Good Friday Gamble

“If nothing is greater than love,”
My friend replies,
“Then it’s worth risking all for it.”

Of course he’s right -
For what is life bereft of love
But an eternity of emptiness?
And love, that priceless pearl,
Demands you sell it all.

Still what long odds!
As when rough hands take up the dice,
Await the spit, then shake and splay them out
on rocky ground.
For who can know what numbers
Will turn up
Or if the robe will pass on by?

Observe his shaken followers:
Those burly men, now cowed and stricken,
Slink into the night.
And women, pale and spent,
(whose tears and hair, with blood and dust
Their own anointing make) have
Stumbled from the hill.

What happens now as darkness falls,
As tremors cease,
And silence jars their broken hearts?

Unanswered in the night
The question hangs

Sue Schmidt, 2011

My friend, Robin Bates, blogs at "Better Living Through Beowulf".
Our conversation on one of the posts led to the comment above.

Sunday evening we had some friends over for a "Lenten salon." After a tasty pork dinner flavored with invigorating conversation, we headed into the living room for a more "reflective" time focused on the season of Lent. It was soon apparent that for some, the traditional way of observing Lent (giving up something that you like) was not a particularly helpful practice. As one of my friends said, "For me, it seems like I've been in a desert place for so long, giving up something doesn't make any sense. I need more in my life, not less."

The comments reminded me of the years I decided to give up Advent so that I could celebrate Advent. The cookie baking, holiday entertaining, Christmas shopping and greeting cards stressed me out so much that the joy and peace of the holiday (gifts that were to be opened and used every day!) were crowded out in favor of...what, exactly?

I think that was part of the sentiment expressed in our living room. The death and resurrection of Christ is about life and that more abundantly. In making that our focus every day, we are entering the spirit of Lent - allowing the seed of God's love to ripen and flower in our lives. To think of Lent as only a time to give up something one likes for a period of time, to embrace suffering (albeit so small) or discipline for its own sake misses the mark. It's not that saying "no" is all that bad. It's only that we should be more interested in increasing the frequency of our saying "yes." 

I'm reminded of a song written by Darrel Evans:

I'm trading my sorrow
I'm trading my shame
I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord

I'm trading my sickness
I'm trading my pain
I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord

And we say yes Lord yes Lord yes yes Lord
Yes Lord yes Lord yes yes Lord
Yes Lord yes Lord yes yes Lord Amen

The same friend who spoke at the salon about her desert experiences had set up a meditation area in the corner of our living room. On it, she placed a piece of student art entitled "Sorrowing Madonna," (I cannot decipher the artist's name), a bowl of kosher salt, a plank with several hollowed out indentations, a basket and a pen and some paper. At one point in the evening she commented on the tears streaming down the Madonna's face and spoke about her own tears, and the reasons behind them. She encouraged us to take some time at the end of our evening and consider  what we might want to relinquish into God's care during this Lenten season. We wrote those down and placed the papers in the bowl. Finally, as a way of making this memory tactile, we took a little salt, and after tasing some, placed the rest in one of the indentations.

Giving things up is not always a bad idea, especially if it hinders our health, whether spiritual, physical or emotional. But we should receive something better in the process. Sacrifice in and of itself doesn't impart holiness, or even a better life. It is a means to an end, not the end itself.

One thing that I've learned through reading and blogging on Julian of Norwich, is that God is a God of more - more love, more grace, more comfort, more compassion, more freedom, more "blissful beholding." Say "no" if it's helpful. But let Lent encourage us to be about the "yes" - the "yes" to practices and beliefs that allow more of the God of love to fill us with Himself. Which is, after all, the truth we celebrate this coming weekend.

"He wishes that we know that he pays heed not only to noble, great things, but also to little and small things, low and simple, to one and to the other; and this is what he means when he says: "All manner of things shall be well;" for he wishes us to know that the least thing shall not be forgotten. Another understanding is this: that there are evil deeds done in our sight and such great harm taken that it seems to us that it would be impossible that it should ever come to a good end; and we look upon this, sorrowing and mourning because of it, so that we cannot rest ourselves in the blissful beholding of God." (Chapter 32)

There are certain questions that have risen throughout the ages as people have pondered the knotty paradox of a loving God and the presence of horrific evil in this world. Philosophers have spent lifetimes developing "theodicies," which the American Heritage dictionary defines as "A vindication of God's goodness and justice in the face of the existence of evil." Some have posited that God could not have made a world in which we were honestly free, unless we were given the choice to not follow God, and from that choice springs all the evil in the world. There are other theories as well: God gives us the opportunity to develop qualities of character in struggling against sin; He gives us the chance to build connections with people that will last through eternity; Sin allows God to show the extent of His love in a sacrificial way that would have been unnecessary in a world without sin.

That these questions have not only occupied our present age is demonstrated in the fact that they are much on the mind of Julian of Norwich as well.  She struggles, as we might, with the insistence that all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well, aware of the "great hurt that has come by sin." I find it interesting that she is not given an answer to the question "Why?" Rather, she is given assurance of the outcome.

All things - whether small or large, through accident, immaturity, or blatant choice shall be made well. This is to be a present comfort. But as for the means or the reasons, God does not obligate Himself to tell us His ways or "his secrets." These are "hidden and concelaed from us: that is to say...all that is our lord's secret counsel, and it belongs to the royal lordship of God to have his secret counsel in peace, and it belongs to his servants, for obedience and reverence, not to desire to know his counsels. Our lord has pity and compassion on us because some creatures busy themselves with this; and I am sure that if we knew how greatly we should please him and ease ourselve to leave it, we would." (Chapter 30)

This encouragement to have simple trust in the goodness and greatness of the Lord is perhaps the biggest challenge to our faith, especially when we see the pain and suffering of the world around us. We are to allow God His secret counsels, and not to seek to understand all things. This seems odd, until perhaps we remember the story of Job, where God never answers a question that Job poses either. He merely shows Himself, and Job is silent. 

Julian resolves the paradox in the following way: "There is a deed which the blissful Trinity shall do on the last day, as I see it, and when the deed shall be done, and how it shall be done, is unknown to all creatures that are beneath Christ, and shall be until it is done...by this deed he shall make all things well. And the reason he wishes us to know is that he wises us to be more eased in our souls and made peaceful in love, leaving the beholding of all the tempests that might hinder us from truth, rejoicing in him."

How we address the problem of evil might depend on what we see first. If we start with the pain and suffering around us, we may find it impossible to focus our eyes on a loving God, distracted by the "tempests" from beholding him. If, however, our sight is dazzled at first by the greatness and majesty and love of the God who speaks to Julian, and if we believe that this love floods the earth, it is perhaps easier to have faith that the evil we see around us fades in comparison. Not that we excuse it, or sit idly by while people murder and rape and accuse, but that we are not overwhelmed. Rather, we choose to embrace God's perspective, to trust in His love and allow some questions unanswered.

" 'It is true that sin is cause of all this pain, but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.' These words were said very tenderly, showing no manner of blame to me nor to any that shall be saved. Then it would be a great unkindness to blame or wonder at God because of my sin, since he does not blame me for sin." (Chapter 27)

If I'm slowing down with my posts on Julian of Norwich, there are two reasons. First, wedding plans are taking over a bit of my life, and that plus some other obligations are keeping my mind from focusing as well as I would like. Second, I'm hitting some stuff that's tougher to chew on.

Take the passage above: "God does not blame me for sin." How does that square with "being accountable" for my actions? And if I'm not blamed, or meant to feel shame, then won't I just do anything that I feel like, whether or not it's good for me?

These questions remind me of some that are circling now with the recent discussions concerning Christian universalism (the doctrine that all will ultimately be saved, and hell will one day be emptied). If God saves everyone, then what's the point of evangelism? And perhaps even more pertinent, what's the point of living a "godly" life?

I recently stumbled upon a blog ((here) by Roger Olson, professor of theology at Baylor University, who, although not a universalist, has this to say:

HOWEVER…What I would like to ask people who get so worked up about universalism is this: What difference would it make in your life if suddenly God revealed to you in a way you couldn’t deny that he is going to save everyone?

I have posed that question to students for almost 30 years and one response has been common and very enlightening.  Many say “I would think it unfair for God to save people who didn’t have to give up all that I have given up to be saved and I would stop witnessing and supporting missions and striving to live a holy life.”  (Of course, this is a paraphrase.  No one student ever said it exactly that way; it’s more of a composite of common comments and class consensuses out of discussion of the question.)

What does this reveal?  It suggests to me that people who respond that way have not yet experienced the joy of knowing Jesus Christ and the abundant life he gives.  I’m not saying they’re not saved; I’m just saying they are missing out on an important aspect of being saved.

Is salvation drudgery?  Would God be any more unfair to save everyone than to save me?  If you know the joy and peace that comes from being saved and having a relationship with Jesus, why wouldn’t you want everyone to know about that now–in this life?

As I continue to work my way through Julian's writings, I ask myself this question: "Can a God who loves me deeply, who sees me standing, who attaches no blame, be strong enough to pull me toward becoming like Him? Or do I need threats or cajoling to enter into His life of love? And if so, why?

"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well." (Chapter 27)

Like a discoverer who's been told of a stunning vista that lies ahead of her, I've finally arrived at the promised destination. "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well" was the first phrase that I connected wtih Julian of Norwich and one which prompted this sojourn into her writings. And so, when I came upon it in Chapter 27, I was eager to understand that context in which it appeared. What I found was a bit surprising, to say the least.

Julian begins this chapter by musing that the only thing standing between us and God is "sin." For God's love is constant, yet we cannot see Him in His beauty and glorious love because of sin. She then wonders, as many have before and since, why God has allowed sin to enter into the world at all, a question that is often referred to as "the problem of evil." "This stirring," she says, "was greatly to be shunned, and nevertheless I mourned and sorrowed for it without reason or discretion. But Jesus, that in this vision informed me of all that I needed, answered by this locution and said; "Sin is necessary, but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

I was struck by the fact that in all the times I have heard this phrase quoted, never once have I encountered the preamble to it - "sin is necessary." This is more than I bargained for, and will take some time to unpack. It seems there are deep theological implications if I take it in certain ways, and today is not the day to dig into those.

But, I have been living out a possible interpretation of these words, to see how it fits, trying it on for size. Here's how it goes: "Stuff happens. Mistakes get made. Even if we try our best, there's still junk. Sometimes it's atrocious, sometimes it's petty, sometimes it's intentional, sometimes it comes despite our best efforts to do well. No matter what or why, God stands behind this promise that all shall be well, no matter how big or small."

It's a reality check to my idealism - no matter what, people (myself included) are going to mess up. So I shouldn't be surprised if bad stuff goes down. But it's also an unbelievably amazing promise to hang onto. God promises to clean everything up. To restore what was lost and to reconcile what was torn apart.

There's more in this chapter to ponder, and big questions to wade into, but as I've been living my "normal life"-taking care of friends, planning a wedding, trying to write a blog, I'm taking comfort in this: stuff happens, but God's got it covered.

"And after this, with bodily sight and in the face of the crucifix that hung before me, which I beheld continuously, I saw a part of his passion: contempt, spitting and soiling and buffeting and many languourous pains, more than I can tell and frequent changing of colour." (Chapter 10)

My oldest daughter has been talking a lot about "messy" recently. She's written about it, spoken about it, and has explored the concept through art. According to her, life is inherently messy but that's OK. In the midst of the mess, God can speak to us. And from the mess comes insight and healing. We shouldn't run from messy, but learn to embrace it. Even if it's icky or we're uncomfortable, messy can be good. Hmmm, I think when we talk. Great concept.

Here's the rub. I just figured it out this morning. I don't like messy. I don't like gunk and hurt feelings, and misunderstandings and quarrels, and making mistakes and getting it wrong. I don't like being confused, or picking up other people's trash, or seeing friends around me in pain. I JUST DON'T.

So when I come to the passages in Julian of Norwich that talk about blood and drying skin, and sweat and skin tearing, I let my eyes keep reading and disconnect my mind and my emotions, letting them go some place untouchable. Except that now, as I'm writing this, it's touching me. And I realize that for us to be alive, Jesus had to embrace all that was messy and ugly and hurtful and broken, that He had to live into it and die by it.

I don't like that I have to be OK with messy, but I know that I have a good role model. I know that when it feels like I'm falling, God still sees that I'm standing. I know that His love, at least I'm trying to believe that His love is so big, it looks at the mistakes I make as I try to figure this all out, and covers it over. I'm choosing to believe that there's no condemnation no matter how I do today. That it's the effort that is perfect, and even when it's not, even then there is grace.


Original artwork by Aletheia Schmidt. Images of doves in corner uncovered in process.

"And after this he showed a supreme ghostly delight in my soul. I was fulfilled with the everlasting sureness mightily sustained without any painful dread. This feeling was so glad and so ghostly that I was entirely in peace and at rest, so that there was nothing on earth that should have grieved me. This lasted only for a while before I was changed and left to myself in such heaviness and weariness of my life and irksomeness of myself that I could scarcely have the patience to live. There was no comfort nor any ease to me but faith, hope and charity, and there I had in truth but little in feeling.

And presently, after this, our blessed lord gave me again the comfort and rest in my soul, in delight and sureness so blissful and so mighty that no dread, no sorrow, no bodily pain that might be suffered should have deprived me of ease. And then the pain showed again to my feeling, and then the joy and the delight, and now the one, and now the other, many times - I supposed about twenty times." (Chapter 15)

Reading this chapter, I wonder what it must have been like to have been Julian of Norwich. God wants to show her something, and she has to experience it before it is explained. Feelings of bliss - ahh, this feels somewhat familiar. Feelings of despair - wait? what? Feelings of bliss - OK - feelings of despair - wait, is there some sort of pattern here? And again, and again, and again. I can't help but think of a teacher setting out an experiment for her students. See what happens when I put this chemical next to this solution? Now watch when I take it away. Now when I put it back.

God is graciously teaching Julian a lesson, and it's a good one for us all to hold onto.
Our feelings can be good indicators to us of what is going on in either our body or our psyche. Think, for instance, of anger, which may show us we've been hurt, either physically or emotionally, or that we should take action to combat a harmful situation. Or the sense of being uncomfortable, which may be like a fire alarm telling us, as the David Wilcox song goes: "Don't stop, don't wait, don't hesitate. Rule number one: Run!"

But there are times when our emotions are not so trustworthy. We wake up with a sense of loneliness, or ennui, or despair that is not based in reality. Like a morning that's overcast, our spirits are dampened. And if these feelings last too long (like this winter) we may despair that the sun will ever shine again. But even if this sense of being abandoned is strong, is not true. Like the sun which continuously pours out warmth and light, even when obscured by cloud cover, God's love is constant. He never leaves us alone.
(more after the break)
 

I follow a blog written by a friend of a friend with the delightful name "A Musing Amma." Her musings for today, this 3rd Sunday in Lent, are about the respite this Sunday is in a season that may be full of "rigors and darkness." You can read her post here. May it be a touch of spring in a long winter!

As I pick up "The Revelation of Love" and begin to read the words of Julian of Norwich, I am struck by this simple fact: Julian was not afraid to ask. In the second chapter of her manuscript, Julian tells us that she "had previously desired three gifts from God." These gifts, as I mentioned in the last post, were to know more clearly the passion of Christ, to experience an illness that brought her to the door of death, and to receive three "wounds": the wounds of "very contrition, of kind compassion and of wilful longing to God."

Not only does Julian share with us her desires, but she also tells us the reason behind these desires. She wants to see and experience the passion (or the death) of Christ, so that she may have a "truer" mind. She yearns for an illness so that she may be purged by the mercy of God, and live more to God's honor. Yet, as noble as these hopes might be, she qualifies these two requests by a phrase that echoes that of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane: "Lord, you know what I will-if it be your will that I have it; and if it is not your will, good lord, do not be displeased, for I will nothing except as you will."

Tomorrow afternoon I head to DC to visit a friend, spend the night and then catch an early morning flight to California. My suitcase will contain an eclectic mix of media to blog on during Lent. On top of the pile are two books on Julian of Norwich (my Lenten lady). Her classic "Revelation of Love" is based on a series of visions Julian received in 1373. In addition I have a companion book by Robert Llewelyn entitled: "All Shall be Well, The Spirituality of Julian of Norwich for Today" This well-revered mystic has intrigued me for several years. Her reflections on the nature of love, as well as the fact that she coined the word "enjoy" give me reasons to believe that treasures abound.

To complement this main course, I've added two perhaps surprising side dishes. The novel "Emma" by Jane Austen, which I've blogged on earlier (here) and Craig Gillespie's movie, "Lars and the Real Girl" are both stories of transformation. While Lent can be a time of personal reflection and growth as was true in the case of Julian of Norwich, most of us need the support and encouragement of community to affect lasting change. What tasty combinations will spring from from these ponderings whilst I enjoy the sun and desert landscape of Palm Springs? Who knows? But it's bound to be food for thought!

I hope you enjoy your Fastnacht doughnuts, or Shrove Tuesday pancakes. On Wednesday we'll remember once again that we are creatures of the earth, and set our hearts on pilgrimage (Psalm 84). I'll see you on Thursday.