Custom-tailoring the disciplines

It seems a bit risky to blog about the spiritual disciplines, as though I’m saying, “This is what I do; read and learn.” I don’t mean that; I don’t even dare suggest it. For me the spiritual disciplines are both a joy and a struggle, and struggle often has the upper hand. But I believe the disciplines are vital for a healthy relationship with God, so I’m committed to the struggle (accepting the joy whenever it surprises me). Writing helps to solidify the gains and clarify the growth points.

The list of possible spiritual disciplines grows every time I read a new book on the subject. That alone discourages. But somewhere along the way I learned the importance of custom-tailoring the disciplines, finding the specific practices that best help me walk with Jesus. In some way or other these match my personality or my situation in life. Some writers refer to a “rule of life,” a term that has monastic roots. Since I squirm under the word “rule,” and since practicing the disciplines can so easily become legalistic, I don’t use that term, but the meaning may approximate what I do.

I’ve recognized five basic disciplines that probably will a part of my life until I die. These are the spiritual exercises I intentionally practice every day/week, in some form or other: engagement with Scripture, prayer, writing, memorization and gratitude. I will write on each of these separately over the next several weeks.

Behind the whole concept of the disciplines, I see the amazing New Testament message that God calls us into partnership, whether for the fulfillment of God’s mission in the world or for our own personal transformation.  I see the exercise of the disciplines as doing my part in this partnership with God for my formation and growth. I do my part and that puts me in the path of grace, God’s part.  Of course grace seems to come whether or not I do my part (which is why we call it grace), but somehow my faithfulness opens me to whatever God wants to do.  It helps me recognize and receive the grace. Transformation and grace are what God does.

It’s not a magic formula. It’s a mystery. I just want to get closer to it. Closer to Jesus.

I need the Spirit’s help to be faithful. And I need the Spirit’s help to keep legalism from creeping in. I need the help of my friends (one of the main ways the Spirit helps me), spiritual partners who keep me accountable. 

In my practice of the disciplines, I have good weeks and I have crummy weeks. I’m learning to go easy on myself (which doesn’t sound much like “discipline,” but if I can’t forgive myself, who will?  Oh, yes. God will. Ok. But it’s still a good thing for me to do, too.)

It looks like I need to discipline myself now and bring this to a close. To be continued. I’d love to hear about others’ custom-tailored spiritual disciplines.

At the end of my rope

The cliché, “at the end of my rope,” was graphically illustrated for me by a Netflix movie I watched the other night. It’s not one I would have chosen. Hal and I were in Springfield to help Jon and Kristin re-shingle the roof, a gigantic end-of-the-rope task whose successful execution was made possible by the small army of volunteers that showed up, among whom were ourselves. But we did it, plus a few other tasks. We decided to relax with a movie Tuesday night, and the men chose the “adventure” category. (Kristin and I, left to ourselves, would have opted for “romance.”)

We came up with “North Face,” a blind choice about mountain climbers. A German film, complete with subtitles, it portrayed the true story of four young men who attempted a difficult peak in the Alps in the early 1940s, all to the honor of Hitler and the Cause. They didn’t make it, and one of the final scenes showed the remaining climber literally dangling in the freezing air from the end of his rope while his girlfriend, part of the rescue party, clung to the side of the cliff watching him slowly turn black and die. Her tears froze to her face. So did mine, even though it’s summer here.

That image continues to spin in the spaces inside my head. I’m facing several situations that, while not quite so dramatic, make me feel at the end of my rope. One has to do with young Peter, my four-year-old autistic grandson. I spent most of my time this week with Peter and his siblings, while Hal played around on the roof. As he grows older, Peter’s autism seems to manifest in stronger forms. Or maybe it’s just the combination of the condition with the normally strong will of a four-year-old who is learning to test the limits. We’re learning, too. We’re learning how to work with him to help him develop life skills and relational abilities. But sometimes I wonder if I don’t over compensate for the autism, and let him get away with things I wouldn’t tolerate in his brother or sister. I narrowly averted several meltdowns this week, and this leaves me exhausted. I love him, and I sometimes feel like I don’t know how to help him. Am I the one dangling at the end of the rope or the one on the cliff with frozen tears on her face? (Just putting it that way makes me laugh at myself. I feel perspective returning. I’m really nowhere near that cliff, but I am perplexed and troubled.)

The other end-of-the-rope situation has to do with our up-coming trip to Bolivia. We leave in two weeks and we are far from ready. I’ve dangled from this particular cliff before, and I should be used to it. But I’m not. By invitation of the Bolivian Friends Church we will be facilitating a consultation on the gospel and Aymara culture. It’s a crucial theme at this time in Bolivia’s history with an indigenous revitalization movement in full swing and pressure on Aymara Christians to return to the old ways, offer the sacrifices to mother earth and engage in numerous animistic practices. Some respond by capitulating. Others by completely rejecting their traditional culture. A few are finding ways to be Aymara and, at the same time, follow Jesus. This, of course, is the path we want to encourage our brothers and sisters to explore.

The consultation is to be a two-weekend intensive time to gather around the Scriptures, consider the values of the context, weigh the challenges, and prayerfully find healthy ways forward. Several institutions are co-sponsoring the event, with Hal leading and coordinating. While this is the area he has been working in for years (even doing a doctoral dissertation), we don’t feel ready. It’s been hard to virtually coordinate our team, and we’re probably looking at a lot of last-minute face-to-face assembling of the program. That makes us nervous.

Since starting this blog and finishing it, we ate breakfast and read Colossians 1. We decided to read and pray the book of Colossians these next few weeks as a means of spiritual preparation. I again find my perspective shifting. Rather than focus all this nervous energy on getting ourselves prepared, we will lift up our beloved Aymara brothers and sisters, using the words of Paul’s prayer: We are “asking God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual understanding. And we pray this in order that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light.”

Of course we will do the hard work of study and preparation, but finding the right perspective makes all the difference.

We’re nowhere near that dangling rope.

 Note: Several months ago I came to the realization that for me writing is a spiritual discipline. It’s one of the ways (along with prayer and the Scriptures) that I do my part toward spiritual maturity, so that the Holy Spirit will do her part. This morning’s blog illustrates that. I literally wrote my way from the end of that rope to insight and hope.

Conversation with Hal on waste removal

On the way home
from our early morning walk,
Hal pointed to the vacant lot
across the street, drawing
my attention to a Black Thing
resting in the weeds.
He asked, “Is that a crow
or a cat?” “Or a garbage
bag?” I wondered out
loud, adding to the list
of Mysteries. I was half-way
convinced of my own perspective,
when the garbage
bag levitated, twitched
its tail, and casually
ambled off. “Too bad
it really wasn’t a garbage
bag,” I offered. “You’re crazy,”
wasn’t spoken out loud,
but he said it nonetheless. “Look
at it this way,” I posited.
“What an option this
would give us for waste
removal. Just say to the trash,
‘Go there,’ and it would arise
and go, without expensive
vehicles or the cost
of personnel. Just think.”
He conceded my point with a grin
as we, imitating the garbage
bag, ambled on home.

Yearly meeting reflections

Last night’s banquet officially closed the 2012 NWYM annual sessions, six days of deliberation, and discernment, with some celebration to help us focus on Jesus. In spite of good food, great fellowship and lots of laughter, I slipped out of the banquet room early and got my over-stimulated, introverted self home and into some refreshing silence. In retrospect, I see much to rejoice over.

--Our focus on prayer this year included 50 days of preparation as people throughout the yearly meeting covenanted to pray for the sessions, Becky’s passionate preaching every night, and several good workshops, one of which I facilitated. 

--Four workshops this year provided good support for writers as they focused on different aspects of growing as publishers of truth. Two of these had to do with writing on the Internet, not surprisingly.

--I also noticed a strong focus on mission, with new efforts to expand Quaker presence, service and witness in Russia, the Middle East, and North Africa. A highlight was the appointment of Elizabeth Todd to pave the way for some kind of long-term service in the Middle East, using the Friends School in Ramallah as a starting point for the discernment process.  (“Discernment” and “process” were words I heard a lot this week.) Another personal highlight was my appointment to the support team (“Global Outreach sub-committee” is the official term) for the work in Russia. I see Friends open and eager to partner with God in God’s mission in the world.

I felt personally affirmed and stimulated in my callings to pray, write, and participate in cross-cultural mission.

--We addressed the issue of human sexuality through small group discussions, with the understanding that this issue would not come to the floor of the meeting this year. I was only able to attend on Tuesday, and due to confusion with room numbers, I got lost and couldn’t find my assigned group. But several of us lost ones gathered and made our own group. People were open, willing to share their views and willing to listen. That’s good. All of us agree that we need to love all people, and that the church needs to be a hospitable place for all. But I’m sensing a growing polarization of those who feel open to bless homosexual unions and those who feel that this runs counter to a basic scriptural theology of human beings. Both ends of the continuum—and there are many of us in the middle—claim scriptural support and testify that listening to Christ has brought them to their position. Even though we’re trying to listen, these positions seem to be solidifying.

I confess that this keeps me awake at night. I confess that I alternate between trust that God will lead us and fear for our yearly meeting.

One thing that was life-giving, a small thing perhaps, was a perspective Gil and Louise George presented in their workshop on praying according to God’s will. They had prepared this before the controversy on human sexuality arose, and basically shared from their own experience in life situations not related to this issue. But the application that Gil shared, and that has proved so helpful to me this week, was the need to release to God our own strong positions on this (or any) issue, confessing our ignorance and asking God to teach and lead us.

Even with this heavy issue on everyone’s mind, I’m thankful that our sessions centered more on prayer and mission. I’m thankful for my faith community, the family of Friends.

From illegal alien to Comfort Cat

I never meant to commit a crime. The situation crept up on me. We knew the rules. And while we didn’t like the by-law that prohibits normal pets, we wanted to live here, so we agreed to abide by the law. The non-normal pets that are allowed require that the resident have a certified disability and a doctor willing to state in writing that a pet would help her patient cope with life. We had no such disability and no such doctor. Or so we thought.

Two years ago our son and family came home for a year’s break from their overseas assignment. The rental they moved into not only came furnished, it came with cats. Two of them. In spite of my daughter-in-law’s allergy to cats, the kids were so excited, their loving parents decided to see if it might work out. Anything to help them adjust to life in the United States.

One night David called me, saying, “Debby can’t take it anymore. I’m bringing Spencer over right away.”

What could we do? It was clearly an emergency situation. Of course we couldn’t keep the cat. By-laws are by-laws, and we had pledged obedience with our signatures. But in a time of need, one simply has to step forward.

So Spencer moved in. Spencer is a long-haired yellow cat with an affectionate nature. Although he spent the first three days and nights under our bed, once he came out, we bonded. We changed his name to Chiri after a beloved yellow beast in our past (it means “cat” in the Quechua language), and that name change alone should have warned me.

Several months went by, and I occasionally noticed we were not doing anything about finding Chiri a legal home. We didn’t try to hide him. The living room window sill was a favorite perch, right in full view of our community. While no one said anything for a long time, we knew they saw him there.

Chiri has some charming qualities. In the early morning hours, after I get my cup of coffee and settle in my easy chair, he crawls up onto my chest, stretches out and begins to purr. Loudly. He occasionally looks directly into my eyes. Nose to nose. That’s not my favorite part; his nose is always wet and cold. But it’s a sweet gesture. We do our morning meditations together.

He tries to be helpful in ways I don’t always appreciate, but I honor his good intentions. For example, in a strange penchant for neatness he loves to bat small objects off the coffee table and the bedside stands. Pens, pencils, cough drop wrappers, notes written on small pieces of paper, etc., these he helpfully shoves to the floor, thus tidying up the room. Somewhat.

And he has become my self-appointed alarm clock. He sleeps on the end of our bed and loves it that I get up early. But on those occasions when I’m not up by 5:30, he comes right up, sticks his cold nose into my face and begins the loud purr. If I shove him off, he comes back until I get up. Sometimes I think it’s cute. Sometimes I don’t.

At any rate he’s squiggled his way into our lives, and we like having him around.

So.

We knew we couldn’t indefinitely go on breaking the rule. We decided we’d like to approach the community about a change in the by-laws, and that might happen someday, maybe even this year. In the meantime, we needed to do something more immediate. A friend in the community suggested that if we approached it right, we might be able to get our doctor’s signature and begin the process of legalization. So we decided that our “disability” was that we are human beings, and that an affectionate relationship to animals does indeed help us cope with life. We wrote up a letter according to a form we found and presented it to our doctor. She laughed and gladly signed it. And without comment, our community association passed a minute declaring that Chiri is now an official Comfort Cat.

If anyone ever refers to him as a Therapy Cat, I will have to start taking appointments because he’s really good at what he does.

Ladies and other unskillful persons

I love dictionaries. I love to just open one to any random page and make choice discoveries. My all-time favorite is the Oxford English Dictionary. Fortunately I live close enough to a university library to be able to browse at my heart’s content.

Right now I am re-reading that fascinating book by Simon Winchester, The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary (1998). Among other fascinating facts and anecdotes, Winchester provides some of the history of English dictionaries. (I realize this may not be fascinating to everybody, but it is to me.)

We learn that in 1604, a schoolmaster named Robert Cawdrey published “the very first true monolingual English dictionary,” thus providing “a pivotal moment in the history of English lexicography.” (Now, is that fascinating or what?) It was a small book with only some 2500 entries that didn’t attempt to cover the field. He entitled it A Table Alphabeticall…of hard unusual English Words.

The quote from the preface that I want to share has less to do with a fascination for dictionaries than with cultural attitudes toward women. In the preface to his dictionary of hard words, Crawdrey notes that the book is chiefly “for the benefit & help of Ladies, gentlewomen or any other unskilful persons, Whereby they may more easilie and better vunderstand many hard English wordes, which they shall heare or read in the Scriptures, Sermons or elsewhere, and also be made able to vse the same aptly themselves.”

If it weren’t so funny, I’d probably be mad.

I’m glad I live in the 21^st century.

PNWQWTC in retrospect

PNWQWTC—now that’s a mouthful of letters that almost defeats the purpose of acronyms. Its meaning is equally impressive; it refers to the Pacific North West Quaker Women’s Theology Conference, another mouthful. The trick is to say it all without having to stop for a breath.

Actually, I was quite impressed, and I found myself frequently stopping to take a breath, wanting to absorb everything. It’s now been several weeks since my participation in the conference. I arrived with great anticipation, but not knowing what to expect. Although these conferences have been happening every two years since 1995, this was my first time.

On June 13-17, 2012, 62 women mostly from the North Pacific Yearly Meeting (unprogrammed) and North West Yearly Meeting (programmed) gathered at the Menucha Conference Center in northern Oregon, overlooking the Columbia River. We spent the time listening, talking, eating and playing together around the theme of “Inviting, Contemplating and Enacting Grace.”  Highlights for me included the following:

--Making new friends. I was worried my natural shyness might kick into full force among so many people I didn’t know, but something about this particular gathering encouraged openness and honest interactions. I not only made new friends, I found some kindred spirits.

--Listening to the Spirit speak through so many people. Each day considered a particular aspect of grace, with two plenary speakers, and enough time to hold the words in the silence and respond verbally. I felt my understanding of and appreciation for God’s amazing grace expand.

--Home groups. We were all carefully placed in small groups that met every day to further discuss the topic, get to know one another, share needs and dreams, tell stories, pray, and, in the case of my home group, laugh. A lot. I loved the way we learned to move gracefully between laughter and silent waiting.

--The place. Not only the comfortable accommodations and good food, but the natural setting nourished me. Every day I was able to get up early, walk alone in the woods, and watch the sun come up over the Columbia River.

--Getting to contribute. I was invited to give the Sunday sermon, and I was led to talk about gratitude as our response to God’s grace. I feel renewed to live my own life in a spirit of gratitude.

In one of the times of evaluation, a woman expressed a concern that we not use the word “theology” for the conference, that it made it seem too heavy and ponderous for what we were experiencing. While I respect her opinion, I couldn’t disagree more. As we brought together our stories with words from the Scriptures, as we reflected and argued (just a little), discussed and waited in the silence for a word from the Lord, we were God’s people, doing the work of theology.  If at times it seemed more like “the play of theology,” right and good. We’re learning to know God together, to grow in our relationships with God and with each other, and trying to find a truer articulation of our faith, despite the differences among us. In fact, the very differences serve as a creative catalyst for more honest reflection, and give a context for love to grow. This is, indeed, “doing theology.”