people ask, “Who’s that?” she will now think with her head in her heart, “I am God’s representative.” This is what I mean by Tutu’s holy life: He facilitated the perspective in others, even among those despised on this planet, that they are holy people. This was Tutu’s genius—that everyone, religious and nonreligious, friend and enemy, are all created in the image of God.
It also must be said of Tutu’s holy life that he said his prayers. He didn’t pray ostentatiously, which Jesus warned against, but through his daily disciplines and rule of life. Tutu prayed the way my Apple watchmakes me stop and breathe deeply several times a day. In addition to the Anglican daily office, Tutu recognized the wisdom of the Eastern world that prayer is tied to how we breathe. We all have the spirit of life breathed into us, and life is thus a gift from God. For Tutu, we become God’s breath in the world in order to transfigure creation to look like the Creator. I can still hear Tutu say, in his pastoral visits to churches, that you and I are placed in this world of hatred, violence, anger, injustice, and oppression to help God transform it, transfigure it, and change it so that there will be compassion, laughter, joy, peace, reconciliation, fellowship, friendship, togetherness, and family, and so that black and white people would want to be together as members of one family: God’s family, the human family. We are here to bring others out of exile.
When things don’t go as you would like, accept the situation immediately. If you indulge in feelings of regret, they can easily spill over the line into resentment. Remember that I am sovereign over your circumstances and humble yourself under My mighty hand. Rejoice in what I am doing in your life, eventhough it is beyond your understanding. I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. In Me, you have everything you need, both for this life and for the life to come. Don’t let the impact of the world shatter your thinking or draw you away from focusing on Me. The ultimate challenge is to keep fixing your eyes on Me, no matter what is going on around you. When I am central in your thinking, you are able to view circumstances from My perspective.
RELATED BIBLE VERSES:
1st Peter 5:6 NLT 6 So humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and at the right time he will lift you up in honor.
Additional insight regarding 1st Peter 5:6: We often worry about our position and status, hoping to get proper recognition for what we do. But Peter advises us to remember that God’s recognition counts much more than human praise. God is able and willing to bless us according to his timing. Humbly obey God regardless of present circumstances, and in his good time – either in this life or the next – he will honor you.
John 14:6 NLT 6 Jesus told him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me.”
Additional insight regarding John 14:6: Jesus says he is the only way to God the Father. Some people may argue that this way is too narrow. In reality, it is wide enough for the whole world if the world chooses to accept it. Instead of worrying about how limited it sounds to have only one way, we should say, “Thank you, God, for providing a sure way to get to you!” As the way, Jesus is our path to the Father. As the truth, he is the reality of all God’s promises. As the life, he joins his divine life to ours, both now and eternally. Jesus is, in truth, the only living way to the Father.
Today’s Prayer: Lord, when things don’t go as I wish, help me accept the situation immediately. Prevent feelings of regret from turning into resentment. Remind me that You are sovereign over my circumstances. Help me humble myself under Your mighty hand and rejoice in Your work in my life, even when I don’t understand it. You are the Way, the Truth, and the Life. In You, I have everything I need. Keep my focus on You, no matter what happens around me. When You are central in my thoughts, I can view my circumstances from Your perspective. In Your heavenly name, Amen.
CAC Programs Director Barbara Otero-López writes in the spring ONEING issue about the colonizing exile that her ancestral family suffered, and the resilient love that her ancestors inspire:
My ancestral family includes many Indigenous women who were taken captive by Spanish conquistadors and settlers. These women were captured and taken from their own families into communities that were vastly different from their own. They were taken as captives, wives and slaves. They were used as bartering tools and to secure alliances. They were exiled from the lives they once knew and were forced to live as wives and slaves. These women bore the trauma of captivity, the trauma of exile in the land of their own people. They were forced to marry and bear the children of their captors. Trauma such as this is known to be passed on through the womb, through the umbilical cord, from mother to child, and then again to that child’s child.Sustos is a Spanish word that names soul wounds such as these.
Despite the pain and trauma of captivity and forced assimilation into a culture and society which was not their own, despite their sustos, these women learned how to love and pass on this love through food, song, healing, tradition, and the love of God and all Her creation. This love in the time of exile was a sacred love, one borne of resilience and silent resistance. And, as I have learned, just as trauma and soul wounds are passed on to successive generations through DNA, love and resilience are too.
As Dr. B [Barbara Holmes] has taught us, “You journey with your ancestors. That’s why knowing your roots is important, because whether you know it or not, they’re journeying with you. Wouldn’t you want the help? Wouldn’t you want the warnings? Wouldn’t you want the blessings of those who have gone before you?”… [1]
I am going to be a grandmother myself now, and I can hear my mother and my grandmothers calling me to listen and to wake up and live the stories they want me to pass on, to continue the honor of being the translator of memories and mythologies, to pass on the love and resilience which has been passed on to me.…
There is an invitation for us all in times such as these. We are all being called to wake up and name our sadness, pain, and trauma, to allow our tears to flow and season our very lives. Times such as these are also calling us to stand up, to avoid becoming cynical and bitter, and to not be consumed and overpowered by our anger and sadness. Instead, we are to transform all that into something much more generative. We have much to learn from our ancestors, from their stories of trauma and from their loving protest of resilience.
I believe that in times such as these, we are all being called to listen. What stories are your ancestors wanting to tell through you?
The Trembling Rock
Click Here for Audio I’m a fan of Marvel movies. I realize they get dismissed by serious film critics, and I know they’re created to appeal to the masses to sell merchandise and theme park tickets. However, when you get past the nonsensical action and corporate product placement, these movies often tackle timeless themes shared with great literature. Bruce Banner’s struggle to control his anger and contain his inner Hulk is an echo of Robert Louis Stevenson’s story about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The runaway A.I. called Ultron, created by Tony Stark to protect the world, is a retelling of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. And the journey of a scrawny but courageous Steve Rogers into the righteous leader Captain America draws directly from the biblical story of King David. Among my favorite Marvel movies are the origin stories—the films that explain how well-known characters were plucked from obscurity and transformed from zeros into heroes. The best origin stories are told as flashbacks where the audience has already been introduced to the superhero, but only later discovers the hero’s unexpected and humble beginnings. Luke does something similar when telling the origin story of one of the church’s early heroes.Peter was likely well-known to Luke’s audience. He was, after all, the most famous leader of the Christian movement in the first century after Jesus himself. As Luke would later record in the book of Acts, Peter courageously defied both the Jewish and Roman authorities, performed miracles, and preached to crowds of thousands who came to believe that Jesus was the Christ. Tradition tells us that Peter eventually founded the church in Rome, where he was later arrested and martyred. His leadership, courage, and unwavering faith explain why Jesus gave him the nickname Peter, meaning rock. Peter was unshakable. It’s also what makes his origin story so amusing. Luke tells us that Peter, whose given name was Simon, ran a fishing business in Galilee. After a night of fruitless fishing, Simon and his partners washed their nets on the shore when Jesus arrived. Forced toward the water by the growing crowd, Jesus got into Simon’s boat and taught the people. Afterward, he told Simon to push out into the water and let out their nets again. Simon knew this was ridiculous for many reasons. One, in the heat of the day, the fish would be too deep to catch. That’s why they fished at night. Two, the men were exhausted from a sleepless night of work. And three, Jesus was a carpenter, not a fisherman. What did he know about where to catch fish? But for some reason—perhaps because he was persuaded by what Jesus had just taught the crowds—Simon agreed. You know what happened next. So many fish filled the nets that they began to break. A second boat was called to help with the haul. At this point, it’s evident to Simon that this was far from an ordinary catch, and that the man in his boat possessed a supernatural power and authority. So, he fell at Jesus’ feet and confessed his unworthiness. “Go away,” he said, “for I am a sinful man” (Luke 5:8). While he doesn’t yet fully grasp Jesus’ identity, he is aware that Jesus carries God’s holy presence—and Simon is terrified. In this way, his encounter with Jesus echoes the experience of others called by God. Moses hid his face when God called to him from the Burning Bush, and when Isaiah encountered the Lord in the Temple he cried out in horror and said, “I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty” (Isaiah 6:5). Simon’s calling was very similar. It started with a divine encounter that filled him with fear.It’s telling that this is the moment when Luke first calls him by the name Peter. Up to now, he’s only been identified in Luke’s gospel as Simon. But when he is on the ground, his knees knocking, and his voice trembling before the presence and power of Jesus, Luke tells his audience that this broken, whimpering, frightened man is actually the hero of the Church they know as “the Rock.” Early readers of the gospel must have been shocked by this origin story. This is Peter? This frightened man is the one who would defy kings, confront the authorities, and turn the world upside down? Really?Yes, really. Luke wanted his readers to take a lesson from Peter’s surprising origin story. It is through encountering Jesus and his power that we learn to fear nothing else. Having been shaken to the core in the presence of Jesus, nothing will ever shake you again. The transformation of fearful Simon into fearless Peter happened when he came to fear Jesus above all else. It’s the paradox John Newton wrote about in his hymn Amazing Grace: “Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved.”
WEEKLY PRAYER from Brother Roger of Taizé (1915 – 2005) O Christ, tirelessly you seek out those who are looking for you and who think that you are far away; teach us, at every moment, to place our spirits in your hands. While we are still looking for you, already you have found us. However poor our prayer, you hear us far more than we can imagine or believe. Amen.
This CO2- (Church Of 2) is where two guys meet each day to tighten up our Connections with Jesus. We start by placing the daily “My Utmost For His Highest” in this WordPress blog. Then we prayerfully select some matching worship music and usually pick out a few lyrics that fit especially well. Then we just start praying and editing and Bolding and adding comments and see where the Spirit takes us.
It’s been a blessing for both of us.
If you’d like to start a CO2, we’d be glad to help you and your partner get started. Also click the link below to see how others are doing CO2.Odds Monkey
Steve Harvey Introduces Jesus To A Secular Audience
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