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Watching for God in the Ordinary
Psalm 63: 1-8 “My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast, and my mouth praises you with joyful lips when I think of you on my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night;”
While we were in silent prayer during worship on the First Sunday of Lent, my eyes happened upon the deep purple fabric covering the worship table, the shiny material luminescent with sworls of light. In the dark, contemplative season of Lent, when we carefully drape our worship environment in purples and greys, the light of God’s love will find a way in. Perhaps the intent of using dark colors or of giving up a pleasure we love, or of adopting a special spiritual practice during lent is to encourage us to watch for the evidence of God’s presence in our lives, not just in this sanctuary but in the mundane, the ordinary, even the dark places.
Early Japanese poets relied on a concept called “wabi”. Wabi conveys the beauty of the most ordinary circumstances and objects, so one might write of the steam rising from a cup of tea or a flower with it’s stem bent and muddied by the rain. The 17th century poet-master, Basho, wrote:
spring rain –
roof leak drizzling
through a hanging wasps’ nest
Basho also wrote several poems in the last days of his life, even as he knew that his illness was final, finding peace in savoring the small sights and circumstances around him: birds flying against a cloud, a white flower with dust specks on it, autumn-dry fields.
The psalmist writes: “…for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.”
In these days of Lent I watch each day, even each moment, for the shadow of God’s wing spreading over me; watching for the small, the mundane, the ordinary that sings of God’s presence. Awakening in the early hours of the morning with much time before dawn, unable to sleep again, we often let the worries of our subconscious drive us to despair. But now the words of the psalmist remind me to spend that time praising God. And then I hear the owl that has taken up residence in the tree outside my bedroom calling, and I think again of the small wonders of creation; soon a peace settles over the room and sleep returns. Scent of plum blossoms, the moon reflected in the white blooming plum trees, the wind purring through the eucalyptus grove, crows screaming a warning of perceived danger, and robins exclaiming their delight at finding a few last holly berries, the dark shadow of evening creeping across the mountain. Each day when I enter the gifts God has given I sense the deep peace a satisfaction that the psalmist sings of, and the peace of the creator surrounds me as though I were sheltered under God’s wings.
Repentance
It seems that one of the constants of Christian preaching throughout the centuries has been the admonition to “flee the wrath that is to come!” Years ago I was asked to “perform” Jonathan Edwards’ sermon, “Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God”. It is an unrelenting diatribe against the presumption of the wicked that they might somehow avoid the eternal pains of hell. Wikipedia notes that it was “preached to his own congregation in Northampton to unknown effect.” About 30 minutes into my delivery, I really got into it: shouting, pounding the pulpit, etc. I can tell you its effect on me was exhausting (it took the better part of an hour to deliver the whole thing). But as I reflected on the text, I couldn’t help but think that Edwards had resorted to this exaggerated, vivid imagery out of desperation, knowing that no one was really listening. Perhaps the image of an angry God, ready to whack anyone who steps over the line, is more the product of a whole succession of frustrated preachers than the gospel of the God of love.
A group of us from San Rafael First and Aldersgate have been reading Brian McClaren’s recent book, Naked Spirituality, as part of our Lenten journey together. The book is an attempt to show the way to a deeper relationship with God, stripped of all the pretensions and assumptions that we have about ourselves and about God. I heartily recommend it. McClaren’s starting point is a God that is utterly and faithfully in love with each one of us. As with any loving partner, God might not always be happy with us or what we’ve done; but God never gives up on us. From this perspective, repentance isn’t so much a turning to God out of fear of what might happen to us if we don’t, sackcloth and ashes and all that; but rather more like making up with our lover after a spat, with an offering of flowers and candy. It’s reconciliation. It’s the first step to new life.
God, I can barely get my head around how much you love me. And I love you, too. I’m grateful for all that you’ve done for me and the meaning you’ve given to my life, and I’m thrilled by the prospect of what you want for the whole world. But I know I’ve disappointed you, probably more often than I’d care to admit. I’m sorry. I’m coming to you now, Lord, with tokens of my love for you. Can we get back together to share again the intimacy we’ve had in the past? Thank you, God.