take a big breath

Last night a bunch of us met together for Curious, a fortnightly spiritual conversation. We've ranged through quite a few different topics over our three years, including living with integrity, living simply, and creative thinking. Lately we've been watching Nooma DVDs, and last night we chose Breathe.

It was startling in its simplicity. God's name in the Old Testament Hebrew was YHWH. Too holy to pronounce, it was more a breath than a name. In breathing the hallowed name, one breathed the essence of God, spirit, life. Perhaps by the act of simply breathing in and out we all acknowledge God who is life and breath, whether we mean to or not. Perhaps we might connect deeply with God by focusing on our breathing, drawing in God's goodness, exhaling the gunge from our hearts.

Now maybe this is all too airy fairy for you, but somehow last night we were all caught up in the simplicity of knowing God with every breath. There is something very freeing about meeting God through something we do every minute of every day of our lives. No straining or toiling, just breathing God in, acknowledging the gift of life. I think we all became more aware of God's presence in us as we drew each breath.

There is something powerful in this image. A few weeks ago I was at a 'Teaching Stillness and Silence' training day. At one point we meditated with YHWH breaths as our focus. At the time I was slumming around, trying to figure out where evolution fits with my belief system, or where my belief system fits with evolution. I was confused, angry, and maybe even feeling betrayed - by God, science, and by my own crazy thoughts. It seemed to me that if science is right (and some scientists I know who also follow Jesus believe the science is right), then evolution is a likely course of events... And suddenly my beliefs were shot. If we all arrived here via evolution, life became meaningless in my mind. What was the point and purpose of life if we crawled out of the slime? If this was true, God may as well be dead. I was having a crisis.

There I was, doubting the very existence of God in the face of strong scientific evidence for evolution, and they asked me to breathe the hallowed name of God. YH (in) WH (out). YH - WH. YH-WH.

Something broke inside me and my eyes filled with tears. I'd be lying if I said all my doubts and questions were instantly erased, but suddenly they did not matter. YH - WH. YH - WH. And as I breathed in and out and focused on breathe, life, God, peace crept in. The mystery of God at work in my heart.

I can't pin God down any more than I can pin down a breath of air. At once ethereal, yet so very real as I am sustained, released, transformed. Breath is fragile and powerful at the same time. I can't see it, I can't explain it but I know it is there. And when I breathe God, YH-WH, YH-WH, I know God is there too. I feel it, moving within me, changing me, softening and making me whole.

it will be good

Now is as good a time as any to confess I am a little intellectually lazy on occasions. Not that I don't think or ponder or puzzle (there is some cogitation going on), but I see no point in arguing for arguments sake. If there is no way to prove a point one way or another, I prefer to conserve my energy, and refuse to engage. There are positives to this (saves time, keeps relationships on a smoother tack), but like I said, sometimes it's laziness. Perhaps there is a solution or truth to be found... I just can't be bothered finding it.

One such topic I avoid is the creation versus evolution debate. Pointless. Were you there? No. Was I? Again no. Let's save our breath and be amazed that we even exist, and leave the detail to God. (Oh I forgot to say, I believe in God... an unprovable being you might suggest. I agree, so let's agree to disagree. There. No argument. See how good this could really be.)

I could add countless other topics to my list, topics too many evangelical protestants tie themselves up in knots over: Was Jonah really swallowed by a whale before being spat up on the beach? Is the story of the ark real? Does hell exist, or will the evil people just cease to be, while the good ones hover in paradise? What will happen to the people who never got a chance to hear about Jesus, leave alone choose to believe in him? (Don't know. Possibly. Hard to say without going there. I'm no judge)

Maybe some of these things are important, but what's the point of arguing. Like I said - were we there? Nope. Let's hang up the boxing gloves and agree there are some mysteries in this strange faith we hold to.

And then there's heaven. What? Where? Who? How? Of course I like to imagine what it might be like. I have a few questions for God hidden up my sleeve, and I quite like the idea of a gigantic home theatre where I can select moments from history and have a quick view. I'm particularly keen to check out that war when Moses held his arms up, then his friends held his arms up, because while he had them in the air the Israelites were winning. Impressive stuff. I'm still figuring out, however, how I will be able to view a war in heaven, where it is said there is no death or fear or tears. Much as I would like this DVD entertainment system to be possible, I might have to live without it.

So heaven overwhelms me. I know it is supposed to be all goodness and light and love, but won't we get bored? And how can I ever choose to be good all the time? And forever... that is a really, really, really long time.

We were discussing all this in our little 'Curious' group tonight when my friend suggested one possibility. Perhaps we will be so caught up in a euphoric crowd moment (that lasts forever) that we will be swept up in the goodness and forever forget everything else. We began imagining what this might be like, and this is what we came up with: the concert in Chicago last September, when a whole crowd danced as one to the Black Eyed Peas 'I got a feelin'. What a buzz. What a moment. All focused on one thing, everyone having a good time, total participation. I like that.

So let's not argue about how heaven might be, where it is, who will get in. Let's think of ways in which it might be wonderful. (and hope everyone gets in)

if this is a crutch, give me the other one

I know someone who 'hears from God' with regularity. In fact two weeks ago God told them they have cancer... it turned out to be an infection.

Of course they believe God healed them. I myself have doubts.

Not that God doesn't have important things to say, and not that God doesn't care about the minutiae of our lives. I just don't like positioning myself at the centre of God's work in the world. There are far greater forces at work than my actions, more important factors to consider than my personal preferences and comfort. God may be the source of all that is good, but when we attribute every extraordinary thought or inexplicable event to him I wonder if we don't verge on the edge of a form of hoodoo voodoo christianity. How are we different from the ancients who saw fertility gods behind the rain or sacrificed to war gods for help in their conquests? We would do better to take life at face value and respond according to the principles of justice, mercy and humility as so ably lived out by Jesus.

Having said all that, I don't want to negate the comfort I frequently find in my faith. I'll admit there are some pretty strange beliefs to subscribe to when you follow Jesus, and I choose to believe them because that's what faith is about, but the real boon in fostering a relationship with God is the meaning and purpose it gives. If that statement flies in the face of everything I wrote above... um... bear with me, I'm still figuring it out! Anyway, I had a special God moment last week.

I'd just been 'laid off' from one of my positions. That's far too dramatic a turn of phrase... the company I work for was asked by the company who contract my services for two hours a fortnight (no great biggie), to replace me with another member of personnel. The rationale offered seems to be that I am too youthful and gentle for the role required, though I am yet to clarify the accuracy of this. As you would imagine, I was pretty upset. Here I was being misjudged and taken lightly simply because of a youthful manner and a lack of lines. I wailed and gnashed my teeth and determined to demonstrate maturity beyond my appearance. Ha. Some of that is true, and yes, I am dealing with the matter in a hopefully appropriate manner. It's probably not wise to say more than that and it's not really the point of this post anyway.

So I was lying in bed sniffling, trying to steady my breathing and calm my thoughts, feeling miserably sorry for myself. What happened to diversity? justice? respect? valuing a person for who they are not what they look like? How humiliating to be judged so unfairly!

The perfect place from which to step back and gain a little perspective.

I thought of all the people around the world living in absolute poverty. There is no reason for this other than gross injustice keeping them there. My little episode started to pale into a piece of global insignificance.

Believing Jesus is the son of God (as I crazily do) reveals another pretty hefty injustice. The son of God comes to earth, receives no respect and is killed on the cross*. Whoa. That's one almighty humiliation to endure. My little issue became even smaller.

Actually, that's not true. I stood with Jesus and he held my hand and rather than tell me to get over it, he offered comfort as only someone who knew exactly how I felt could offer comfort. I was soothed and calmed by the presence of Jesus and fell asleep soon after.

Now you may think this is all mumbo jumbo invented in my head, as hoodoo voodoo as the person who believes God told them they had cancer. You might even go so far as to say it's a crutch I'm leaning on rather too heavily. I'll live with that. In fact I'll laugh and say you might be right. But there's no denying the fact I fell asleep in record time after I remembered Jesus and his hellish experience. So if it's a crutch, give me the other one, cause I love hopping around on this faith that holds me up.

*Phil 2:5-8

i'm still dying here

I realised this evening just how much I am still hurting and hating after wounds inflicted. A full year on and I remain mid-process in the forgiving, accepting, loving stakes. It has been a difficult time. I feel like I am on someone's altar, somewhere, being sacrificed for some greater good I cannot understand. I'm squirming, trying to free myself, fighting against whatever is about to happen, but I don't even know what that is.

Some of the truths guiding me through are these:

Hostis, a Latin word from which we derive 'hostile', meaning not hospitable, relating to an enemy, marked by malevolence. Hospis, a Latin word closely linked to hospitality. If I follow Jesus, I am called to hospitality, not hostility. Can I rise above my feelings to choose the better way of hospitality, generosity, kindness?

I look around and see people climbing over one another in an effort to reach the top. Revenge is a norm. Do good only if you expect a return on the giving. Look out for yourself - noone else will. Jesus calls me to a different way of living, one in which love is all and in all, where kindness is key. Denying myself is central to this way of being. Others first.

I wasn't imagining it. I am on the altar - not in a way that sees me lose myself, but in a way that will bring new life... it is too lofty to imagine I am like Jesus, but somehow, mysteriously, by giving his life he gained life. Perhaps by giving up myself, my defenses, my endless need to explain myself and justify my pain, I might find the key to the transformation of this ball of darkness rolling around within me. This is my prayer for today.

um, no words

I was going to tell you about my day, how because I finished all the cleaning yesterday I had a broad, open space for my Saturday. I filled the space by walking to the shops, buying flour and vegetables and meat and fabric, and making a dress and cooking up the most amazing lemon meringue pie in the world (humble I know, but try free range eggs for yellow lemon in the pie and you'll get what I mean). But I can't tell you about any of that (what more is there to say?), because I have just watched 'The Gods aren't angry' by Rob Bell and I am all crying and at sea.

I love Frank, I've written about it often.
I think I might love Rob Bell too.
Actually, that's not quite true... I think I fell a little bit more in love with Jesus tonight. And as I have been a cranky bitch from hell all day (in between the shopping, cooking and sewing) I could do with a bit more of Jesus and his love.

how does it all fit together?

One area of recent meltdown relates to my faith in God. I am not despairing or losing my faith, but everything I have previously understood about God is coming in for some close examination and review. Mostly I consider this to be good thing, (I am not one for believing for the sake of it) but at times I feel rattled, as if someone has picked me up, turned me upside down and shaken the bejeebers out of me. When they put me back on the ground I stagger around trying to find my bearings, but I can't even tell which way is up.

Take this for example: I find myself rejecting the notion of me playing a central role in God's thinking and plan.

A distant, Pentecostal past deposited within me the expectation that God should perfect my world at the click of my fingers:

Runny nose? Repent of your sin and ask for healing!
Need a car park? Plead quietly for one as you drive slowly along rows of full spaces!
Pain in the hip? Rebuke it!
Someone annoying you? Pray God will convict them of their need to change!
Can't decide what to do? Listen very carefully and God will tell you what path to take and everything will be OK!

OK, so I am hamming it up a little here, lacing my words with cynicism... but this form of (what I consider) extreme Pentecostalism is alive and well. However I cannot subscribe to it in any way, shape or form any more.

As far as I can tell, I am not the centre of the world and (all shloppy worship songs aside) I am certainly not the only one God is thinking about right this very moment. I don't deny God loves me and is interested in my goings on, but somehow I think God takes a far more global view of things. Six billion people out there in pain, entrenched evil and corruption, broadside destruction of God's beautiful creation, exploitation and greed - I cannot bring myself to pray for a parking space (or any other little thing) as if that matters greatly in the grand scale of things. Chances are, whether I pray for a space or not, someone will reverse out and head home just as I drive past and there is the space for me. And God might weep because the things that matter to him don't matter to me because I am too caught up in my own little world.

This is a deep shift going on inside me. Ever so slowly I am dethroning myself from the centre of my life, moving to the side, giving God's heart more credence in what I value, viewing the world through his eyes. (Don't worry, I ain't no angel yet! It's a work in slow motion!)

The trouble is that I am not sure where God's love and concern for me dovetails with his concern for all of creation. Does God's big-picture view mean that my personal pain and distress are insignificant and unimportant in his eyes? Are my present dilemmas a necessary result of a world in upheaval? Should I stand here and accept my own pain and heartache as an unavoidable side issue while God works globally to reverse evil?

I am not demanding God touch me with spine tingling warm fuzzies, blessing me and transforming my life into a garden of roses and lavendar and dahlias. I've already said I can't do that anymore. But does that mean I don't matter?

I have been puzzling over this for some time. Today God answered.

My brother and sister-in-law are visiting from Newcastle. Ever the hospitable tour guide (I missed my calling there!) I took them around my favourite local haunts - the restaurants, parks, shops and galleries. We ended up at the art museum, at which there happened to be an exhibition on fungi, moss and lichen. It was a fascinating blend of art, history and information and I found myself drawn into the displays, trying to absorb as much as I could.

I stopped before an old collection of Australasian Mosses, gathered before 1898 by a botanist called Bastow. At this point I was still enduring the exhibition while Luke and Michelle explored permanent exhibitions I have already seen several times. I noticed a magnifying glass hanging below the cabinet of crusty, dry moss and lichen and thought I might as well take a closer look to pass the time. I was amazed by the detail in each tiny specimen, leaf, flower, stem and spore. They were unique and intricate and altogether incredible.

Enter God. It was as if he was behind me, peering over my shoulder through the magnifying glass too, admiring the beauty with me. Then he said, quite matter-of-fact, 'Cecily, don't think I don't care about the detail'. Just like that, speaking into my ear before he was gone.

I am not really any clearer on how it all fits together, the big picture and little Cecily, the grand scheme and one lone individual. But somehow it does. And if I can be concerned for the things God is concerned for, I think he might be concerned for me and the things I am concerned for. And maybe it is all one and the same. Because isn't God in all and through all anyway?

meeting jesus on the steps of st peter's basilica

I was telling a friend about some of our travel experiences today and it set me to reflecting upon something that happened in Rome. I'm jumping a little ahead of myself in the holiday reminiscence, since Rome was the last city we visited, from whence we jetted home... maybe I'll just sift through all the memories in reverse, or, more in keeping with my personality, you might receive random snapshots of our travels!

Anyway, Rome was hot - hotter than anywhere else we visited, except perhaps Hamburg and Heidelberg, which also turned on scorchers for us. I had been carefully carrying a summer dress all holiday for just such a day. (Actually Frank carried the dress most of the way, since we shared one backpack between us and he insisted on doing the manly thing and bearing the heavy load)

I confess when travelling I tend to opt for practicality over style, resulting in the unmistakable appearance of a tourist or (even worse) an Australian backpacker. I stomp around in my super comfortable Merrel sandals and shorts, enviously eyeing off those who choose glamour over comfort, tugging self consciously at my small, safe but unattractive travel purse.

In a frivolous attempt at travel glamour I packed my sunny dress, and between its careful folds I tucked an image of myself gliding elegantly through the streets of Rome like Gwenneth Paltrow and Cate Blanchet in 'The Talented Mr Ripley'. Actually that movie gives me the creeps - but there is no mistaking the elegance.

So it was hot, and we were in Rome - what could I do but don my glamour gown... or at least put on my home made cotton dress. With the shoes that did nothing for style but (yes) were comfortable! And off Frank and I set on a day packed with site seeing.

The Colosseum

Roman Forum

Pons Fabricius

Church of Nostra Signora del Sacro Cuore (on Piazza Navona where statues were predictably plastered with scaffolding, and every inch of ground was covered with pigeons, artists and tourists. Somehow Rome did not seem half as pleasant in summer as it had in autumns past when peak season crowds had departed)

Pantheon (is anyone else instantly reminded of Star Trek when they enter this building?)

And Trevi Fountain

I personally detest the Spanish Steps so they barely rate a mention and didn't garner a single snap, but I must mention the gelati bought just off Piazza Navona... the best in the world just as they claimed (and surely the most generous serves in the world too)!

Soon enough our path crossed St Peter's Square, with its elegant columns, multitudinous statues and enormous Basilica.

With some coaxing, Frank agreed to join the queue, endure an x-ray search and enter the Basilica. At which point we encountered a problem - my breezy summer dress possessed no sleeves and in my eagerness to look just a little classy I had forgotten to bring a cover for my shoulders. We inched our way forward, hoping I might be able to sneak past the Basilica guards, but no such luck. Their male eyes were all over the crowd, seeking out indecent women and they instantly spied me out and signalled me off to the side with a sharp Italian 'No'. I looked beseechingly at them to no avail and watched longingly as Frank entered the most holy temple of God without me.

OK, I'm embellishing the story just a little there. I have seen St Peter's Basilica before and decided that since I could remember its opulence and little else (apart from numerous golden bees flying all over the altar) there probably was not much point pretending to appreciate the religious art all over again. I indulgently encouraged Frank to enter without me so he too might be wowed by its incredible wealth.

While he bumped awestruck shoulders with myriads of other pilgrims in the coolness of the Basilica, I sat outside in the heat and reflected on the message of being denied entry due to exposed shoulders. I stood just beside the exit to the church watching men and women stream past. Like the vigilant guards, I had eyes only for the women.

What a sight - lace tops that covered shoulders but revealed bras, bulging stomachs spilling out between tops and trousers, leggings accentuating buttocks and thighs, cleavage peaking over necklines. I failed to see how my rather demure, pretty (but sleeveless) dress was any worse than the clothing of any of these women who had been granted entrance. The inconsistency irritated me.

And what's with men being the sole keepers of the Basilica? I thought we had left such sexist days behind. (It seems I forgot this is the Catholic Church we are discussing here!) Their superior demeanour rankled. If I wasn't already (barely) part of the church, this experience would turn me off completely. Not only do I find the wealth and art irrelevant to my faith, but the judgemental, exclusive attitude of their spirituality leaves me cold. If this is God, I am not interested.

It reminded me of our experience in Canterbury Cathedral. Frank was remiss in removing his hat when we entered the building. Half way down the nave a woman stridently called out "Excuse me sir, would you please remove your hat. Gentlemen in England remove their hats in church" as if to say Frank was an uncouth barbarian from whom one could expect little better. (Was it our comfortable tourist attire that gave us away?!) We were both mortified and incensed. Cultural politeness aside - does a hat matter to a God who looks upon the heart? Is there any call for such belittling behaviour? Again, if this is God, I am not interested.

Similarly in Prague, as we respectfully attempted to enter a church in the evening the door was closed in our faces. "No tourists allowed. If you are searching for God - he is not here."

I have written previously about my struggles with church and institutional religion - every single doubt was confirmed by our experiences of formal religion in Europe. Where was the love? The mercy? The hospitality? Apart from a lovely small church in Prague filled with praying nuns, I struggled to see it.

As I stood with my naked shoulders exposed at the door of St Peter's Basilica I could not help thinking of Jesus. When the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery for him to judge, he looked at her with compassion. Where they saw sin, he saw her soul and gave her freedom.

With the sting of refused entry still smarting I too looked up into the eyes of Jesus and saw only love.

This... this I can believe. This I can follow with all my heart. Religion be damned.

easter musing

"Let each one examine their heart, and make themselves right before partaking of the Lord's supper."

Perhaps I have heard them wrong, but each time these words fall upon my ears, dread creeps over my soul, a thick fog moving across the contours of my heart.

How must I examine my heart and make myself right before God?

Should I venture to peer within my heart I stumble across motivations I can only describe as less than honourable; self righteousness abounds; I am lacking in generosity and kindness of spirit; I want nothing more than to prove myself right at every turn... there is blackness hidden beneath this clean and shining face. To look down into that blackness sends chills down my spine. To contemplate making myself right before God only fills me with despair. Not in my wildest dreams or most angelic moments could I hope to achieve anything close to making myself right. I am beyond repair. All is bleak.

As I sit before the communion table contemplating the awfulness of my sin, exhorted to prepare myself, I retreat in defeat. I will never be worthy to take those blessed symbols of Christ's death. His body and blood lie ever beyond my reach.

And in this is the mystery. As I face the truth of my most desperate plight, I attain a state of readiness. In the moment of recognising my absolute unworthiness, my total inability to qualify as even an extra in the great drama of God's story, I am transformed, made worthy, transmuted to that perfect place of participation in the ritual of bread and wine.

For is not the work of making my heart right Christ's work? Does he not make me worthy to join the dance of love? Was this not the purpose of his death and resurrection - to save me from my own weak efforts at perfection? Did he not shed his blood in order to bring freedom from futile works?

Let us not be frivolous as we approach the Lord's table, but neither let us be burdened by the weight of our sin. The table is for rejoicing over. Take the cup and drink to life, the bread and eat to wholeness. Christ has done the work! In his death he achieved that which we could never hope to achieve in a lifetime of trying.

To life. To a worthiness that is not my own.

Amen.

there is a god! mmcdlxii (or 'i am very excited')

My excitement has just reached fever pitch.

Not because yesterday I planted seeds for my winter crops and now the weather has turned so hot they cannot fail to germinate, though that is certainly an excellent state of affairs.

Not because we are finally able to go overseas, with all the necessary leave booked in with various employers, and circumstances aligning perfectly to allow us to go. Certainly this does make me smile (we've been trying to get away for over a year now), but it has not turned up the heat on my excitement.

You might think I'm thrilled because yesterday I booked our tickets, and (despite booking only two months out from peak season) they weren't too expensive. I am certainly pleased we have a good price and the dates seem to have worked out nicely, but that's not the real reason for my incredible joy.

No... I'm over the moon because the couple who became like a mum and dad to me when I lived in England for three years are holding a Golden Wedding Celebration... and I can go! The date for the do just happens to be the day after we arrive in London!

Yesterday when I booked our tickets I had no idea. I felt sad that we could not make their celebration planned for July. Today I received an invitation with the amended party date... and we can go! How good is that?!

Yay, yay, yay. I'm so excited!

on taking time out

Towards the end of last year Frank and I came to realise we were putting too much energy into our church with too little return.

Not that we were engaged in a transaction of service in which one good deed was exchanged for another, but in all the giving with little receiving we found ourselves depleted. So much service combined with so little valuing, understanding or filling on the church's part left us with nothing more to give.

We called a moratorium on church attendance, organising our way out of multitudinous commitments for the whole month of January and simply staying home. (Save for one service early in the month in which I had to play the piano) In the process of taking time out we discovered the joys of lazy Sunday mornings - lengthy sleepins, leisurely breakfasts spent perusing the Sunday paper (in truth we don't buy the Sunday paper, but maybe we should... I like the sound of it), quiet time observing the world, fed by creatures of the earth and sky. In leaving church we discovered church of an altogether different kind, meeting with God under the dome of the world. It was wonderful. Enriching. Restoring.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation we realised January had come to an end. February arrived and signalled the season of return, when we must edge our way back towards the tangled web that is our spiritual family, that wriggling heap of jumbled, unmet expectations, where varied understandings of God and differing forms of spirituality leave us bumping against one another uncomfortably. It was not an appealing prospect and we pondered whether 'the moratorium' could become a 'moving on' in which we never returned.

It's all wrong don't you think? Church should be the place of peace and comfort. One should step through cool, calm doors into the pure presence of God. Love, joy and grace should greet you. Instead we're met by people. Faulty, frail, fragile humanity. And the lumps and grumps and pain of attempting to walk together with God.

Frank and I overcame our reticence and returned to church yesterday. It was not a wonderous, joyous, bountious occasion, but somehow I did find comfort in being back with the people of God. The welcome, the hugs, the knowing looks from people who sensed our struggle (and perhaps are engaged in their own parallel struggle). Faulty, frail, fragile humanity, yet hidden within each one is God. We look out on the world through very different eyes, yet in each of us is a yearning to know God, to experience his pure presence for ourselves.

Walking with these people is not easy, but neither is walking alone. Perhaps the problem lies in my faulty expectations of those who journey with me. They simply can not fill me for they also long to be filled, but if we can recognise our brokenness and need we might journey together into the pure, healing presence of God, offering support to one another as we hobble towards the wholeness that awaits us. This is the family of God.

is this a sign?

Maybe it's because I grew up in churches where God 'spoke' through everything and everyone, or perhaps I have a shadowy superstitious streak, or it could be that I just like a bit of a laugh... whatever the reason, I've developed the habit of saying "it's a sign!" when circumstances seem particularly stacked for (or against) a certain decision. But mostly I say it as a joke.

Not that I don't believe God is interested in my life, and certainly my experience is that if I take time to tune in to his voice, she speaks through the wind and the sun and the birds and the rain. But after years of unsuccessful searching for flashing neon signs in the sky every time I have a decision to make, I've realised that mostly God lets me make up my own mind about what I will or will not do. Occasionally I have a strong sense I should do this or that but most of the time I get on with making the best decision based on the available information and then I ask God to walk with me through the choice or to help me survive the ensuing consequences. God is very present in my life, but he is no voodoo doll responding on demand.

That being said, I've started wondering if God is trying to speak to me about the new credit card I'm applying for!

Now it's OK... I'm not planning on running up massive amounts of debt in the midst of a credit crisis, but one of my friends recommended her institution's credit card because their interest rate was a wapping 8% lower than that of my current credit card. I thought it was worth looking into so when I had 15 minutes to spare a couple of weeks ago I ducked in and filled out the forms.

Apparently the government in its wisdom recently decided that it was not sufficient for me to show my 100 points of ID and payslip in order to receive instant credit. Now I must photocopy each item, have the copy certified by a JP and then present it to the financial institution. I dutifully photocopied everything, had it certified and handed it over to complete my application last week. Except that I miscalculated the ID points and only supplied 90. I needed to make another trip to the JP and (feeling very embarrassed) I wondered if there was any point bothering - I mostly pay off the account each month anyway so what's the point of a lower interest rate?

Over the course of the week I decided it wasn't really too much trouble to get one more copy certified, so today I trudged back to the library and dragged the JP from her very important work in order to certify my final measly copy. I represented every single signed form at the financial institution and all seemed well.

Until half way through my pleasant stroll home my mobile rang... "Ah, Cecily, we haven't quite finished the paper work. You haven't signed the application (because you were in such a rush the day you first applied - 15 minutes wasn't really long enough after all). We can't process it until you come back and sign on the dotted line."

Again I am left wondering if this is worth all the effort! Four trips to their office just to apply for a card I don't really need and merely liked the interest rate of?! And the colour and shape of the card is nice too, but I wasn't going to mention that... seems a bit trite and all.

Sigh. "Next week" I said, "I'll be back next week."

And, ah, God... are you saying something here? Is this a sign? Should I be listening?!

snap. (out of it)

What happened there?
One minute I was a grumpy, miserable sod, the next a woman with a positive outlook.
How did that happen?

Perhaps it had something to do with the death of Benazir Bhutto. When I read the news I sat at the computer screen stunned. Yes, her death seemed inevitable in view of her political stance, the social climate of her country and her insistence on jumping through the sunroof to wave at the crowd, but still. Here was a brave woman (faulty no doubt also - there's that little story of corruption, and I'm not personally convinced politics are important enough to leave your husband and impressionable teenagers behind in another country, though maybe in this case her cause was more important than family) standing for a value she believed in, razed by those who didn't agree. My grumblings seem insignificant in comparison.

My sudden change of heart could be related to the DVD Dad gave Frank and I for Christmas, 'indescribable' by Louis Guglio. We watched it the other night, and in view of the marvels of space, again, my petty complaints seem insignificant. There's nothing like a little bit of perspective to remind me I'm not the centre of the universe. Much as I would like to think I am.

Mostly though, it was God who changed my heart. I love that about God. Even when I'm spitting chips, in an angry rage, crippled by ugly selfishness, he responds to my feeble, grudging cries for help. Cries such as 'I don't want to change, I don't want to be less selfish, I don't want to forgive, I don't want to be humble... I can only ask that you please help me to want to change, help me to want to be different.' He always listens, he always fulfills his end of the bargain, he always changes me, and usually even more than I asked for. When I peer into my heart, not only do I feel a creeping softness of wanting to be humble... I am more humble (or perhaps you should ask Frank about that!); not only do I want to be loving rather than angry... my anger recedes as if red hot coals cooled by water (without the accompanying spitting of course); not only do I want to forgive... I can see the other person's perspective and understand why they said or did what seemed offensive. I find this transformation truly incredible. Of course I'm faulty and weak and I fail to hold on to the transformation for long periods, but still God comes again and again and does her quiet work deep in my heart. I love that about God.

And so I head into 2008 with a sense of a fresh start, with the humble awareness that God is at work within me, and the knowledge that I have a special place in the world, I am of value, but I'm not the centre of everything and neither should I be. My inner being is realigned. Peace has come.

Happy New Year. May this be a time of fresh beginnings for you also.

come satisfy my thirsty heart

I was listening to worship music yesterday in an effort to overcome the grumps that have plagued me for several days. To my shame I almost succeeded in picking that fight with the neighbour when I hurled abuse over the fence under the guise of talking to the sheep she had locked up in her cement yard. (Poor things, they bleated to Frank and I for two days before she let them out) At the time I was secretly proud of my bravado. Now I'm desperate to hide the darkness of my heart. Or let God expunge it, which is probably the better option. Thus the worship music.

As I listened a few lines jumped out at me: "Oh, Christ be the centre of our lives/be the place we fix our eyes/be the centre of our lives" and "Breathe on me now as I bow down/I'm desperate Lord for more of You/come satisfy until I/am even more in need of you".

The words struck me as bordering on the ridiculous. "Christ be the centre of our lives"... how can Christ be the centre of my life unless I let him, unless my actions make him the centre? "Come satisfy until I am even more in need of you"... I suspect God wants nothing more than to satisfy. If I would just sit still and drink him in.

I had to stop singing along, for when I looked into my heart I saw only myself as the centre of my life, yelling at my neighbour over the fence, grumbling at Frank when he didn't do exactly as I wished, miserable when someone let me down; and myself rushing about so frantically that God couldn't get a drop of his thirst quenching love into my mouth if he tried.

What point singing the words if they are null and void in light of my actions?

I'm tired of being grumpy. I'm tired of being my own centre of my life. I'm tired of being busy all the time. I seriously need to sit with God and let him be my centre.

Now there is satisfaction.

henri nouwen on prayer...

Praying means giving up your false security, no longer looking for arguments which will protect you if you get pushed into a corner, and no longer setting your hope on a couple of lighter moments which you life might still offer. To pray means to stop expecting from God the same small-mindedness which you discover in yourself. To pray is to walk in the full light of God and to say simply, without holding back, 'I am human and you are God.' At that moment, conversion occurs, the restoration of the true relationship. A human being is not someone who once in a while makes a mistake, and God is not someone who now and then forgives. No! Human beings are sinners, and God is love. The conversion experience makes this obvious with stunning simplicity and disarming clarity.

This conversion brings with it the relaxation which lets you breathe again and puts you at rest in the embrace of a forgiving God. The experience results in a calm and simple joy. For then you can say: "I don't know the answer and I can't do this thing, but I don't have to know it and I don't have to be able to do it.' This new knowledge is the liberation which gives you access to everything in creation and leaves you free to play in the garden that lies before you.

meeting god

Spaghetti.

You can't quite pin it down, no matter how hard you try. It slips and slides away, a tangle of slimy plastic that cannot reconciled by knife and fork.

So, also, is my head. Spaghetti head.

I can't quite pin them down, no matter how hard I try. Those thoughts and feelings slip and slide away, a tangle of loose threads whose ends never quite meet up. As I track along the length of one notion, I lose it in the cauldron of seething emotions that bubbles inside my head: Angry, broken. Self righteous, penitent. Forgiving, furious, vindictive, loving... swirling, lunging, ducking, diving, in and out and around each other.

What exactly do I feel? Where is clarity? Which words express my thoughts precisely? Would a tantrum be acceptable? No? What would you suggest is appropriate behaviour then? If I must behave, why must not everyone else also behave? Is there no standard? Are we all drifting in an inexplicable fog?

How do I fit fractured relations into a soul designed for love and wholeness? Their shapes will not be reconciled. Must I forever live with pain, the haunting loss, the grief over what will never be?

What about truth? How do I explain when people of truth tell lies? Must I accept their slur or should I expose their deceit? Should I allow my indignation to fade away, declining to seek vindication for myself and those I love? Or am I justified in pursuing truth, forcing it from their lips for the sake of a principle? Is the principle even important or should I let it rest?

And what of unfulfilled desires? My dreams? Am I simply selfish if I cling to them or can I lean on people to make them happen? Should I lay them down in the dust and walk away, or remain strong in my hope? Can I remain strong in the face of continual disappointment?

Spaghetti. So many thoughts and emotions slipping and sliding across each another.

And yet God speaks.

In a soaring bird. "Cecily, see it does not only soar. Sometimes it must also flap its wings to stay aloft. Right now you too must flap your wings as you chase your thoughts and seek out clarity. That is not bad. Ride it out. This time will pass and you will soar effortlessly once more. And while you wildly flap your wings, I will keep you airborne. You will not fall." Ah, thankyou God. You are my assurance.

In a caring friend. Cecily, I am going to pray 4 u today for some clarity + peace of mind. God will help you. "See, God whispers, I am with you in the thoughts and prayers of your friend. I have not forgotten you." Thankyou God. You are my comfort.

In a book. "Prayer helps correct my myopia, calling to mind a perspective I daily forget. I keep reversing roles, thinking of ways in which God should serve me, rather than vice versa... Prayer raises my sight beyond the petty... Prayer allows me to admit my failures, weaknesses, and limitations to One who responds to human vulnerability with infinite mercy." (Prayer, Philip Yancy) "Look up Cecily, look up to me. You do not need to know all the answers, you do not need to sort every thought and feeling into a catalogued system of understanding. I understand. I know where every thought and feeling fits. I know you. I love you." God... You accept me with all my frailty and failings? You take me as I am? You're big enough to handle all your business and mine? My business IS your business? Incredible, I breathe, Thankyou God for your greatness coupled with compassion.

Yes, God is good. Lifting my eyes from the spaghetti, I see him. And he is all clarity and beauty.

transformation

Sometimes I bristle my way through life, overreacting to anything and everything, immediately jumping to my own defence, cutting a swath through anyone who dares to disagree with my most excellent opinions.

It is not pretty. I am not proud of it. But still I bristle.

I've been on a bristling bender for a few days now. Venomous spleen spilling from my mouth, indignation and deprecation twisting my lips. All because I'm not getting the recognition I think I deserve.

It's got to the point that the filth and crustiness building up around my heart is spreading gloom across my outlook and robbing me of joy. I feel shrivelled and suffocated by the darkness within.

Yesterday I railed against the machine. This morning I (finally) started praying about it.

As the deer pants for streams of water,
So my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?

Yes, my soul longs for God.
For his beauty, clarity and purity.
For his washing.
For his enveloping love.

And then I met him. In a counselling and psychotherapy text no less! God's voice jumped out of the pages and shook me from my dastardly self absorption and shallow introspection.

"A we-consciousness reduces perceived threats and enhances self-esteem."

That's the key! Stop thinking about myself. Become increasingly conscious of those around me. Be willing to contribute to others.

I'm feeling calmer about the present situation, more aware of what is ticking me off, more in control of my response. I'm bound to slip up again. That's the nature of the beast! Knowing that doesn't dampen the delight in my heart. I called out to God, begged him to water my crusty soul, and in his infinite mercy he gently sprinkled down his love and grace to transform my ugliness.

So how is my heart now?

Like new, pink skin growing across a recent wound. Fragile, tender, fresh.

remind me what easter's about again?!

I thought Easter was all about Jesus - you know, death, resurrection and all of that.

Then I went to the shops where my eyes were opened to the reality of Easter in the lives of most Tasmanians.

I didn't think about it really. Thursday was just a day off work. I chatted over coffee with a couple of friends before deciding a quick round of the shops was in order as a reward for recent hard work.

Caught up in my thoughts, I drifted into Target to peruse the latest fashions, before walking smack-bang into a literal wall of shoppers. Every checkout was open with a queue extending across the aisle.

"Strange," I thought "Tasmania is hardly a crowded place! Where have all these people come from? It couldn't be Easter causing all this could it?"

Next I spied a local chocolate store.

"Hmmmm, I haven't bought Frank a surprise for a while, I'll duck in and find him a yummy chocolate that expresses my love," and in I went.

Packed, absolutely packed. As many people as you can fit into a 6 metre square shop were frantically scanning the shelves for dairy free chocolate, gift boxes, specialty Easter eggs.

It appeared that Easter might be bringing the whole of the city into the streets!

That evening I decided to combine aqua aerobics with grocery shopping and ducked into the supermarket on the way home. What a crowd! There were as many people racing up and down the aisles as at 4pm on a Friday afternoon, and there it was nearly nine o'clock at night!

Suddenly all became clear. Easter isn't about Jesus! It's about frantic last minute shopping for Easter eggs, long weekend camping, chocolate, commercialism... anything but remembering Jesus' death and resurrection.

I feel angry with the people who've pedaled such a shallow concept of Easter. I'm annoyed that people who deny Jesus' name cling to a long weekend in his honour. I'm sad that the church universal has done nothing to prevent this prevailing attitude of disregard.

And then Easter really arrived, and Frank and I went to church to reflect on Jesus' death. This is a relatively new experience for me, since my Dad insisted that Easter (and Christmas) were originally pagan feasts and not to be celebrated in our home. I now love gathering in solidarity with all those around the world who choose to remember Christ, calming my heart, stilling my mind and meditating on Jesus.

When it all boils down, I'm humbled by Jesus' attitude, inspired by his obedience, overwhelmed by his love.

We all have the freedom to make Easter what we want. I'm grateful for the opportunity to reflect more fully on Jesus and his incredible beauty.

Come tomorrow morning I'll be back at church rejoicing in the incredible wonder of new life! I love it.

the mathematics of Sunday

I love God, don't get me wrong, but something is bothering me about the whole church thing.

Sunday = Church
Church = Music
Music = Work
Work = Energy expenditure
Energy expenditure = Tiredness

Therefore, Sunday = Tiredness.*

This is not a happy equation. A better one would be:

Life (including Sunday) = God
God = Love
Love = Peace and joy
Peace and joy = Contentment
Contentment = Rest

Therefore, Life (including Sunday) = Rest.*

I'm reminded of something Philip Yancey says about prayer:

I have found that my reluctance to pray increases when I regard it as a necessary discipline and decreases when I see it as a time to keep company with God.

I'm tired of rocking up to church on Sunday to perform duties that I'm not sure he even requires of me. I'm disenchanted by the 'need' to prepare and present a feature service every week. I'd like to sit at his feet and gaze at his face and drink in his beauty. That would be a wonderful Sunday.

Sunday = God, love, peace, joy, contentment, rest.*

How good would that be?!

* I'm a little jaded at present. It's highly likely that Music = Loving God. I'm just not there right now. For me, Sitting in adoration at God's feet = Loving God. The two seem incompatible, but I hope to assimilate them at a future date!