My Catholic heart sings for joy this Easter week while my “Orthodox” heart is still deeply drawn to Holy Week.

And yet isn’t that how it must be for us throughout the year? Regardless of the calendar dates of our commemorations, it is, for us, always simultaneously a dark and wrenching betrayal unto death along side of the glorious destruction of death unto Resurrection.

We cannot know them apart from each other. The former is the legacy we both give and receive. The latter is our hope and our Truth.

Just over a month ago, I wrote a couple of posts on the topics of Spiritual warfare and The weapons of war. These were topics I knew that I would come back to but I had to wait until it was time.

Now it is time.

As we enter more deeply into the death and Resurrection of Jesus, the question returns to my mind: what does all of this mean? How am I saved by what Jesus did?

Many people more wise and learned than me have written volumes on this topic. I do not pretend to know as much or more than them. I will write only of what has been given to me to share.

During this holy season, despite having other intentions, I found myself reading The Enlargement of the Heart by Archimandrite Zacharias and Christopher Veniamin. Though I have not yet finished it, much has been given to me from what I have read – in particular, understanding of the well known words that St. Silouan received from Christ, freeing him from his terrible struggle:

“Keep thy mind in hell and despair not.”

{For readers not familiar with St. Silouan, in short, he experienced a vision of Christ during his youth. When he shared this with his spiritual father, the monk made a remark within his hearing, wondering in amazement what he was to become if he had such an experience so early in life. This comment contributed to St. Silouan having great struggle with pride and vainglory for many years.}

When I first read of these words given to St. Silouan, my gut reaction was, “Huh?” This made no sense at all to me. How or why would one keep one’s mind in hell? And how could that conceivably be helpful, even if it were possible?

That was my reaction until, today, when I realized that I belong in hell.

Allow me to explain. If you are thinking that I am exaggerating or engaging in false humility, know that I would have thought that of any “good” person saying the same thing – until today. Bear with me.

First, I must consider what hell is and what it is not. Hell is not a place, as in a geographic location, that people are assigned to go to be perpetually burned alive as a punishment for their sins. Many have been taught such primitive ideas and, sadly, have learned some very wrong ideas about God.

As sin is the turning away from God, hell is the death that, by definition, must occur when I willfully separate myself from the Source of life. If living completely and unreservedly for God is the fullness of life, then living for myself (making myself god) is eternal death.

I cannot disconnect myself from Life and not be dead. I cannot be partially dead. I cannot be temporarily dead. I can only be eternally dead.

I depart from the one true God so that I can be god? I am dead and “in” hell.

I have sinned and turned from God. I belong in hell. Like St. Silouan, I must keep my mind in hell, i.e. I must never forget this truth. I belong there.

But I do not despair. This is where I learn more of the meaning of what Jesus did.

Jesus was executed, put to death in a very vicious, bloody manner that He in no way deserved. But there is nothing in that that makes Him particularly unique. There is nothing in that that saves. Many have been unjustly and brutally killed in our world. What is it that He did?

Yes, we believe that He rose from the dead. But how does that save me? The question still lingers and nags…

There is one part of our creed that not much is taught about in most Christian churches, but it is key: He descended into hell.

What little attention this article of faith is given is often an image of Jesus going to a “place” (Sheol) to proclaim the Good News to the just souls who had died prior to His coming (thus, not really hell). But this, (forgive me, Catholic Catechism) misses the key point.

Let us look at this way: Jesus descended into hell. To say He descended does not mean that he went to a place that is down, but rather than He completely lowered Himself.

Christ went down to the lowest of low places with a humility beyond any human precedent. He who never once turned from God, His Father, and therefore never disconnected Himself from the Source of life, voluntarily entered the eternal death that I came to be in because I did turn away.

This is what it means to say that He took upon Himself our sins or that He became sin for our sake. My turning away has a consequence (I belong in hell) and He who did not belong in hell lowered Himself to accept that consequence for me, with absolute love and utter humility.

It is His humility that saves me.

We use the word “love” so much that we almost forget what it is – that the pure love of the Gospel cannot exist without humility. To fully love other/Other is to be empty of self.

When considered in this light, it is inconceivable that anything but the humility of Christ, of God Himself, could save me from my sin. My sin, our sin, our ancestral sin, is to want to be gods. Pride can only be destroyed by humility.

And our Savior has done just that.

When people question what we mean, “How can you say He destroyed death? People are still dying all of the time,” we know something that is perhaps hard for us to summarize in a few words. It is our Truth – but how can we tell it?

We know we belong in hell. But we are full of hope and joy.

We also know that we are still at war. And that is one reason why so many question whether Christ really accomplished anything. What did He really do? There is still so much sin and suffering and death.

Yes, we are at war. The enemy has not admitted defeat, even in the light of Pascha. How can he not see it? Why does he not give up his effort to control our world?

Pride.

The sin of our adversary and the root of our own.

In understanding what saves us and why we are still at war, we discover the most powerful weapon we could possibly employ in this spiritual battle: humility.

The weapon the Savior used to free us, now given to us to keep ourselves and others from falling back into the enemy’s hands.

There is no more powerful weapon to use against the evil one – for he cannot understand it. The adversary wants only to ascend, never to descend – and so will never truly harm us as long as we follow the Way of our Master, ever going down into deeper selflessness.

We, of course, do not know how to do this. Humility is very hard for us to learn, so ingrained is sin in our nature. So we keep our minds in hell and despair not.

Of His Spirit He has given us, that we may live as He lives.

To Him be eternal glory.

With considerable apprehension, I slit open the packing carton with my Swiss army knife. Carefully removing the top layer of wadded up paper, I gazed for a moment upon the smaller boxes within before picking up one of them. I then selected the larger of the two and opened the top flap of the box.

“Hello,” I said.

There was no reply.

All day, I had known this moment would come. All day, I had felt on the verge of tears thinking about it. But now that the moment was here, I felt nothing but an odd sort of curiosity.

Reaching inside the box, I withdrew the new one and cradled it in my hands. I turned it this way and that, examining it carefully.

“You don’t feel my old camera,” I said, being perhaps a bit insensitive as I noted its textured grip.

Again, there was no response. What could the new one say?

I played with it for a few minutes, noting some of the similarities it had to my old friend, as well as some of the differences that puzzled me. I wanted to play longer but there were many other duties clamoring for my attention.

I put the new one back in its box and hid it for safe keeping. Someday soon we would have we would have to find time to get to know each other better.

+++

Slipping back into the familiar darkness of her box, the new one felt puzzled. She had felt exhilarated when she first emerged into the bright world, anxious to begin capturing its sights and sounds.

She did not understand why she had been put away almost immediately. She had heard the mention of the “old camera” and these words stung a bit. Was she being rejected?

She had thought that she at least would be cherished enough to be placed in a nice camera bag in a prominent part of the house. Instead, she was put back in the box and hidden in a dark place where no one would see her. What was wrong?

It seemed forever before her person came for her again.

But finally, on a chilly Sunday filled with sunshine, she was brought out of her box again. She looked around, seeing the inside of the house she had just had a glimpse of before.

It was a fairly plain house, mostly beige actually, to her disappointment. But her lens, being naturally drawn to light and color, spotted a blossoming begonia plant resting in the sun by some sliding glass doors.

Click! In her excitement, she began taking pictures, hardly knowing what she was doing. She was so certain, if given a chance, that she and her person would get along famously…

+++

More than a week had passed before I was able to get back to the new one. Finally, on a Sunday, it was bright and sunny – cool, but a good day for a first walk together.

Time was short and, while I would like to have walked in the neighborhood, I didn’t feel quite comfortable doing so yet. Would I just be advertising to a burglar that I had a new camera?

My back yard has often been a good place for unexpected delights, even in the most unfriendly of seasons. A fine place to begin.

Slipping out the sliding door, a barren rose bush caught our attention. We paused reverently, receiving an image of its thorns, remembering the Savior who once humbly wore them on His head.

 Next, my attention naturally moved to the “crime scene” now that the high banks of snow no longer concealed the place where it all began. The new one, unaware of the history, felt inexplicably drawn to three cinder blocks casting their shadows in an assymetrical row. Was there one missing?

Next, we walked over to the remains of last year’s garden, where stalks of old flowers barely held their heads up and dead leaves promised nourishment to their hidden seeds. Spotting a tiny bit of green emerging from the decay, we zoomed in. Ahhh… it is beginning…

Could there be any other signs of life in this barren world? Already I was getting cold and the air around us still carried the prickling chill of late winter. But there, something is trying to make its way to the surface, something tiny but growing…. again we zoomed in among the decomposing matter.

Before going back to the warmth of the house, I walked my new friend to the fence. The fence is often a place of fascination for all of its ordinariness. Especially in the months of death and dying, the remnants of all that clung to the fence and curled and twisted around it form a unique art that comes alive in the late afternoon light.

Back in the warmth of the house, my camera and I took a moment to savor the simple images that we received together. Apologizing this time, once again I hid her in a dark place where no one would find her.

+++

The short walk in the brisk cool air had felt surprisingly satisfying to the new one. While she was waiting to be deployed, she had always imagined herself taking dramatic photos of majestic natural beauty or capturing special, heart-warming moments that occur only once in a family’s history.

This first assignment was so far from any of that that she would feel embarrassed to describe it to any of the others. At least she thought she would have been embarrassed. It was so…ordinary.

Yet she sensed a special connection as she rested in the hands of her person. It was not as though this person did not know what beauty was – but rather that she did. She had a different way of seeing that the new one had not been taught. She used her eyes, of course, but it was as though she saw with her heart.

Though no words were said aloud, the new one also became aware that her person experienced images as something she received, not something she “took” or “captured”. They were gifts. And these gifts were not manufactured by human hands but were outpourings of the Creator Himself.

As the new one pondered this, she realized something new and startling about herself: that it was through her that her person would receive these extraordinary gifts. They would receive them together in an intimate partnership that neither could fulfill alone.

She was struck with awe at this revelation.

Never at the factory had she or the others been prepared for anything like this. Theirs was a sacred mission. How had she not seen this before? Why had she not been told?

She heard her person softly apologizing to her as she stuffed her back into the dark place. She was grateful to still be holding her lens and not be in her box. Yet she wondered about the dark place and the apology. What could they mean? It was as though she was being hidden from someone or something…

In the dark place, the new one rested quietly, her memory drifting over all that had happened in her brief tenure with her person. Her surprise at being greeted when her box was opened. The painful comparison to the “old camera”. Being put back in the box so quickly. And now this short walk that seemed to create such a tender, deeply spiritual bond with her person in just a few minutes…

Suddenly, she understood. The new one did not know how she could have missed seeing it before. Her person had loved her old camera. Of course – she must have. If she and the old camera had walked many walks and received many images together, how deep their bonding must have been.

And something, she didn’t know what, had severed that bond. Her person must be hurting.

She now learned something else that no one had prepared her for at the factory: that she was being called to be an instrument of healing. She was being called upon to simply walk with her person, to be at her side, to receive with her whatever life gave her next.

+++

[Epilogue. The new one and I have been invited on an adventure together! We are quite excited and look forward to sharing more with you at a later time. Many blessings.]

I must write while the tears are still fresh. Although we seldom welcome them, tears can be sacred as, through them, our hearts are rent open, vulnerable and exposed to our God.

Reflecting recently on the experience of Lent, I recalled how through childhood and much of adulthood, I was called upon to give something up for the holy season. It might be a small denial of something I liked or it might be an effort to rid myself of a negative habit.

Also, especially as I got older, Lent became for me a time of more focused spiritual practice. I might take on some additional spiritual reading or attend liturgy or other religious programs more frequently for my benefit.

This year has been quite different.

It has not been about what I give up. It has been more about what has been taken from me.

There is, of course, the literal meaning in terms of the burglaries and what was stolen. But that started before Lent and the loss of a few material objects was, in itself, not such a great thing.

There has been another process going on, one that is hard to describe and perhaps even a bit too personal to write about. Yet it feels important to try.

It is as though layer after layer of what I thought I had has been taken away. Rationally, comparing it to the catastrophic losses that many people have endured, I know it doesn’t seem like much. But then another layer is taken and another…

I began the process being faithful. It’s OK. I can deal with this.

OK, some more happens. God is near. With God near, all will be well.

And then there is more. I look forward to the consolation of meeting with friends – and they cancel. And then a misunderstanding with another friend. And then another friend cancels. All legitimate and understandable, no harm intended.

Fatigue and eye strain take from me the ability to read the book I intend to read. Work and the distractions of repairing the house spill over into the time I thought might be there for church.

I keep talking to God and no longer feel Him close. I know He is here but I do not sense Him near me. How I want Him and long for Him. I pray that He breaks through and enters my stony heart.

And another friend cancels.

And then the dam breaks. I am alone. I cry and I cry and I cry.

I write while the tears are still fresh because I see that God has indeed answered my prayer. I needed to cry – not just a little eye-watering sniffle but deep sobs from the heart. It was the only way my heart would break open for Him.

It is His love that chastens me, that strips me down to nothing, so that I know that there is nowhere I can turn but to Him. It does not feel good. But I know it is good.

Like the prophet Jonah, I want to run from what is hard and what hurts. It is too scary, especially if I must do it alone. Let me go the other way and avoid all of that.

But I cannot go the other way. I can only go His way.

If I choose to give up something for Lent, there is no harm at all in that. But it is my will that I am following. When He takes from me, I am called to learn obedience and an ever-deepening trust.

He bids me to allow Him and Him alone to lead me – to have no will of my own. A priceless thing…

To Him be glory, for now and all eternity.

(I had not thought I would write again so soon but I listen to the will of Another.)

Yesterday, I did not address at all the topic of how this spiritual war is to be fought. I think I surprised myself that I wrote about it at all.

Today I was talking with someone who was struggling with resentments and, knowing this person to be faithful, I suggested praying for those whose behavior was hurtful. As I kept talking, something deeper came out and I felt deeply peaceful as I spoke.

Thankfully, in my work as a psychologist, God often seems to direct what I say and do. This was one of those times, for certainly I had not planned to say what I did. I began speaking of compassion and how important it is that we cultivate in our hearts a desire for all people to receive whatever help they need to live well.

When we see someone behaving badly, in selfishness or sin or simply in ways that annoy us, it is not our natural inclination to respond with hopes that all be well for them. And yet to love our neighbor as our selves means to do just that.

The heart of compassion is to wish for each person, no matter how hurtful, hateful or immature he or she may be, to be given whatever is needed to live in a healthier and happier manner. Isn’t that what I would secretly wish for myself in those moments when I am truly honest with myself about my own faults and failings?

When I came home this evening, I opened up the Scripture for the day (Roman Catholic calendar) and read these words:

Jesus said to his disciples: “Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate. Do not judge, and you will not be judged yourselves; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned yourselves; grant pardon, and you will be pardoned. Give, and there will be gifts for you: a full measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over, will be poured into your lap; because the amount you measure out is the amount you will be given back.” (Luke 6: 36-38)

The One who leads us in battle has given us His orders. Why am I surprised that His Spirit spoke in me these same instructions earlier today?

Compassion is only one of the weapons we are given to use in our fight against the enemy – but it is a very powerful one. How quickly and dramatically our personal lives and our world would change if we employed it regularly!

And it is for that very reason that our adversary tries to disrupt us from cultivating compassion and engaging it in our lives.

We strive to be compassionate to those who harm us and our thoughts will not let go of the ruminations and fantasies. Our efforts to behave compassionately are mocked or criticized by a world that believes only fools would return hurt with kindness.

Someone is trying to disarm us.

But we, you and I, we know who our Father is and we listen to His Word. May the Spirit bring us strength and comfort in this holy battle.

As strange as it may seem, as recently as a year or two ago, I did not know we were at war.

Seeing things as I see them now, this is hard for me to explain. I was raised in a devout Catholic home, sent to Catholic schools and have practiced my faith all of my life. I was taught about sin, heaven and hell, good and evil. How could I not known that we were at war?

Without being aware of it, I was also shaped by modern culture, a culture which had infiltrated my Church as well. This “modern” perspective caused me to look askance at the idea of the devil, for example, associating our adversary with images of a creature with horns and a tail. My modern mind tended to dismiss him as little more than a fairy tale character like any other encountered in my childhood story books.

Then, as my career moved me toward social services and then psychology, unconsciously I began to increasingly view bad behaviors as the product of environmental deprivations and abuse rather than something called “evil”. It seemed unfair to use such a derogatory term when people were simply acting out pain that had been inflicted on them first, through no fault of their own.

I see now that this was all part of the plan.

What better way to wage war than to convince the opposing forces that there is no war going on at all? Put them all to sleep and they will not fight back. Shamefully, I look back and see that this is exactly what happened to me.

Also, if I am honest with myself, I think that in the past, I did not want to see that we are at war. It scared me too much. When I was 18 years old, the movie, The Exorcist, came out. I didn’t see it (quite purposely) but the things I heard about it disturbed me for years to come.

Though intellectually I believed God to be stronger than the devil, the fear fueled an alternate approach, “if there is a devil, I’m not going to think about him” (i.e. if I act like there is no enemy, he cannot hurt me and I do not have to fight him).

This too was part of the plan to keep me unaware. And I allowed it.

Others might argue, “But you had an active prayer life. You went to church regularly. You gave to the poor and served those in need.” All that is true. And many people can and do say the very same thing.

But I did all of this without knowing that we are at war and that is an incredibly important distinction to make.

I said and did all of these things from a place of safety, a place of comfort, even a place of pride. I did not know that I did, which is what makes the sin all the more insidious. Whether I am a Catholic maintaining all of the rules and practices of my tradition or a Protestant evangelical proclaiming myself “saved”, it can be a surprisingly dangerous place to be.

Though I risk offending by so stating, it is one of the more subtle temptations of the enemy to suggest that all we need do is believe that the Jesus has taken care of everything. All we have to do is be baptized, accept him as our personal Savior, be born again, etc. and we are saved. End of story. Nothing else is required.

It is subtle because it sounds so “right”. It is a temptation because it frees us from the need to be watchful, to engage in battle and risk all that we have and are for the sake of the Kingdom.

To know that we are at war is to know that there is evil alive in our world. Unrelenting evil that is always at work to lead us away from God. The tactics used by the enemy may be ingenious and not at all what we expect. Thus, we must guard our minds and our hearts continually.

As I have talked with others about such things, I have found myself saying surprising things. I have described discouragement as a great temptation. I would not have thought of it that way before – but it is. What better way to lead us away from God than to cause us to grow weary and hopeless so that we cease our efforts?

In the religious teaching of my childhood, good and bad were very clearly demarcated. Thus, I was led to believe that temptations were urges to break the commandments and could readily be identified as such and therefore defeated.

While it was important for me to learn to watch for these temptations, it perhaps left me feeling too safe if I managed to foil these more obvious allurements. I failed to learn just how many shades of grey there could be.

Temptations missed do not always lead to sin but they can most certainly lead to trouble. The temptation to feel sorry for myself. The temptation to stay home when there is some place I ought to go. The temptation to not call someone who needs to hear from me. The temptation to hold onto anger. The temptation to sleep too much (or too little) to escape things I do not want to face. The list is endless.

And, of course, the object is not to become obsessive, to start examining every inclination as a possible temptation to wrestle with. Rather, as St. Peter tells us, we must be “sober and vigilant” (1 Peter 5:8).

If we know we are at war, like any soldier in battle, we listen for directives from our commander to guide us. We know that we ourselves cannot see what to do in a battle of this scope nor can we trust our own inclinations – especially since it is in our inclinations that we are most vulnerable to attack.

In this spiritual warfare, we need stillness of heart so that we can hear the Lord whispering His words of truth to guide us.

Life does not get easier when we do this. Indeed, it may seem for a time to grow considerably more difficult. The enemy doesn’t want us to wake up.

And yet to repent, to believe, to truly know Christ, I must be fully awake. I cannot live any other way…

(Two years ago, for Easter/Pascha, I wrote A piece of broken glass, a post on my old blog about an artistic exploration into salvaging broken glass as part of my spiritual pilgrimage. This post continues this journey in the context of my recent posts Letter to a lost soul and My house.)

It was 2:30 AM and the window was boarded up after the first break-in. I was exhausted, of course, but found myself strangely disappointed that the crew of one who had arrived to help me had shoveled up all of the broken glass and hauled it away.

Well, not all of it. And therein lay the redemption of the moment.

Every moment has its redemption, I believe, though we may not see it immediately. In fact, with the majority of bits of time that flow by, we probably do not see it at all.

Yet it is there, hidden in each moment, however difficult, painful or frightening, just as Christ’s redemption of us is hidden in every breath we take, whether we are aware of it or not.

Over the next couple of days, I gathered fragments of broken glass that were concealed in random places in the carpet, their presence given away by unexpected glints of light.

At first, I had only tiny pieces and thought perhaps I could make a small sculpture with them. However, when the man came to repair the window, there were some larger pieces of glass to be removed from the frame. Without a hint of embarrassment (okay, maybe a hint), I gave him a box and asked if he could save them for me.

He did so gladly, resulting in my having a collection of glass fragments, varying in shape, most of them quite small but a few a bit larger.

In the days that ensued, I pondered the fragments and what they might be. But I did not have to ponder for long. It soon became quite apparent what they were trying to say to me.

The first step was to select the pieces. I wasn’t going to try to cut or shape them in any way. If they had sharp edges, they had sharp edges. I could not avoid that reality.

After I had the pieces, I began painting them with alcohol inks, using simple colors and procedures. A bit of texturing appeared when needed but everything flowed as it was meant to.

I laid the pieces to dry on my desk and then moved them to rest on the flat surface of my printer while I tested the glue on some scrap. I would glue the pieces together in the next day or two.

Or so I thought.

When break-in number two occurred, the focus was, of course, on what was missing. The printer had been taken, the serial number was given to the police and the reporting rituals repeated.

It was only after I had left for work the next day that I remembered that my glass pieces had been on top of the printer. What had become of them? Had they been broken? I felt a twinge of sadness but again, a call to let go.

When I returned home that night, I searched the floor around and behind the desk, managing to find each and every piece, down to the tiniest fragment. Perhaps a couple of new chips had appeared in their already uneven edges but they were still speaking the same image to me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanks.

The bringing together of the pieces and fragments into the whole I had seen in my mind was fairly effortless. The glue dried clear. It was finished.

I wasn’t sure just how the sculpture should stand so that its image could be received but a way came to me that worked. My cell phone stood in for the camera lost to fate and it happened.

(click on image to enlarge)

And then it crashed. My propping had lasted just long enough for the image, when the glass structure fell and came apart at its glued joint.

Broken by my own hands, the cross lay in pieces.

With glue and grace, it again assumed its form and was left on my desk to dry once more.

Then came break-in number three.

At this point, there was so little left to steal that it took some study to determine what was missing. What was most evident to me as I entered the room, however, was that the glass sculpture of the Savior lay on the floor, having been knocked out of the way.

All I could do, all I can do, is contemplate the brokenness.

Not the brokenness of my bit of simple art. It survived mostly intact and is of little consequence. The Cross, after all, is not about art.

Rather, what my heart sees before it is a world of brokenness – my own and that of all of humanity. Shattered we are, our souls like my panes of glass twice broken, smashed and sprayed across the microcosmic universe of my bedroom.

From the evil lurking within our seemingly innocent passions comes the blow that shatters. And from the wounds brought by shattering blows, grow still more passions.

We are dead and broken. And a bit of glue cannot make us right again.

But this One on the cross…who is He? Who is He and why does He allow Himself to be knocked about and broken at our hands?

Why does He take our brokenness upon Himself? Where can such a love come from that He would want to bring us to wholeness and life again?

Our Lenten journey begins and we bring Him our shattered souls. To the One who delivered up Himself completely, we deliver ourselves in our confusion and uncertainty, hoping to learn what it means to truly repent and accept the Gospel into our hearts.

I am about to join the ranks of the people who tape peculiar messages to strangers on their windows or doors.

It began this last Thursday when I was at work, talking to someone on my cell phone when I heard the familiar beeping sound of an incoming call. I couldn’t get to it right away. As I was checking the message a moment later, my land line began ringing and my heart sank when I viewed the caller ID. It was the monitoring service for my security system.

The police response time was good and they called me with the verdict: a broken window. A bit of discussion revealed that it was the same window on which repairs had just been completed the day before (because of the previous break-in). The same window scheduled to have security bars installed on it the next morning.

I knelt on the floor and wept.

Although the damage and losses were considerably less from this second break-in, I have struggled with it more. There have been moments when anger has risen to the surface. I have questioned the sentiments of my previous post, Letter to a lost soul. I have felt a bitterness toward the insurance company that seemed to treat me so well, now having learned that my single claim will push up my rates because I am no longer a “safe home owner”.

But I have also stood before God, feeling chastened and stripped of my pride and attachments. Who am I to think that anything really belongs to me, whether it be my electronics, my house or even my faith? (“What do you possess that you have not received?” 1 Cor 4:7)

What is it that God is inviting me to learn, as I let go of not only my possessions but the security I imagine that I have behind my four walls?

A number of responses have occurred to me. Perhaps I am called to enter more deeply into material simplicity – to not replace the stolen items, to refrain from owning anything of enough value to be stolen. Or perhaps I will replace them all and fortify my house with security measures. Or perhaps…

But whatever I do on the outside is not nearly so important as what I do on the inside. Or rather what I allow God to do within the depths of my heart. Stuff will come and go. My house will come and go. Even my body will come and go. But my heart’s journey to God is the one thing that cannot be compromised: it is eternal.

And it is and ever will be a journey. What I feel called to do now, today, is to post the following message on the remaining intact window that faces my back yard. Whether anyone reads it is not up to me. What is important is that I proclaim the message and commit myself to it…

My house is a house of prayer for all people. Whatever your needs or problems, whatever your addictions or mistakes, I am praying for you. And my prayers are always heard. But for us to receive God’s gifts, we must turn our hearts from evil and learn to do good. Please join me as I strive to do this with all my heart.

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Yesterday was a busy and complicated day. I was working from home, so that I could take care of some personal appointments while trying to get some work done. Wednesdays are my usual day to do this and typically it is not a difficult balance.

However, yesterday numerous things occurred that pulled me in many different directions at once. An ongoing situation with a patient came to a head, resulting in tense telephone conversations with her and her attorney about a hearing that was hopefully going to occur today. The fellow who was repairing my broken window returned to put it back in place – and had a great deal of trouble getting it back in place, causing me to be late for an appointment with a patient I see at my church. A representative from my security company came to give me a quote on upgrading my security system. Inch after inch of beautiful snow piled up, with snow banks already so high that there was virtually no place to put it. My poor snow shoveler had a cold but was dedicated to duty – but also wanted some advance pay because he was hungry.

Not a bad day, but complex and full. A day that had me reaching in my pocket numerous times for my prayer rope to say the Prayer and be reminded that everything is safely in God’s hands.

Last night, just before bed and during the night, the head pain started. By morning, it was overwhelming, like someone trying to remove my left eye with a screwdriver. I managed to cancel my first patient, send a text message to our practice manager and take some medication before going back to bed. I was (and am) back in migraine land.

Before going further, please allow me to clarify that I do not mention my migraines as a complaint nor am I seeking sympathy. In an odd sort of way, I have come to believe that I “deserve” them.

Now I know that remark is going to require some clarification. I am currently reading Jean-Claude Larchet’s book, The Theology of Illness and am learning a great deal. I don’t think I have ever believed that God created illness or that He wants His people to suffer but I did not have a good alternate understanding either.

In the reading of this masterful little book, I am understanding much more clearly how illness is but one consequence of humanity’s sinfulness and movement away from the God who is goodness and life. Further, I am understanding how God works through this suffering to bring us to salvation.

Larchet writes, “…paradoxically, the illness of the body becomes, by divine Providence, a remedy which promotes healing of the soul”. Thus, I think I can safely say that I deserve such correction, remedy or “chastening” (my 2015 word) because my sinful soul is indeed in need of God’s healing.

In any event, after much sleep and blessed remission of the pain, being in migraine land is, for me, like being in a place of great simplicity. Physically, I feel very tired and weak, to the point where I can easily, if awake, sit and stare for long periods of time without being aware of the passage of time. Mentally, I am often unable to focus much at all.

At its most profound moments, I think of it as being at rest in the Lord, because there is not much else I can do. Or I may do something but tire so quickly that I know I must return to the place of rest.

Part of my usual morning prayer routine is praying the Divine Office (Roman Catholic). Because of the flurry of activities involved in preparing for work, I am not always as deeply into this prayer of the Church as I would like. Nonetheless, it is still a blessing and comfort to me.

Today, after my long slumber, I came out and read the first antiphon:

“Their own strength could not save them; it was your strength and the light of your face.”

My mental fog did not allow me to go any further – but I was able to focus on this one line. How many times had I heard or read this line (based on Psalm 44) and simply moved on to the next line without further thought? But today it was my only line, at least for several hours and so it stayed with me.

Feeling so weak and so tired, I had no difficulty believing this message today. Not just believing it with my intellect but believing it with my entire self. My strength cannot save me. My strength cannot save anyone. “It is your strength and the light of your face.”

Some peanut butter on toast. A cup of ginger tea. More sleep. Resting in Him with prayerful awareness of my patient whose court hearing was today.

When I got out of bed a bit later, I returned to my book, still open to the Office of Readings, and read the next line:

“We triumph over all these things through him who loved us.” (Romans 8:37)

It was not terribly long before I heard from my patient’s attorney. After two weeks of involuntary confinement (which I believe was unjust), my patient’s case was being dropped and she was being released. A little later still, the patient called me from her cell phone with the joyful news: “I’m free!”

As much as she had suffered during her confinement, she was now able to see how some good came out of it. With new vision, she saw how some people had really worked to help her and how she had been able to bring a bit of comfort to some she encountered along the way. She is now becoming free in more ways than one.

I had very little strength today and very few words to pray with. I cancelled all of my appointments and slept a lot. It was a simple day. But God gave me this day, knowing far better than I do what is needed for my salvation. As I learn, as I am chastened, I too am becoming free.

“This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)

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Dear Lost Soul,

You have been on my mind a lot these last few days. It is natural, I suppose, that I wonder who you are. But it is more than that.

I have been pondering who you are on the inside, i.e. what it is that led you to be so broken, so lost, so hurt inside that you would intrude into my world uninvited to take a couple things that you felt you needed.

I imagine you standing in the cold, pulling the screen off my bedroom window and hearing my security system blasting at you the warning that police were being called. Yet you did not run then, as most would, but kept on going.

When I imagine you heaving a 35 lb cinder block through my window, I can only imagine what kind of desperation or anger must have fueled that act. Are you hungry? Are you cold and tired of living on the streets? Is there a drug that is controlling your life and you cannot escape the unending cycles of relief followed by retching illness when you have to have more? Is there some bitterness or rage, like a cancer eating away at your soul?

Most people expect me to judge you. “Scumbag” and “Low life” are the words they have for people who do what you have done.

But who am I to judge you?

Surely your sin has affected me. My week was considerably more stressful because of your act. A window to be boarded up. Police and detectives to be met. Some of these meetings at 2:30 in the morning. The loss of the material things is a minor matter but leaves a sadness in my heart nonetheless. How many times have I written, “My camera and I…” (My beloved companion now rests in someone else’s hands.)

However, as much as your sin affects me and the world, my sin affects you and the world as well.

When I am selfish or proud, when I am self-absorbed or indifferent, it is quite possible that I have made your struggle through life that much harder. If not your life directly, by imitating the sin of Adam, I have undoubtedly helped perpetuate the consequences of that original sin.

I have separated all of us just that much more from the living God. Each of us is subject to corruption in body, mind and spirit because of my sin. We are one and what I do affects all others.

I am not letting you off the hook, of course, for your sin does the very same thing. I am just saying that perhaps this letter is written to me as much as it is written to you. We are both lost souls.

However, through no merit of my own, I have come to know our Savior. And so I know it is not hopeless for people like you and me.

Part of me is wishing that the few drops of blood you left behind on my carpet, beneath the shards of broken glass, will help us to find you. It is not that I want to punish you but rather that I want to help you stop. I fear that whatever has hold of you may be very hard for you to stop by yourself.

In any event, know that you are beloved of God and that I pray for you. May you too find our Savior so that whatever is wrong in you may be made right. I wish you many blessings on your journey.

Love,

Mary

(To those inclined to worry about me, please be assured that I am fine. I’ve been rather stressed but that will pass. And no, I’m not afraid and no, I don’t plan to move. 😉 These things happen.)