Lenten Ashes

 We prepare to pray not by composing our prayers but ourselves. (Eugene H. Peterson)

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent. Not everyone belongs to a tradition that recognizes or practices the discipline of Lent or the distribution of ashes, but that’s OK. Like most practices, all are welcomed to participate, but no one is required to. It’s all part and parcel of the “God is Love and God is Loving” Movement of the past half century. I’ll admit, I’ve never been part of the “God is going to fry you for XYZ” Brigade. 

I’m not sure punishment, or the fear of punishment was ever as big a deterrent as people think it is or should be.

I remember being a wee-young lad of probably three or four years of age. I found a leather riding crop up on the fireplace mantel. I had no idea what it was or what it was used for, so I managed to clamber up one way or another to retrieve it and asked my mother what it was. She said, “It’s a riding crop. You spank a horse with it to make it behave.”

Now, I’ll confess to the world here and now that I do not remember ever being hit, spanked, slapped, whipped, or physically assaulted by either of my parents at any time in my life. It’s not because I was an angel (although I’m sure I was as close as one could humanly be to such). They were simply not into punishment. I do remember looking at that riding crop with fresh eyes, however, and knew instinctively how it could be used and how it might feel on my tender behind, so I steered as clear of that bit of leather as if it was a rattler or red-hot iron.

I think we humans instinctively know right from wrong, for the most part. We know what will bring honor to one’s home or name, and what will bring dishonor and shame. Pretty much from the git-go we learn “NO!” for things that are harmful, dangerous, or out of bounds, and we reap praise for the things we do right – like the first time we stand up or walk without help, or say Momma, Pappa, or Rumplestiltskin. 

Ash Wednesday, like most special days in a Church Calendar, is a teaching tool. It reminds us we are mortal. We know that, of course. We all reach an age where, at some point, we realize we are now closer to the exit of life than the entry. There’s nothing wicked or evil about that. It’s all part and parcel of the circle of life. The purpose of the Day is simply to remind us our days are numbered, yes, but they are also in God’s hands. 

“Thou art dust, and to dust shalt thou return.” God created us from the primal elements. All of us. Not just we “special” ones. All of us. There is nothing wrong with dirt, dust, or ashes. Try growing flowers without dirt. Dirt – soil – is the stuff we’re made of. Carl Sagan reminds us we are made of the “stuff of stars!” A lump of coal is nothing but dead wood waiting for the heat and pressure sufficient to transform it into a diamond. Ash Wednesday reminds us we are precious stones in the hands of a Master Jeweler.

Lent is a season that invites us all to ponder where we are in life, to take stock and ask if we are doing all we can to make this world a better place (and by “this world” I mean our family, neighborhood, and community – and, indeed, ourselves). 

I have never subscribed to “worm theology” – the idea we are unloved or unlovable or in need of punishment and burial. That simply leads us to ignore the greatness of the God who put us here to take care of creation and one another. Lent reminds us the days are getting longer. The love of God is growing warmer. We know it because we can feel it, see it, and experience it.

God calls us to rise from the ashes, like the Phoenix – to bring hope and healing here in this, our valley, so let’s get dirty; Happy Lent!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Prayer is Like a Boomerang

Do not drag me away with the wicked, with those who are workers of evil, who speak peace with their neighbors while mischief is in their hearts. (Psalm 28)

It is strange. I’ve never thought or worried about God “dragging me away with the wicked.” I’ve always assumed the wicked would be dragged away, of course. I’ve always assumed I would enjoy seeing “their” demise. It is always “they” who work evil; it is always “they” who speak peace out one side of their mouth while their hearts are plotting mischief of one sort or another.

That’s a pretty cynical view of life, though, isn’t it? I know I always want people to judge me by my intentions, which (by the way) are always gentle, noble, and kind. Right? And I want others to be judged by their actual deeds. I want you to look into my heart and see good, while I look at your actions and see mischief, evil, wickedness, and … You get the point.

I don’t know if the psalmist understood the irony of this psalm. He’s in trouble. He’s hurting. He’s beset by enemies; he prays to God for help, and also prays for God not to accidentally sweep him up with the wicked as they get whisked away into the dustbin of history. “Swing your battle axe swiftly and powerfully, but don’t get so carried away you forget I’m going to be in your line of fire at times” (if you’ll pardon the mix of metaphors).

I don’t think I have ever prayed for God to mow down my enemies. I’ve always thought of prayer as a sort of spiritual boomerang. You may have one target in mind as you throw it, but I’m a Card Carrying (and Life-time Member) of the Murphy’s Law Club. Those boomerangs tend to come back (unless having it come back is one’s intention, in which case it is my experience it won’t). I may “think” I want the heavy hand of judgment to fall on someone, but if it does, I suspect it will fall twice as hard on me for, you see, I’m not as pure as some of my poor readers may think I am.

I know. I know. You may feel I have veered off into science fiction, but it’s true. If you open up a can of worms, there is a good chance you’ll find I am squiggling around somewhere in it. I am neither bragging nor exercising false humility. I’m a human being; I know what I think; I know what I do; I know what I want; and it’s not always the best for me or for you.

So I don’t pray for God to come down on others. I prefer to pray the Golden Rule: “Do unto them, Lord, as I would want you to do unto me.” Why? Because judging the heart of another is above my paygrade. How do I know what’s in someone else’s heart? How can I know what they are going through? 

I know I have a very parochial view of life; I suspect all of us do. I’m one of the “good guys,” and everyone else is (naturally) on Inspector Clouseau’s list of evil-doers. But I also know my goodness is mixed in with other less-than-good stuff, thoughts, ideas, and actions. I know that trying to undo that mix is beyond my capacity. Whenever I try to untangle strands of spaghetti, I know I am going to end up with sauce on my clothes, face, glasses, and everywhere else. That is the nature of both spaghetti and spaghetti sauce. 

So it is important for me not to think of myself as better than I am, or others as worse than they are. Yes, there are some wicked people “out” there, but I suspect they are farther and fewer between than I would otherwise think. What’s important is to know that whatever we may be struggling with, it’s OK to be honest to God about it (like the psalmist), but once we get it off our chest, to let God be God and simply ask what sort of boomerang God would have us toss around here in this, our valley. As for me, I choose the Boomerang of Blessing.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Knit Wit

 "Teach me to walk in your way, O Lord, and I will walk in your truth ..." Psalm 86

It has been a tough week or two, hasn’t it? I don’t do political blather in this space, so don’t worry. I’m not going there. After all, I know what happened to Jesus when he got all political in his line of work.

We are, of course, political creatures. Sometimes the word “politics” gets bad press, but it really boils down to how we go about the business of getting along with one another with minimal bloodshed. Couples engage in politics when they try to decide between going to the ocean to enjoy some sun and surf, or go into the mountains to make their way along hiking trails, past mosquitoes, and on to waterfall overlooks on their vacations. 

Politics has to do with basic fairness, and making sure everybody’s voice is heard and every reasonable option discerned – and deciding what counts as a “reasonable” option (easier said than done). 

When Jesus told his disciples they were to love God with all their heart, he was making a political statement. He was reminding them there is more to life than accumulating riches or consuming goodies. To love God means coming to grips with the fact that there is something or someone bigger than us. Yes, it could be the Jewish/Christian/Muslim Creator God, or it could be the Universe’s Life Force, or simply a name for all energy and matter arranged in their peculiar manners, spinning around in all directions forever and ever. 

Whatever we call “God” is a reminder that I am not the boss of you, nor you of me – and Jesus suggests that’s both lovely and worth loving. Politics (not to be confused with partisanship) is how we respond to the idea there’s something bigger and more important than any one of us, while acknowledging a truth of equal weight, that each one of us is of infinite value and worth.

That’s why Jesus added that other wonderful text from the Hebrew Scriptures reminding us to love our neighbor as ourselves. He tells a really uncomfortable story we call the Parable of the Good Samaritan, which is less about the Samaritan doing something nice, and more about needing others and being needed. “Who proved to be neighbor,” he asks? “The one I’d rather be dead than have them touch me,” says the lawyer (glumly). 

Ouch! Politics makes for strange bed-fellows. But that’s the point. There’s only one bed, and we all have a place in it. Have you ever been on a trip – a vacation – and had four siblings squeezed into the back seat shoulder to shoulder (before mandatory seat-belt laws)? 

Talk about politics! My parents never settled arguments or fights. We could fight all we wanted as long as we followed two simple rules: No Bloodshed, and No Noise. If there was either of those, there would be both of those when the car came to a stop. So we learned to get along, make space, and not be irritable little twits so we could achieve a modicum of peace for the long haul (and believe me, Seattle to Chicago in the back of a 1965 Plymouth Fury III was a L-O-N-G haul).

What does the psalmist pray for during trying times? 

“Knit my heart to you (O Lord) … for you have delivered me from the depths.” I don’t mind asking God to knit my heart to the Divine, but what if that means knitting my heart to you, and you to me, and us to family, friend, neighbor, and even the “undocumented” who live in our land?

I could be wrong, but I don’t think God can knit our hearts to his without running skeins of yarn through people who may not look like us, think like us, or act like us. I don’t know much about knitting, but I know it requires someone with more skills and patience than me to pull it off – and the psalmist believes God is up to the task! 

If we will let God have her way with us, we may actually end up being a beautiful piece of non-partisan work in this, our valley. Knit on, O Lord, for this knit-wit comes unraveled far too easily!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Passion of Compassion

 "Compassion is the ability to see how it all is." Ram Dass

Mother Teresa once said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”  One of my goals for 2021 is to become more compassionate. That may not seem like much, but I got to thinking about how Covid-isolation has affected me, and in my meditations and contemplations it has occurred to me that I don’t have a good handle on how the pandemic is affecting others because in my isolation, I have simply lost touch with people outside of my “pod.”

I think many people are suffering from Covid-fatigue. I know when the pandemic first hit, we became hyper-vigilant. I was aware of every sneeze, cough, or physical sensation that seemed to line up with symptoms of the disease. I dutifully wore my mask whenever I went to the store, wiped down the trolleys with the sanitizing rags at the store entrances, and stopped buying fresh fruits and vegetables (because I didn’t dare lick my fingers to open those silly plastic bags they provide for fresh produce). When I got home I would bring in the groceries, wash my hands, put the groceries away, and wash my hands yet again.

Although I still mask up whenever I go to the store (and still don’t lick my fingers), I’m not nearly as fastidious with the wipes. I don’t wash my hands quite as vigorously or often as I once did. I avoid public spaces as best I can and have gotten used to not shaking hands with strangers or hugging friends and family.

We are told that touch is critical for good mental health, and I believe it. Although I am not a hugger by nature, I do like the customary niceties of shaking hands with people I am meeting for the first time or when conducting business. I miss giving and receiving hugs with close friends and family on social occasions (that are now so rare). My natural hugging circle has always been small, but today it is miniscule and far too tiny – and I am all the smaller for it.

When we get tinier, it seems our capacity to feel and empathize may also get smaller. We become like Tinker Bell who, being quite petite, was neither all good or all bad; she only had room for one feeling at a time. I’m beginning to feel that way, too. Sadly, it seems it is the nice feelings that got edged out first.

Thanksgiving came. I wanted to be thankful, but it came out with a Meh. Then came the pre-Christmas season of Advent and gift-buying, but my joy came out Bleh. Then Christmas Day and our Pod celebration. My soul experienced the “celebration” with an inner eye-roll. Even the cinnamon rolls didn’t sweeten my disposition (which was cleverly hidden by a well-practiced series of smiles, oohs, and ahs).

No, growing smallness tends to push away the nicer feelings, leaving room only for the grumps (with or without the letter g). As usual, when my emotions go awry, I’ve found the best solution is to take actions which give lie to those feelings, and replace them with an attitude one prefers to cultivate.

I believe God calls us to embrace one another both literally and figuratively, because God knows we need one another for both our physical, social, and spiritual well-being. Isolation makes me very selfish. How selfish? Well, I don’t even want to share that insight with you! Wow!!!

So when I am feeling selfish or close-hearted, I need to find ways to reach out beyond my own skin. I need to get out of my own skull (for that is one dark and dreary neighborhood). I need to talk to others and ask how they’re doing. I need to find ways to be of service. I need to stop whining (although, to be honest, I’m quite good at it) and simply do things that bring pleasure all around.

The fact is, life is good. I survived the pandemic; I survived 2020; a vaccine is en route (as will be hugs and handshakes). Compassion begets passion, and that’s good enough for me. I hope it will be good enough for you, too, here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When Worlds Collide

 

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye" Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I went into the bank a few years back to make a deposit and, as sometimes happens, an overly-friendly clerk invited me to her desk, saying, “Come over here; I can help you with that.” 

She was all smiles and full of good cheer, for which I was mostly not in the mood. I had a lot on my plate for the day and not a lot of time and I knew full well my deposit was not the focus of her agenda. Her goal was to help me discover all the ways I could save money, grow rich, and improve my lot in life by rearranging what can only laughingly be called my “portfolio” at the bank. 

Although her efforts cost me about five minutes more than what I would normally have spent, our time together was tolerable, and concluding our business I was able to return to my errands. 

Life is like that, though. We have our plans, the world has theirs; sometimes they run in parallel, and at other times they collide. Life happens; you tangle up and you tango on; right? 

The first Christmas was not much different. 

Mary and Joseph were most unremarkable – a typical Jewish couple. They lived in a small back-water town called Nazareth where nothing special was ever said to have happened. 

They were engaged to be married, but had not yet tied the knot. Joseph was a handyman; not much of a prize, really, but a decent enough sort of fellow. Mary’s folks were happy with the financial arrangement they had reached for giving her hand in marriage, so all was well. But then … scandal! 

Mary got pregnant. She was sent away to visit her relatives, to “help” Elizabeth – her kinswoman – who was also pregnant. She was sent away, but not soon enough. The people of Nazareth delighted in sharing local news and gossip, and news of Mary’s condition would give them things to talk about for decades yet to come – a very merry Christmas gift, indeed. 

I am sure that life, as Mary and Joseph received it from God, was very different from what they had dreamed or conceived of for themselves, but they trusted God was at work in all things and through all things, and so they accepted life on life’s terms. 

I don’t know if they felt they could actually say “No” to God, but they did choose to say “Yes” anyway, and consented to be the people God asked them to be: mother, father, nurturer, and protector. 

As I have gotten older, Christmas has lost some of its sense of magic and wonder. Life rolls merrily along. Business needs tending; things need to be done, but I don’t do them as quickly or as efficiently as I once did. I still whistle while I work, but not as often, and not as brightly as I did in the days of yore, but that’s OK. 

God did not create us to be quick and efficient workers, but to be visible and tangible signs of God’s presence in the world. There is nothing magical about reaching out to those in need, but there is something godly in it. There is nothing dramatically wondrous about spending time with those who are hurt or lonely, but there is something godly in it. 

Christmas, you see, is not a day, a season, or a feeling; it is the surprising presence of God in our midst. 

All the trappings of Christmas – the lights, the tinsel, the presents, the carols, the garland, the trees – they aren’t trappings; they’re traps. They divert our eyes and attention from all God calls us to be and to do: to be God-bearers, like Mary and Joseph – carrying God along on life’s journey. 

So, keep your eyes open to the works of God in the world all around you. God seeks a place to call home, a place within which to lay down his gifts of love, peace, true joy, and happiness. May God find in you a faithful “yes” in this, our valley. Keep whistling and have a Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

HOLIDAY LIGHTS

 

Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other (Psalm 85)

I woke up this morning realizing I haven’t heard something which, by now, I would normally have heard continuously for at least a month. I haven’t heard any Christmas music!

In quarantine for the pandemic, and for the safety, security, and health of my family, neighbors, and loved ones, I haven’t gone to the stores to do any shopping (beyond groceries). The local mall closed down last summer, so there is no holiday “hot spot” for getting into the feeding frenzy that passes for the Christmas season (which is actually Advent, but let’s not quibble here).

I record all the shows I want to watch on television at night, which means (don’t tell advertisers this, but …) it means I zap through the commercial breaks, so I haven’t heard any holiday music there either. It has made for a very pleasant season, to be honest. I love it, for I don’t care for most of that saccharine schmaltz that passes for “holiday” music. That means when we get to the genuine twelve days of Christmas (December 24 - January 6) we will actually be hearing the seasonal hymns for pretty much the first time this year!

That doesn’t mean all has been silent, quiet, dull, or boring, of course. But there have been changes. I have reached the age where I no longer want to climb ladders to string lights across the roofline. No one would ever confuse me with Clark Griswold (of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation fame), but I have usually made every effort to provide some holiday lighting on our block. This year, though, I decided against going high, and went low, instead. I put lights along the bushes, a lighted wreath above the garage, and our little, modest, pre-lit fake tree in the living room window, and called it a day (or a season).

I even followed instructions. One of my pet peeves about stringing lights along the roofline is the work involved (there are no easy hanging solutions in the world of light-put-uppery). Another is the fact that one string will always go out mid-season. There is no way to fix a string, and there is never a replacement string the same length. Every string is precut, sold, and guaranteed not to stretch the distance needed, or shine with the same luminosity as its neighboring strings.

My bush-net lights warn against attaching more than three nets together, so that’s what I did. I bought proper extension cords, powered all the light sets in their assigned groups of three, and all is well. When the sun goes down, the lights come on and, voila; Christmas cheer!

I have no doubt all the light sets I have bought over the years have similarly warned against connecting too many strings together, but following directions has never been my strong-suit. I am at the age now, however, where I actually take time to read the instructions, not so much because I like to read instructions, but because it gives me something to read between books.

No, it is a strange season we find ourselves traipsing through, but if we keep on walking, odds are we’ll make it out the other side just fine. Thinking about the silence has gotten me to thinking about pulling out some of those old holiday CDs and putting them on. I admit I don’t do streaming music or satellite music, or even radio music. I’m sort of fussy. I know what I like, which is why I have those CDs, and I know how I like to play them. I’d prefer playing vinyl records, but alas my player no longer works.

I’m not really an old stick-in-the-mud, but I am set in my ways with some things, and music is just one of those things. It is in the silence I can hear the Spirit; it is in the quiet I can find peace. It is in righteousness I can find mercy; and it is in mercy I can find the breath of God blowing ever so sweetly here in this, our valley.

GIVING THANKS

 

When it was getting late, the disciples came to Jesus and said, “This is a desert place, and it is getting late; dismiss the people …” (Mark 6)

I am not a thankful person in the ordinary course of life. I do not stroll through the wilderness like Snow White, singing to the bunnies and butterflies. I do not make like Sister Maria, romping over the mountains and hills while belting out tunes in the Sound of Music.

No, I mostly schlump my way through life doing the things that need to be done. I don’t think about them, and I certainly don’t sing about them, either. I’ve never headed out to handle a task whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go …” If I am inspired to sing or whistle, it is more likely to be the menacingly martial music of the soldiers marching around the witch’s castle in the Wizard of Oz.

However, be that as it may, I also know the importance of being thankful. It is the fuel that powers the engine of joy.

I may play the curmudgeon or grump, but I’m not really either of those things. Neither am I Happy the Dwarf or Sleepy, the somnambulant little person. No, I’m just an ordinary duffer taking life one day at a time, coasting more than is probably good for me. Coasting has its place, but it’s probably not the best way to make a positive impact on the world in which we live. Meteors coasting through space crash into the planet all the time. Ask the dinosaurs what they think about coasting, eh?

No, coasting has its place, but I have found it much better for health of body and soul to keep on moving, and to do so with positive energy. That positive energy comes from an attitude of gratitude. Some may think that thankfulness needs to spring up spontaneously, the way it does when one finds a $5 bill lying on the ground when out for a walk. That isn’t thanksgiving, though, as much as it is serendipity – that happy feeling one gets when something delightful happens.

Now, one can certainly cultivate a garden of gratitude if one is in the habit of planting seeds of delight in the world they inhabit. A woman walked past me the other day at the store, recognized me from church (which has been a virtual experience these past seven months or so) and said, “Hey, I’m so happy to see you! You can’t tell (with my mask), but I’m smiling!”

I smiled (through my mask as well) and said, “I see your smile; It’s in your eyes. You couldn’t hide it if you tried!”

My heart leapt for joy. One can curse the mask for the inconvenience it may cause (less inconvenient than a respirator, but that’s just my opinion), or one may find delight in seeing (and recognizing) a neighbor. Either response is there for the taking. I know which one the curmudgeon in me wants to grab a-hold of, but I’ve found that choosing joy is so much more pleasant for me and for those around me.

It seems so easy, and yet it also seems hard. Why is it when I know gratitude makes me feel good, and irritation makes me feel like heck I should find myself reaching for the rusty ring of perdition? Who knows? Maybe it’s because I am Swedish; maybe it’s because I am human. Either way, I have a choice, and over the years, I’ve learned to reach for the golden ring of thanksgiving (over the lousy loopy of p**py).

Naturally, each of us will need to decide how we will approach the holidays during the pandemic. Some will choose to darn the torpedoes and move full speed ahead. Others will choose to isolate and pray (with some bitterness) that next year will be better and brighter. Still others will decide to be thankful they’ve made it this far, and rejoice.

Happiness, it turns out, is in our hands. I’ll continue to mask up and smile. I’ll continue to wash my hands often (and well). I’ll continue to keep my distance and isolate, for love of God and country. And I’ll do it all in thanksgiving for all of you here in this, our valley.