Holiness in Poop, Fire, and Child

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First, poop.

I have a developing curiosity about Jewish blessings, but as of yet, I am not at all educated about them. Intrigued by Barbara Brown Taylor’s words about blessings in An Altar in the World, I took to the internet with my curiosity. I found Jewish blessings for special occasions, and blessings for a host of daily experiences, such as waking up and eating. To my delight, one of my first discoveries was a blessing for going to the bathroom. This may be a common fascination among blessing newbies, as it was within the small sampling of blessings on more than one website. I wonder how many practicing Jews say it after each visit to the restroom. One site suggested it as the perfect blessing for changing a child’s diaper. Each version is a little different, and since I don’t read Hebrew I am looking only at English translations. Here’s how Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg quotes it:

Blessed are You, God our deity, sovereign of the universe, who formed humans with wisdom and created within them many openings and many hollows. It is obvious in the presence of Your glorious throne that if one of them were ruptured, or if one of them were blocked, it would be impossible to exist and stand in Your presence. Blessed are You, God, who heals all flesh and performs wonders.

Ruttenberg goes on to say,

Even if the God language in this text doesn’t resonate with you, there’s something really important here. This blessing encourages us to experience awe in the face of the human body’s complexity, and an awareness of the myriad of things that have to go right in order for us to continue drawing our next breath—and the breath after that. The fact that we’re able to eliminate waste as we’re meant to is a wonder in its own right, a miracle worthy of our respect and gratitude. The simple fact of being embodied is worthy of our spiritual engagement.1

What if I engaged spiritually with more bodily functions? In addition to pooping and peeing, passing gas, sneezing, burping, crying, even vomiting could be worthy of awe. What about sex? Sweating? Swallowing? As JJ Heller sings, “Everything is sacred when you take time to notice.”2

Second, fire.

One night late last December I woke up to my husband’s snoring. After “gently” shoving him with my arm, squashing my head down in my feather pillow so both ears were covered, and trying the finger-in-the-ear method, I gave up and padded to the guest bed in my office. Shortly thereafter, my daughter Kayt woke me up and, after semi-successfully getting her back to bed, anxiety kicked in. Kayt had awoken me the night before, so surely this was a sign of new sleep patterns, wakeful nights spreading quite possibly to eternity. Then I had visions of everything that could go wrong on our upcoming Florida vacation. I pictured the four of us shivering on a cold beach; my husband and I experiencing buyers remorse at Legoland; an alligator grabbing my tiny seven-year-old; and a long drive to the state park I had visited as a child, only to find out their canoe rental was closed.

I felt panicky and gloomy. I tried to think of people to pray for. And then I thought of Anne Lamott’s words from my evening’s reading in Dusk, Night, Dawn: “Even now we aren’t in charge of much, and it is exhausting to believe or pretend we are … Watching the ways we try to be in charge can help us get our sense of humor back, and laughter is a holy and subversive battery charge.” I could not think of anything comical about my mental state, so I sat down with Jesus in His room in my heart and asked Him where the humor was. To my surprise, He went Pixar on me and personified Anger, from Inside Out, the scene where he ignites, flames coming out of his head, and Disgust uses him as a blowtorch. So I grabbed Jesus/Anger like a blowtorch and we kind of incinerated His room, and I smiled in the darkness. My chest expanded and I breathed. Holy comic relief. And more evidence for my theory that God is crazy. He ricocheted around His room in my heart like a fireball on top of a balloon releasing air, and I giggled.

Eventually I slept, fitfully. Whenever I was awake enough to be aware, I remembered Jesus with flames coming out His head and it centered me. Holy and subversive, indeed.

Third, child.

A couple days after the Inside Out incident, I asked God if I was being too irreverent—you know, with the flaming head, and God’s butt (another gem from Anne Lamott). What is holiness, and are there rules for how to behave in the presence of a holy God? I don’t have an answer, but God gave me a picture:

Holiness is a sleeping child. Its beauty captures our attention without us quite realizing it. We gaze at soft eyelids, rumpled hair, smooth skin, a trace of jam—and our own faces soften into a smile, almost unexpectedly.

Apparently holiness looks more like a sleeping child than perfection or pomp. Grandeur, yes—the grandeur I see in the face of a sleeping child, recognize in the faithfulness of my own body, and know in a 3am giggle that releases me back to rest.

Endnotes:
1 https://www.huffpost.com/entry/poop-and-gratitude_b_3684747
2 https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jjheller/biglovesmallmoments.html

Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

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Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for being upside down.

We layer things up
and You overturn them,
like a pineapple upside-down cake.

Blessed are You
for teaching us
to stand on our heads,
to see what we did not see before:
the poor are favored,
enemies are beloved,
forgiveness predates repentance,
trials are joy,
lost lives are saved lives.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for inviting us
to grab a fork
and try a bite,
and for chuckling
at our look of surprise.

I’m Afraid Being Me Will Ruin Every Relationship I’m In

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“Life is a journey,” we say. I want a rest stop. I want to stay at a posh hotel for, I don’t know, a couple of years. But in a rash moment I decided healing is a priority. Discomfort is part and parcel with healing, so I carry on. I receive the affirmation of my friends and of my own spirit and I keep taking steps.

My current discomfort comes from the fluctuations and changes of intimacy in marriage. I feel like I’m on a chain and I don’t know when it’s gonna get jerked. It seems we oscillate between politeness and passion, and both extremes are uncomfortable. The truth is I’m really scared to be me. Around all the actual dynamics and realities of our relationship is a cloud of fear. My thoughts are fearful, terrified. Though I’m acting peaceful, some inward part of me is frozen, and if it gets poked it will likely either fight or flee.

What if this fear is not me, not true to who I am? What if it doesn’t belong here and I can send it away?

What if being me is never a mistake? There can be fallout, but it doesn’t mean I ought not to have been me. I am not the mistake. I make mistakes, but I am not a mistake. I’m gonna agree with Papa God and Jesus and Holy Spirit on this one.

“A feeling is just a feeling,” I say, quoting Josh Straub. What is under this fear? What is my internal space without the fear?

I journal the fears. I allow myself to explore them and feel them and write them down. Then I do the same with healing messages. Sometimes it helps to call them “lies” and “truths.”

Lie: I am not and cannot be enough.
Truth: I am enough.

Lie: I am not worthy of connection or belonging.
Truth: I am worthy of connection and belonging.

Lie: Vulnerability may cause permanent damage to my sense of self.
Truth: No matter how someone reaches out to me or responds to me, they cannot touch my identity of wholeness. Vulnerability involves sharing my inner world, but it does not involve putting my value up for negotiation.

Lie: Rejection says something about who I am.
Truth: Rejection is a normal human dynamic, a part of processing experiences in a shared space, and grappling with fears. Rejection does not tell me the truth about who I am or about who the other person is.

Lie: Being different means someone is wrong.
Truth: Being different probably means we’re both right, both have something to contribute. We bring our flat realities and together make a 3D reality.

Lie: I should be able to avoid hurting someone if I try hard enough.
Truth: I cannot avoid hurting other people. Hurting someone does not declare that I am a hurtful person. It means that my movement in the world interacted with another person’s movement in the world in a way that was painful—similar to accidentally stepping on someone’s toe, or elbowing your kid in the head while unloading the dishwasher.

Lie: I am not a safe person.
Truth: I am a safe person when I am a real person. Being me is the greatest gift I can give.

Lie: I can unwittingly ruin a relationship.
Truth: I can unwittingly cause pain, but I cannot unwittingly ruin a relationship. Relationships are bigger than the stimulus of pain. Relationships always hold the potential for repair and shared understanding, connection and healing. Even when there is a rift in a relationship, the relationship continues to hold that potential.

And so it seems I am a lot less dangerous and powerful than I thought I was. The success or failure of each relationship I’m in—including my marriage—is not mine to carry. I am me, and that is good. I will keep showing up because relationships are life, and I was made to live.

Seeing God

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Seeing God

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for dragonfly wings
and broken things,
fire and wind,
storms and dewdrops.

Blessed are You
in brimming eyes,
sparkling eyes,
vacant eyes;
in friend and foe;
in the mirror.

Blessed are You
for revealing Yourself
in ancient words,
or present vision,
a thousand ways,
ten thousand places.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for seeing us,
and for letting us
see You.

Receiving Joy

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“Expect suffering. I want to receive this teaching,” I wrote in my prayer journal. Five days later I came down with the worst cold I’d had in years. Perhaps God in His great grace had prepared me by putting suffering on my mind beforehand. Whatever the case, He blessed me with a spirit of acceptance. I had one angry tantrum (in my head and on my face) for a couple of hours, followed by a good cry, some pats on the cheek from my seven-year-old, and a slightly scared inquiry from my husband as to whether I needed anything.

It’s frustrating being sick and knowing no one else is going to cook or clean or help the kids with piano practice and pet care and chores. It’s frustrating to cancel the play date and the sleepover and the dinner with friends and the meal delivery to other friends.

But it’s also nice to rest in bed, to watch my children try some new things I usually do for them, to have more time for prayer, and to practice gratitude.

By God’s grace I had an attitude of receiving instead of fighting, and somehow—honestly, I find it rather mysterious—the sickness was a blessing. And it was followed by the biggest surprise of all. On the fourth day I woke up full of joy. As I drifted between sleep and wakefulness I felt that both were bliss. When I looked outside, the world seemed more beautiful. My energy was coming back, and where usually I would feel a sense of guilty relief—I can finally catch up on days of neglected tasks—I felt alive, vibrant. It all seemed very silly, like an overreaction. But there it was, that intangible we call joy.

Suffering (which admittedly is a strong word to describe a cold) has a tremendous capacity to grow me, to introduce me to my mature and whole self. This post-cold joy was a treasured moment in which I caught a glimpse of Spirit-fruit in my life. I was awed. I was grateful.

Papa God, I have opened my hands (literally, daily) and I have received Your abundance. There is a sweet moment of contentment here, releasing the past and not knowing the future, tasting the pleasure of this moment, that I have received a blessing from You.

Pocket-size Love

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Pocket-size Love

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for pocket-size love—
3am conversations,
fuzzy blankets,
quiet mornings,
little faces.

Blessed are You
for dessert and coffee,
anything that warms my feet,
the delight of creating,
and a sigh of acceptance
as I nightly surrender to my pillow.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for honest friends
affirming my humanity
by baring theirs,
and for soul sisters
whose healing gently nudges forward
my own slow and brave recovery.

Good(?) News

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The gospel as I learned it was bad news, followed by ok news. Somehow the “good” got left out. I understood the gospel as the news that we are all sinners, separated from God, but that Jesus reunited us with God by taking our punishment. Despite being an “up-front” Jesus girl, selling religious books door-to-door and leading worship and Bible studies, I never could tell someone, “You’re a sinner. But don’t worry! God punished Jesus instead of you.” Wow. I mean, my life was hard already. Thanks for this “news.”

I went to the seminars (Revelation and prophecy) most loved by my particular faith tradition, and filled in all the blanks in the study guides. I marked my Bible with dozens of chain studies. But I never talked one-on-one with anyone about salvation. Most people I knew were Christian, or if they weren’t it was because of the experiences they had when they used to be Christian. On the rare occasion I interacted with someone who wasn’t Christian or ex-Christian, bringing up their sinner status seemed a bizarre thing to do. So I never did.

How could I distill spiritual experience into one conversation in which a person “admits” they are a sinner and thanks Jesus for helping them? I’ve had countless conversations that have given life or liberty or love to one or both parties. This is so often how I see God at work. I wonder if people don’t need a three-sentence salvation speech as much as they need someone to hear and affirm their own spiritual experiences. The salvation speech takes the gospel right out of our hearts and places it on the table in front of us for a transaction. If salvation is a transaction, Jesus wasted His time coming down here to be a human for over thirty years. He could have really simplified things by just getting sacrificed for our sins as a baby.

But what if salvation isn’t a transaction? What if Jesus came for another reason? As I continue to engage spiritually, to hunger and thirst and be filled, I wonder what it might look like for me to “share the gospel.” Is there actually something I could say that I believe? That I find compelling?

I am seen by Father/Son/Spirit, loved, held, wrestled with. I can share my experiences. But what about a three-sentence gospel? I’m not sure such a thing has any merit, but I’ve started forming one just in case.

Bad/ok news: You can be be better. Here’s how: you are a sinner, separated from God, but Jesus has reunited you with God by taking your punishment. Trust Jesus. (But not God, since He was coming after you with a flaming sword.)

Good news: You couldn’t be better. Here’s why: You are made in God’s image. You have believed some crappy things about yourself that aren’t true. Jesus came to reacquaint you with your true and holy self.

In his book, No Longer I, Jacob Hotchkiss writes, “We mistook a sinless spirit, a pure heart, to be the end of the Christian life, when actually it is the beginning…” This explains why I have spent my life reaching, heart and hands outstretched, hoping that this might be the time I would receive something good, something healing, something to make me whole. I didn’t know I had it all the time.

Gregory Boyle, Jesuit priest and gang recovery waymaker, lives from the certainty that every person has “unshakeable goodness.” This is hope. Unless I have invested my whole life in being good; then my unshakeable, preexisting goodness is terrifying. But in either case, settling in to my unshakeable goodness is freedom and life, joy and bravery, a lifelong celebration of the unshakeable goodness in everyone. Which is better: looking at every person as a sinner, or looking at each one as a masterpiece?

Jesus said, “God didn’t send me into the world to condemn it, but to save it.” Everyone in the world already has a new identity in Christ. We are all new creations. And as we acknowledge this, transformation happens. We need not strive for something that is already ours. Our belief, then, is not in something outside ourselves, but in an inheritance that is already ours. The good news is that we are whole.

This is overwhelmingly good—great—terrific news, and it is difficult to believe. Whether Christian or not, most of us have spent our whole lives thinking we could be better—with the next self-help book, diet, relationship, or job. Or maybe just with the next cup of coffee, pair of jeans, or good nights sleep. We have believed to our bones that we could maybe arrive someday, and it’s up to us to keep trying. With each disappointment, with each morning we awake and realize, I’m still me, hope wanes. Christians often cope by performing. As Kevin Sweeney insightfully says in his book, The Making of a Mystic, “It’s easier to try and spread the gospel to every part of the world than it is to allow the gospel to be spread to every part of your soul.”

The challenge is not to accept the reality that we are not—and never will be—enough, but to believe the shocking truth that we are already enough. We are whole, we are full, we are loved and lovable, we could not be better. This might change every phone conversation, work meeting, messy room, conflict with friends or kids.

When we look at ourselves, are we willing to say, “I am good”? It’s either that or “I am a sinner.” And since that hasn’t worked well for me the last 30 years, I’m gonna give this a try. Check in with me in 30 years, and I’ll let you know what happens when “I couldn’t be better” is my go-to.

My whole life I have never felt comfortable evangelizing—inviting people to church or doctrinal Bible studies. No reasonable person invites their friends to bondage. Church was a place I belonged, but it was not a place of freedom. It was a place of rules that I was damn good at following, so most of the time I felt pretty good. But the “good” of self-righteousness doesn’t hold a candle to the good of “you are God’s masterpiece. Right now. Already.” Self-righteousness requires a lot of maintenance—painting, roofing, updating furniture, replacing wooden steps before they rot through. A masterpiece is complete, valuable and valued, ready to be enjoyed. People stop and look; they lose track of time.

You are a masterpiece. And so is the person in front of you.

Undivided

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Undivided

“A house divided against itself will not stand.” – Jesus

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for moments that return me
to myself;
when I discover
I am not my own enemy
but my greatest ally.

Blessed am I,
for what I desire
is even now within me.
I need not fight
against myself.
My present wholeness
is an invitation to hush.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for inhabiting me,
imparting courage
for me to inhabit my self.

Untidy

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We speak of heaven as a distant, perfect, glowing place. But if God feels all our feelings, then the pain of the world is present in heaven, just as a parent who is safe and free feels the suffering and bondage of their child a thousand miles away. There is anguish in heaven over every person who believes untruths about who they are. We all believe lies, for one reason or another: abandonment, abuse, rejection, holding secrets. If God’s Spirit is in us, and He is present to all the pain in the world, then there is sorrow in heaven.

But there is also hope in heaven—not for what will be, but what is done. Jesus experienced the identity-mangling human life (including being lied to by Satan, abused, and rejected) and followed it to its deadly end. In so doing, He gifted us a life without death. The hope in heaven is born of a freedom for God’s children that is already true. God feels our pain, but He also knows who we are. When we know whom we are and Whose we are, pain and sorrow find union with hope.

But what about everyone who doesn’t know? It’s easy to look at the world and believe God has let some fall by the wayside; He has done a lot, but He couldn’t save everyone; He has shone a light, but it is a pinprick in the darkness of starvation, war, neglect, and oppression.

In many ways I’d be more comfortable with a Savior who removes us from our circumstances instead of entering into them. How is He saving us by surrendering to the dark side and letting them kill Him? Where is the Savior who stops the rapes happening as I write this, the starvation toll steadily climbing? What good is a God who showed up long enough to be brutally murdered and then went back to heaven after He was resurrected? And if His angels are really here ministering to us, how do they choose whom to deliver and whom to walk by?

I don’t know what or where heaven is, or why earth is dark. I think it’s okay to wonder. Paradox and tension are permissible. Questions keep me curious. Doubts save me from Pharisee-like certainty. God is bigger, and I know this, even as I am asking if He is too small.

Jesus chose to climb into the filth with us, rather than stay safe on the mother ship and throw us a life ring. Jesus can embody love in an untidy world; perhaps I can too. My heart is untidy, my kitchen is untidy, my husband, my neighbor and my world are untidy. If Jesus is any indication, my job is not to tidy things up, but to bend down and love.

Canvas of Emotion

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Canvas of Emotion

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for sky—
canvas of emotion,
wild and expressive,
ever changing;
so bright we look down,
or so dark we look up,
searching for light.

Blessed are You for clouds—
wistful wisps,
satisfied puffy marshmallows,
hurrying shape-changers,
angry billows no longer white.

Blessed are You for lightning—
shocking us into being present;
for rainbows—
causing us to stare and point;
for winking stars and harvest moon—
inviting us to be still,
just for a moment.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for sunset valentines,
hopeful sunrises,
depressed skies of flat gray,
and joyful skies bright blue—
giving us permission to feel,
nothing or everything,
intense or peaceful,
romantic or solitary.

Blessed are You
for daily permission
to feel our ever-changing inner world
as we look up
and see it mirrored in the sky,
sanctified
by the expressions above us.