Saturday: Even the Sweetest Grapes Have Seeds

Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
-John Keats

We cannot escape suffering, because hidden in every burst of joy is the seed of sadness even if it is merely that the pleasure must cease. But does this mean that we run from the experience because we fear the ache we experience when it ends?

Friday: The Runner

As I was snug in my bed....wait, mattress on the floor, this morning, nestled in blankets and cherishing the fact of sleeping in, I jolted up, realizing I had totally forgotten to post my blog last night. So here it is......late.


She had been running for as long as she could remember. The endless stretch of highway had become her home. She didn’t know where she was running to. Nor where she was running from. But day after day and year after year she heard the sound of her footsteps hitting the pavement one after another.
Of course she would stop, now and again, but never for long. Folks would ask her where she was running. She’d smile and say she had to be on her way.
She focused on the road. The dotted yellow lines in front of her. The sound of her feet. She ran through the mountains, standing in glory. Through the plains, wide as the sky. Through the forest, where squirrels chased each other, up and up and round and round to the tops of the trees. She saw nothing but the road.
Sometimes, her thoughts would wander and she would wonder if there might be more. But those thoughts frightened her and she didn’t know what to do with them. So she’d focus on her steps, counting them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five….

On a day like any other, she had stopped in a small town, sat on a park bench, ate some lunch. A frail, wrinkled man with the kindest eyes she’d ever known sat next to her and said not a word. As she rose to be on her way, he grabbed her hand. “Sometimes you’ll find where you’re running to is exactly what you’re running from.” Politely she smiled, pulled her hand away, and started down the road.
What could he mean?
She tried shoving the man’s words from her head.
She counted her steps.
One.
Two.
Who was this man?
Three.
Four.
What did he know anyway?
“Keep your eyes on the road,” she told herself.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
That was more like it.
She settled back into the rhythm of the road. This was what she knew. This is what she would continue to do.
“Excuse me.”
The sound of another’s voice startled her so, she nearly tripped over her own feet. But she kept running. She looked to her left, and saw a young man, running, step for step, right beside her.
“Follow me.” He said and he grabbed her hand. They ran faster than she had ever run before. Yet, as she ran, hand in hand with this stranger, she saw for the first time, the mountains standing in glory. The plains, wide as the sky. The forest, where squirrels chased each other up and up and round and round to the tops of the trees. And when she thought she could run no longer, she and the stranger burst through the door of the most amazing house she’d ever seen. She found herself in the most elegant of corridors, with a staircase wrapping round on either side.
“We’re here! We’ve made it!” Yelled the stranger.
There appeared at the top of the stairs, a man. Younger in appearance and with the smoothest of skin, but with the same unmistakable eyes of the man on the park bench. He made his way down the stairs, embraced her, kissed her head and said,
“Child, welcome home.”

Thursday: The best things in life are free...

But you can save em' for the birds and bees, I want money.


Isaiah 55:1-9

55:1 Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.

I would really like to live in a place like this, a place in which I could have wine and milk, and not need to have money. But is wine and milk enough? What about a place to sleep?

What is the gospel saying? I am going to graduate this year, and I don't know what to do about money. Will the Messiah look after me?

We'll see. Who can come to the waters? Am I invited?

Wednesday: Who really suffers?

It’s hard for me to think of suffering this week. I just returned from a trip to Florida for my brother’s wedding. I’ve experienced almost nothing but joyful occasions for the last week, reunions, marriage, good weather, family, friends, parties.

Today I will wake up and return to work. Some people may say that this should give me a good basis for writing about suffering, sometimes there’s nothing worse than returning to work after a good trip to somewhere like Florida. I enjoy my job and the people that I work with, I support what my employer stands for and the work that comes out of that “Big Box on the Hill”.

The first thing I will see when I get into the office tomorrow, when I look out of my window over the city as I generally do, is a sea of blue tarps covering the roughly 15 tents that have taken residence in our parking lot. As of February 24^th and until roughly the end of April, Tent City3 will be there to greet me at work every morning. Tent City is a program that started several years ago in Seattle. It is operated by homeless people, for homeless people. It provides a safe and clean shelter for people who need it.

Often times people automatically associated being homeless with suffering, with a problem. Several weeks ago, in Missio Dei we talked about homelessness and the homeless. Something that really struck me in our conversation has to do with the view of homelessness as a problem to be solved; we’re all seeking an end to homelessness, aren’t we? I mean, no body should have to live without consistent food and shelter, right? While I don’t agree that homelessness should continue, nor do I think the conversations that work to understand how to live with homelessness should stop. One person made the point that some people choose to be homeless, to lead a nomadic lifestyle, free of the normal constraints of society. In many ways homeless people will always be with us.

If we think about it this way, where does the suffering actually lie? In the people who are homeless? Or in someone like me who wants them not to be homeless anymore, to enjoy the same or similar comforts that I enjoy?

I was talking to my mom yesterday morning as I was packing to come back to Seattle. I mentioned to her that I had to write about suffering this week and observing out loud how I was going to have trouble (coming from the experiences I just had) writing.

My mother in all her eminent wisdom affirmed that I was probably right. She added, however, that there is always suffering around me, even in joy. People often assume that things or people will make us happy, that without these things or people we would feel empty and alone. She reminded me that someone can be surrounded by a loving family, live in a beautiful house, drive a nice car and own all the latest fancy equipment and still lead a very unhappy life. Her point was that if someone refuses to see the joy in the surrounding world, he or she will never feel that joy personally. While there are many instances that life can be hard and unhappy and we may have little to no control over what is causing us to suffer, we are ultimately in control of how we deal with that suffering.

Now where does God come into all this? Well to me there’s not a lot of question about what God does to alleviate my suffering, for me God has already done everything. For me God does not bestow suffering upon me, only I can cause myself to suffer. When I begin to see God in everything around me, I cease to feel suffering, I feel joy, I can see the light, I can see the end and I move forward. God sent Jesus to show me (and millions of other people) a way to live without suffering, leading a life that is at the same time both simple and complex. Leading a life that is not about me, but about things that are outside of me: people, communities, my planet.

Going back to the Missio Dei conversation mentioned earlier, someone asked the question, what can we do for the homeless? How can we help them to stop suffering? The response was, “treat them like human beings”, don’t look at them as a problem, look at them as people, with feelings, with a future. If we see them on the street begging for money, whatever money we give them may help them to feed an addiction, it may help them to buy a warm meal. In any case, the loose change we share from our pockets is probably not going to have a significant impact on their lives. What will change their life is if we stop viewing them as “homeless people”.

What would result if we stopped looking at homeless people as “they” and started looking at them as “us”? What if my or his or her suffering ceased to be mine or his or hers and became ours?

Tuesday: A Solution Through Worship?

(Posted in loving stead for Theresa by Paul)

One crisp night in April, I find myself crunching through a crusty remnant of snow along the overgrown remains of a long abandoned logging road. My tennis shoes are wet and my stomach will not let me forget the promise of warm food with close friends I have failed to keep. The mountains here are my friends, but tonight they loom as ominous sentinels over a midnight trek laced with panic and fear.

With each step, my knees alternately cling to the wet cloth of my pants, reminding me of a belated supplication to God that convicted rather than relieved. My friend might be out there suffering in his own way, and my thoughts race at a dizzying pace, driving me on. One minute we were sharing our passion of flight, the next minute lives of those I had not yet been fortunate enough to meet changed forever. Many hours later, after a final, tortured decision at a dark crossroads in a mountain clear-cut, my own salvation results in tears instead of relief. The next day, one form of suffering is replaced by another as I learn the ugly fate of my friend.

The trappings of death are often the most vivid embodiment of suffering we have. There lies an ultimate and tangible finality for the mortal, an unknown quantity that can never be shared outside of the imagination. This cold night in April and the subsequent day was my novice experience with such penetrating emotion. A terrible accident occurred and my own life was threatened, my salvation just short of miraculous. Yet God and his provision did not enter my mind until my position was an embarrassing distance from where I started. The omnipotent, loving God I’ve known since a child was not paramount in my thoughts for reasons of spiritual bankruptcy. Yet, I sought him in prayer anyway, though it left me with emptiness.

The passages selected for this week did not bring these thoughts to the surface immediately, but I believe it was inevitable they turn in this direction. As I read Jon’s post from yesterday, I also wondered how the festering of my own recent experience is evidence of God’s oft hidden work. Sinking into the snow at a higher elevation and earlier hour that April evening, I had knelt and prayed to God seeking his protection for my friend and thanking him for such mercy in a time of my life noted for its deficiency of character and faith. Perhaps this was a kind of worship, but without satisfaction due to the context of my heart and mind.

What is the link between worship, suffering, and the condition of the heart? If the effort is made to preserve the condition of the heart in a way that honors God, how does an approach to suffering change? What if I had worshipped God in the context of the life of a seeker who stumbles but looks to God instead of the world for assistance during my prayer in the snow? Lately, I’ve been seeking to break down my old life and re-center around the search for a Christian identity separate from that which I was spoon-fed as a child. This experience seems to confirm my belief in worship - through whatever form seems appropriate – as the door to incredible strength from God. Perhaps worship in the midst of our suffering and trial is one method through which, “He will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it”.

Monday: Manure

I was at a conference a few years ago learning about all the great things going on around the world within the emerging church conversation. I found myself gravitating to the most creative voices, which at that particular time were coming from Europe. I was in Jonny Baker's seminar and he was telling us about a worship gathering some friends created in St. Peter's Church in South London. This image was projected for reflection about the impurity of their lives and the meaning of the Incarnation.

The question looming over us this week is around suffering. Who are we in the midst of suffering? What is suffering, and why is it a present reality throughout history? What do we do in the midst of suffering? These questions are daunting and even terrifying, but we live with them every moment of our lives if we're honest with ourselves. Our text speaks of Galileans being executed, the questions that follow such a horrific event, Jesus' rebuttal, and a parable of a non-fruit bearing tree. It's quite an odd combination to read the first time through. And after reading it a few times something started coming together for me.

I got a phone call at the YMCA on a bright Saturday morning in August. I was 12 years old. My mom was making me come home. I stewed on the long, hot walk home in my quaint suburban neighborhood. As I approach my own house, my family is all waiting for me on the front porch. Still angry at them for making me leave my sacred place, I fail to notice the grief on their faces. They knew something I did not. My best friend was dead. My mom tries to tell me and explain to me, but fails. She hands me the front page of our town newspaper. The picture, the headline, the weight of the page in my hand tells me the story of my best friend was shot by his dad in the middle of the night and left for dead. My family's attempt to console me was met by my back turned, and a dead sprint upstairs to my bedroom where I would lay for the next few hours face down on my floor weeping uncontrollably.

My questions were the same as the crowds who told Jesus about the Galileans. Why did Tommy have to die? What did he do wrong? It should have been me, right? I'm a worse kid than Tommy was. Jesus response to this is that unless I repent, I will suffer and die as well. What? How does Jesus get off saying something like that? But then he tells the story and clarifies or muddles his theology depending on your take. The gardener wants to give this old, barren fig tree another chance. He says he'll dig around the tree and put manure in it's place. If the tree grows fruit, then that's great. If it doesn't, he'll cut it down. But give it some time.

How do we suffer? What does it mean to repent in response to suffering? Who are we, and who do we become in suffering? These are questions I don't have any good answers for, but this short parable makes a lot of sense to me right now. I suffer by digging into my story and sitting in the shit of it. In that place, God is doing something that I can only guess is like what fertilizer does to a dying tree. This is not easy to be sure. But the more I reflect on my best friend's death and all the surrounds that event, the more I grow. The pain is real and intense. Slowly I'm coming back to life, so maybe the owner of the vineyard won't cut me down.

Lent 3 - In the Midst of Suffering

Here's a link to this week's Gospel text:

http://divinity.library.vanderbilt.edu/lectionary/CLent/cLent3.htm

I am nine. I am growing up in a bright, lime-green house near a field whose tall weeds stretch for acres. Behind my house, in the middle of the field, lives a boy my age named Paul. Paul is friendly and mischievous, and his father takes us for rides on a tan tracker that rumbles like an angry bobcat when it comes to life.

They have a barn, too, just on the edge of their property. It is run-down, with rotten wood spilling out around broken nails at the building's joints and seams. There is a thick, silver padlock on the double doors leading into the barn, as its disrepair prevents Paul's family from using it.

It is the middle of Fall, the leaves have turned, and Paul and I find that a recent storm has broken a window on the outside of the barn, and if we climb a nearby plum tree, we can just make it inside. I spend the afternoon in the barn with Paul, breaking damp boards and digging holes, holding the wood tight in our hands before it is smashed and then using the scattered pieces to shovel the loose earth at our feet.

Just as we are about to leave, Paul gives a low shout and points with two fingers up toward the rafters, where I can just make out the shape of a nest. I squint and stare for a few seconds, and when I turn back to Paul he has a slender stone in his left hand. He lets it fly. He laughs as the nest falls, and I laugh, too, because he has, but my stomach twists when I see the small home hit the ground.

I return later, alone, and sit next to four broken eggs whose fluids have commingled with the dirt. I stare at the small, partially-formed bodies near cracked shells, hints of wings and beaks on two or three. Reaching out my hands, I pick up a few shells and try to fit them back together. I stay in the barn until it is dark before going home.


In the city, we found that the oasis we expected from our safe places didn't provide the comfort we needed. Now we're smack-dab in the middle of it, in the midst of suffering. Our text examines difficult, painful situations, and we find resonance within our own world, within our own lives. How do we find Christ here? How do we live in this brokenness?