Summer
Summer is the season of deep contentedness and confidence. The greenest season, where grace, not as flashy as spring, is a deep constant. Like trees whose brilliant spring colors have faded, so too does the immediate explosion of new graces seem to fade from our lives. But what replaces the colorful display is something deeper, something rooted, something strong, something healthy.
Unlike the fragile glory of springtime colors, the simple greenness of summer reveals the strength and confidence of a life deeply connected to its source of being. Like a tall tree, draped in a garment of rich green leaves, whose roots are continually and confidently fed by the underground waters, so too do our souls drink confidently from the springs of peace and truth, nourishing us and establishing us in grace.
Summer is a simple season-- the flashes of the sudden glories of spring and fall are not present. But the simplicity of summer is a simplicity of the deepest intimacy. We know and are known. We are fed by truth, comforted by peace, rooted in grace, corrected in love, and loved with strength.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons III: Spring
Spring
Spring is the season of exuberant celebration of new life and new hope. As winter loses its icy grip on the land and on our hearts, our naked selves are robed again in the finest of all vestments, weaved by the pierced hands that know the deepest pain of winter and the highest joy of spring. In spring we, like the land about us, receive a foretaste of Resurrection. Spring is the Eastertide of our souls as we burst forth from the crucifixion and the tomb of winter, stirred by the holy wind from heaven to new life.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons II: Winter
Winter
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons 1: Fall
If there is a geography to redemption (mountains and valleys, rivers and deserts) then certainly there is a spirituality to the seasons of the year. The rhythms of the year: fading, death, new life and thriving life are all rhythms that we experience in our living out of relation with the Father through Jesus Christ in the Spirit. As you read these brief meditations on the seasons, I pray that you identify with one of them and can prayerfully discover the grace of God present with you. May you be filled with hope in the goodness, the grace and the provision of God in every season.
***
Fall
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
***
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I tried to hold you but you'd rather hold your grudge
Some days open on hope; other days open on tragedy and sorrow. I wish this brokenness would go away; that somehow the story of Ezekiel's valley of dry bones would become my story. My world is a lie that's come true. Because of that, hard choices are ever before me: fight or surrender, persevere or release, argue or be silent. There are no easy answers in a world that is a lie.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Yankee Tree
Yankee Tree
My body is built like an old Yankee tree--
so year after year I'll continue to be--
tall and thin and oh so protracted
with a mind so fine and ever so abstracted
from the sense called common to all of the masses;
I train with Montaigne and push up my glasses.
Like a tower in Babel I've mastered the art
of building toward heaven completely apart
from wisdom, from knowledge, from hu-mil-ity
so try as I might I'll continue to be
an old tree, a grey tree that's bent with self-pity
needing to fall to make way for the City
My body is built like an old Yankee tree--
so year after year I'll continue to be--
tall and thin and oh so protracted
with a mind so fine and ever so abstracted
from the sense called common to all of the masses;
I train with Montaigne and push up my glasses.
Like a tower in Babel I've mastered the art
of building toward heaven completely apart
from wisdom, from knowledge, from hu-mil-ity
so try as I might I'll continue to be
an old tree, a grey tree that's bent with self-pity
needing to fall to make way for the City
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A theology blog? Say what?
I know, I know. I don't post nearly enough on this blog to warrant starting another one. Skepticism noted.
But I did start another blog. This one is more explicitly academic and theological. Together, these two blogs represent two sides of my personal theological project: the academic and spiritual interpretation of my encounter with divine revelation. As I've come to see it, my academic work, just as much as my poetry, photos and stream-of-consciousness blogging, is a hermeneutic of God's action in my life and in the world that I observe. What does that mean? Well... I guess you'll have to go here to find out. :]
But I did start another blog. This one is more explicitly academic and theological. Together, these two blogs represent two sides of my personal theological project: the academic and spiritual interpretation of my encounter with divine revelation. As I've come to see it, my academic work, just as much as my poetry, photos and stream-of-consciousness blogging, is a hermeneutic of God's action in my life and in the world that I observe. What does that mean? Well... I guess you'll have to go here to find out. :]
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