Best books of 2010

Hal gave me a Kindle for Christmas. We had been discussing whether or not to take the plunge with this new technology, and now we’ve done it. I’m trying to get used to it, and I can already see that this will never replace the feel of a real book in my hands. But it has its advantages. This will definitely allow us to travel lighter, and we travel a lot. And I appreciate how gently the larger print treats my eyes. The first book I uploaded was a free copy (imagine that!) of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, a book I’ve been meaning to re-read, and I feel like I’m flying through it, partly because my eyes don’t burn. A detail, but an important detail for my future with books.

But now, a look at the past: 2010. I love reading other people’s list of favorite books and movies, and their recommendations lead me down exciting paths. So, here’s my list. The year 2010 refers to the books I read last year, not books that were published during the year. These are not in any particular order.

Mary Doria Russell, The Sparrow (1996) and Children of God (1998): Fiction. I read these novels at the recommendation of my friend, David Gilmore, and was delighted at the quirky coming together of science fiction and mission theory. These chronicle the improbable missionary adventures of Father Emilio Sanchez (and company) as he attempts to spread the gospel among the alien population of a distant planet. The books treat serious issues, such as how to communicate the gospel and plant churches while respecting the culture of the recipients. They also deal with the redemptive suffering of God’s servants. Plus, the story itself is gripping.

Geraldine Brook, March (2005): Fiction. The other side of Little Women, this story follows the father of the March girls to the Civil War and gives an inside view of the horrors of war.

Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, The Gurnesy Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2009). Fiction. Another insider view of war, this novel in letter form narrates life during the German occupation of Gurnesy, an island in the English Chanel. It also shows the power of great literature to give insight and meaning to life in difficult times. This was one of my favorite books last year.

Alan Patton, Cry the Beloved Country (1942): Fiction. One of my all time favorite books, I again wept at this story of a family in the throes of cultural upheaval, a story of suffering, loyalty, love and transformation.

George MacDonald, The Tutor’s First Love and The Lady’s Confession: Fiction. Hal and I read these aloud, enjoying the simple old-fashioned tales and MacDonald’s insights into how the fruits of the Spirit are fleshed out in God’s sons and daughters.

Greg Mortenson, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan (2009): Non-fiction. Again we found ourselves moved by Mortenson’s quiet, behind-the-scene attempts to build peace through education in this difficult place.

Evelyn Underhill, Concerning the Inner Life (1926): Devotional. This is a book I want to read at least once a year. Underhill beautifully integrates contemplative and intercessory prayer, showing how our loving worship of God leads to missional involvement with God’s purposes in the world.

Eugene Peterson, Practice Resurrection: A Conversation of Growing Up in Christ (2010): Theology, spirituality. An encouraging journey through the book of Ephesians, unfolding a spiritual theology of the church. Peterson gives me courage to stick it out, to see the glorious Reality of the church behind all the disturbing realities of whatever local congregation we happen to be involved in. A key insight is that the local church is God’s chief means for bringing transformation, both on the personal and on the broader cultural levels.

Luis Cruz Villalobos, Brevemente y más (2010): Poetry, Spanish. Luis Cruz Villalobos of Chile is becoming one of my favorite Latin American poets. Chile has produced some of the best poets (Pablo Neruda, Gabriela Mistral, José Miguel Ibáñez), so Luis stands in good company. This is his first published volume as a “real book,” although he has published widely on the Internet (http://www.benditapoesia.webs.com/).

Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems (1979-1997): Poetry. Wendell Berry always feeds my spirit. I’ve put a line from one of these poems by my desk: “When we work well, a Sabbath mood/ Rests on our day, and finds it good.”

Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross (2001): Theology, spirituality. A profound study that finds Paul’s spirituality and missiology to be rooted in the cross, both as exemplified in Christ and as lived out in Christ’s servants today. Gorman presents a missional spirituality of suffering and service that is paradoxically joyful. My Mennonite friends Mark and Mary Thiessen Nation recommended this book.

Dave Eggers, What Is the What (2006). Autobiography/Fiction. I picked this out in an airport bookstore and was not disappointed, although it’s definitely not easy reading. It’s the fictionalized true story of Valentino Achak Deng, one of the “lost boys” of Darfur. It’s impactful because it gives a human face to the suffering in the Sudan.

I read many other books in 2010, and I’m sure that after I post this, I’ll think of another one that should be on the favorites list. I blogged about some of these earlier in the year (eg.,Children of Fate, The Peaceable Kingdom, The Essentials of Orthodox Spirituality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being). I would love to hear about your favorites.

Celtic invocation

Hal and I have been using the Celtic Daily Prayer book this past year.  The invocation at the beginning of the book is a powerful and beautiful prayer.  I pass it on to you.


INVOCATION

Most powerful Holy Spirit,
   come down
      upon us
and subdue us.

From heaven
   where the ordinary
      is made glorious
   and glory seems
but ordinary,

bathe us
   with the brilliance
   of Your light
like dew.

From Bolivian mud

Lord God Almighty, Powerful King,
   Maker and Mover of mountains
   and universes,
we're stuck in a river.
We've been here for over an hour
   and what I want to know is--
   why don't you get us out?
Sure, the scenery is great,
   but I'll bet it's just as pretty
   'round the bend.
Those mountains--
   you raised them up from nothing
   with a mere creative word.
Why are you mute now?
Speak, Lord, and resurrect this hunk
   of steel, fiber glass and rubber
   from its muddy grave.
Move, miracle worker, feeder of 5000,
   elemental wine maker, curer,
   creator.
I know you can do it.
After all, I'm here on your business.

But here I sit.

Could it be
   you're trying to tell me something,
   something I can only hear
   from this river bed?

Could it be
   you have your reasons and lessons
   and character sessions
   better learned mid-stream
   than mid-church service?
OK, Lord,
   I give in.

Pardon my griping
   and teach me
   what I need to know.
In all of this
   I'm still your
   wet but
   willing servant.



(From The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas, Barclay Press, 2005)

Quaker business and the silence of God

After years of sitting through Quaker business meetings Latin American style, I am currently experiencing the practices, policies and quirks of doing things in the older traditional Quaker way, US style (and, presumably, European as well). For the most part, I’m drawn to what I see—the focus on waiting on God and seeking God’s will, on genuinely listening to each other, even all the language and formalities that at times seem so, well, old-fashioned. And the time all this can take. There’s a sweet seriousness about it that I sense pleases God.

But it doesn’t always work as smoothly as it’s supposed to.

I’m currently an elder in my congregation. A year ago in the midst of a budget crunch, the congregation gave the elders the task of coming up with some creative alternatives for the configuration of our pastoral team. This deepened into a visioning process that involved the whole congregation asking such questions as who are we and why has God placed us in this particular place at this specific time. The focus on the calling, as well as on the needs of the church, was to guide us elders to a proposal for our pastoral team.

So we have been meeting regularly for over a year now, usually with our three pastors, occasionally without them. Without going into the particulars that have made this into such a complex task, let me just say that it’s proved to be daunting. When we finally presented a proposal to the October business meeting, I was tempted to jokingly label it “Revision #467.” And now we see that our church body is finding it just as frustrating. After three business meetings (and more revisions) it seems like we are making little headway to a contented “sense of the meeting,” other than “this is really hard.”

I believe that God speaks to his people, that he reveals his will. And I know that this sometimes takes time, especially as we emphasize the community nature of discernment. During the year I’ve occasionally taken God to task, saying, “OK. So what is it? Tell us. Show us your plan. It’s time.” But for some reason, God is not speaking clearly to us, at least in terms of a plan for the pastoral team configuration. This has not been easy for the congregation, the elders, and, particularly, for the three dear people that have served us well as our released pastors. So, why the silence on God’s part?

But even in the middle of all this, I’ve sensed the presence of God. While silent, God has not been absent. A few months into the process I began to wonder if God might be telling us that the particulars of the plan were not as important as the process, that he wanted us to use our minds, to listen well, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time necessary.

Then one night I had a dream. (Let me say here that my life among Latin American Friends has helped me be open to dreams as one of the ways God speaks to us. If the dream is of a certain quality and if it stays with me in detail after I wake up, I pay attention.) In the dream I entered the sanctuary at the end of a Sunday morning worship service. People remained in the room, some seated, some standing in small groups, quietly talking or just holding the silence together. No one seemed in a hurry to leave. I asked a friend what was going on, and he replied that the Spirit of God had been so present to the body that they all wanted to stay awhile and bask in the love and warmth. Our pastors were part of the congregation; it was not evident which one had been leading the meeting.

I sense that the Spirit wants to bless us, move among us, and use us in greater measure. And I sense that this does not depend on the configuration of the pastoral team, as important as that is. When I shared this in the business meeting, there was agreement and encouragement. I sense consensus in that basic Quaker (and Christian) value—that there is One, Christ Jesus, who can meet our need, that Jesus is among us to be our pastor and teacher, that he wants us to deepen in this reality. And I sense consensus that we are a community, the people of God in this place, and that it matters that we continue to listen to each other, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time to work out whatever plan we come up with. We may never agree on all the details, and that may not be so important. We may all have to give and take some, to practice mutual submission, to lay down personal preferences. Uniformity on details is not what Quaker practice is all about. At least not always.

It probably won’t happen in this situation. I certainly wish for a speedy end to this continuing saga. On a certain level I would still like for God to just give us The Plan. Maybe another dream, with the actual blueprint? But no. That’s not going to happen. In some mysterious way, what is really happening among us is probably deeper and better than we could imagine.

Yesterday as I was praying (pleading, actually), three metaphors came to mind, coming from three poems that have ministered to me many times. I won’t quote the poems here (maybe in another blog), but the metaphors alone are apt. One is Arthur Robert’s poem, “Our Winter Is a Foggy Drive.” Another is William Stafford’s “Travelling through the Dark.” And finally, a poem I wrote about being stuck in a river, entitled “From Bolivian Mud.” They all speak of slowly working (or driving) our way through difficult circumstances where the silence of God is the loudest sound around.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us, your people. Show us the way. Amen

Praying through chaos

Prayer is the most important thing I/we do. It is also the thing I feel least skillful at doing. These reflections are in part a response to Johan Maurer’s recent blogs on the topic (“Experimenting with prayer” and “More on prayer”). I write as a fellow-struggler in prayer, not an expert (such a nasty little word!), and I invite others to share their insights and struggles, because this is so important.

I write at a time in which I find myself in the middle of more crisis situations that is reasonable for one person to bear. And so I find myself throughout the day praying the Jesus Prayer in its briefest form, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy!” (Mercy on me, on whomever I am praying for at the moment, on different situations, and so on.)

Last Sunday (a week ago now) in unprogrammed worship, I got some insight on how to expand this cry to God. The centering Scripture for our worship was Psalm 136, that ancient liturgical prayer with its repeated refrain, “His mercies never cease.” So all this past week, to my cries for mercy I have added the affirmations of the psalmist. And, while I still sense the weight of the burdens I bear, a small and hopeful lightness has come into my prayers.

As I pray over impossible situations, I often find myself meditating on that mysterious image of creation in the first few verses of Genesis—the Spirit of God hovering over the chaos and darkness, waiting for God to say, “Let there be light.” I ask for the same Spirit to lovingly hover over whatever chaos I am holding up to him. I imagine the Spirit hovering over specific people and situations. I ask him to hover over Pakistan and Afghanistan. I ask him to hover over me.

Most of all, I pray the Lord’s Prayer, understanding that at its heart is the cry for the kingdom of God to be made manifest in the specific circumstances of life. It is asking that the future fullness of the kingdom come into the chaos and confusion of this present moment. I barely understand what I am doing as I sit in my chair praying this way. It’s audacious, almost arrogant. I’m sometimes asking for impossible miracles. And I just sit there, wearing ordinary clothes, sipping coffee, petting my cat and praying these extravagant prayers. What right do I have? Shouldn’t I at least be wearing a crash helmet? Shouldn’t I be more afraid?

Yes, probably.

I’m hesitant to write and post this. I have not been an exemplary pray-er. These past few weeks I have staggered through my prayers, sometimes sensing mostly desperation. The cry for mercy has been constant, especially when I don’t know what else to say to God.

Oh yes, there’s that other biblical prayer, straight from the mouths of the often befuddled disciples: “Lord, teach us to pray.” Yes, Lord, please do that. Amen.

Spirituality and small children

For the past month I have not written regularly in this blog. Nor have I faithfully followed my usual spiritual disciplines. Prayer and silence have been scarce. And it all has to do with the intimate increase of children in my life.

My grandmotherly “duties” have clicked in big time. Of the past 30 days, I have spent 23 of them as a live-in grandma. While this is a privilege I relish, it also takes its toll. I do this alongside my work of being associate director and professor in a semi-virtual graduate school of theology for Latin Americans.

For two years now, I have been giving our daughter and her family one week out of every month. Kristin lives in a town two hours from us, so this means I pack my bags and move into Paige’s room. Kristin’s kids are 2, 5, and 8 years old, and they seem to be excited to see me each time I come. Spending time with them releases some of the pressure on Kristin and allows her to advance in her online courses. She is working on a graduate degree in special education, focusing on children with visual disabilities. (Her two boys are visually impaired.)

This is a special year for us in that our son David and his family are home on missionary furlough from Rwanda. They are living right here in our town. Their four kids are 8, 12, 14, and 15 years old. When David and Debby travel to report to their supporting churches, we stay with the kids. Since we don’t see them that often, we gobble up this opportunity to be a part of their lives.

Right before my last trip to be with Kristin’s family, I asked the small group I meet with to pray specifically that I would be able to find some kind of routine of spiritual disciplines appropriate for my time there. But somewhere in the middle of the week, I noticed that it just wasn’t happening. As I was considering this, a thought came to me and I recognized it as the voice of Jesus. He said, “Nancy, what you are giving to your children and grandchildren is a spiritual practice of devotion. I accept it as worship to me.” I felt immediate relief and joy.

I’m back home now, for a week, and I do enjoy the freedom to manage my time and have adult conversations. That’s one of the privileges of this stage of life. One of the challenges is the temptation to look back and wonder, “Did we make a solid contribution? Did it matter that we lived and worked in these particular ways?” Probably, yes, it did matter. I’m slowly learning to leave the results of my life in God’s hands and just rest in his presence.

But Hal and I agree that, however our life’s work will be judged or evaluated, the time we’re investing right now in the lives of our grandchildren is one thing, at least, that we’re getting right.

The unbearable lightness vs. the weight of glory

I recently read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, partly because some fellow poets recommended it and partly because I love the title and was curious to find out what it meant. Written by Czech writer Milan Kundera in 1982, the novel takes place against the backdrop of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in the 1960s and follows the lives of a man and the two women in his life. I found it to be a dark little book, depressing to read. I almost didn’t finish it, but I always seem to chug through until the end, hoping for some redeeming value. The “lightness of being” refers to the insubstantiality of life without ultimate purpose and of relationships without commitment. And this lightness is, indeed, unbearable.

As I was reading and reflecting, a contrasting phrase from the title of one of C. S. Lewis’ essays came to mind: “the weight of glory.” Of course, this comes originally from the apostle Paul who wrote to encourage the believers in Corinth: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all [“an eternal weight of glory” in other translations]. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Cor. 4:16-18).

Milan Kundera does speak truth, and I’m glad I finished the book. It’s just that he doesn’t know that the story has an alternate ending. I’m again impressed with the significance, the weight, of the gospel.

Another book I almost put down and then didn’t is Mary Karr’s Lit (2009). I checked it out of the library because I love memoirs by writers, especially poets. But again I found myself inside a very dark book. Slugging through the abusive childhood memories, the disastrous adolescent choices, the marriage that had “Danger!” stamped all over it from the beginning, I was tempted to just put it down. I happened to mention this to a friend at church, another lover of good literature, and she strongly encouraged me to keep reading. I did and was thoroughly surprised to find Karr’s tale turn into a conversion story, much in the same spirit as Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies. The unbearable lightness exchanged for the weight of glory.

Since this is turning into a review of recent books read, let me mention the three I’m in the middle of now. (Two are non-fiction and one is a novel. I can only read one novel at a time.) Hal and I are reading together Greg Mortenson’s second book, Stones into Schools (2009), and find ourselves moved and encouraged by this man’s labor of love in setting up schools for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan. In the early mornings I am slowly reading through Eugene Peterson’s Practice Resurrection (2010), the fifth book in his series on spiritual theology. Peterson’s book is a commentary on Ephesians, a spiritual reflection on the Reality of the church (as opposed to the reality of the church, what we see and struggle with on a human level) and how to live in the light of this Reality. And I’m just beginning the novel In the Time of the Butterflies (1995), partly to accompany my granddaughter who is reading it for her high school Latin American literature class, and partly because I’ve enjoyed other books by Julia Alvarez.

What would I do without good books? I’d enjoy hearing what you’re reading.