Thanks to Startup Stock Photos
The difference between work and play is only a matter of attitude. Work, fully done, is play. When the body works, it is dancing. When the mind works, it is dreaming. Appreciating the joys and sadnesses of both, one moves within the process of life.
From Gerald May’s Simply Sane, pg. 87
“But why am I so favored…” (Luke 1:43)
I love Mary’s questions. Her ponderings bring me pause. She is the “God-bearer” and she is humble. She has every reason to lift herself as high as the peaks, and she asks a question like this: why am I so favored?
In a good way, she asks, why me? What did I do to get this?
I know that we tend to ask that question when things go off for us, when things go wrong. It’s a reflex it’s so common. God, why are you letting this happen to me? God why aren’t you letting this happen to me? Seldom do we pose Mary’s question: why am I so blessed? She humbly assumes that she is blessed.
But there is another way of framing her question, and it is by asking what the reason is that God favors. One frame has to do with why God picked her while the other has to do with the purpose God went around picking in the first place.
The beauty in Mary’s question is the sneaky reminder that we do not earn God’s goodness. She did nothing and yet God must have favored her because of the uniqueness of who she was. God always honors who we are and still doesn’t hold us to perfection. That’s an important element in thinking through Mary’s favored status. She was special. And though we can only guess, God chose her, from her town and at her age, and God didn’t choose others. She was unique.
The second element, though, is in our asking the pivotal question about purpose. God has a purpose for choosing Mary for the glorious opportunity of being the mother of Jesus. Whatever God’s good background reasons for choosing Mary, God chose her in order that she would bear the child called Jesus. Mary was intended to bear the infant, carry him, and bring him into the world. While it wasn’t the totality of God’s plan for her life, it became the focus for that portion of her life.
She would train her energies in the direction of being a mother to the child. And she would retain this steeped humility to ask questions, to pronounce how undeserving she felt, and to do for God in spite of those questions. Her questions would keep her touching the ground of humble humanity, even while she was the “holy Mary, mother of God.”
What questions might you raise in God’s hearing? Can you wonder into the world of God’s purpose for you, for today, and listen for an answer? If you asked Mary’s question in your own prayer, what might God say?
“How will this be…?”
I find myself thinking often–and saying too–that God can handle our questions.
One of my preaching heroes said that the Bible is much more a “why” book, than a “how” book. It offers us more questions than answers. Now, that preacher’s way with words wouldn’t rest well with some folks I know. It’s really hard to read biblical question after question and not get an answer. We’d rather make up things to answer our deep wonderings than sit with the heaviness of a truly open-ended dialogue with God.
I think, in this question, Mary invites us to contemplation. Sure, she’s asking the angel to tell her how something so baffling will happen. She wants to know how a virgin can get pregnant. That belief is incredible, unbelievable! And consider Mary, the one to whom that “news” was first uttered after it had been discussed in the lovely tones of Trinitarian conversation. It had to be most unbelievable to her.
But beyond the baffling incredulity is an invitation. I think that we can ride on Mary’s curiosity into a moment of wonder. That is contemplation.
Contemplation is settling. Contemplation is settling on some sustained question or thought. A moment of contemplation is a moment where we wonder or wander into the thick things that God is doing in us and in the world. We consider God’s doings. We consider ourselves. And we sit.
Contemplation isn’t very productive, though it brings about all of life. It’s difficult to prove that you have been “in contemplation.” It’s hard to show the fruit of it, if that makes sense. But the fruit of living one’s questions before God is present. It’s there or it isn’t. We have a contagious, if unsettling, contentment when we’ve lived by placing our sustained questions and thoughts before God.
Look at what Mary did when she remarked to Gabriel’s strong promises. She brought her first reactions and they came in the form of practical questions. This probably is off the mark, but I like to imagine Mary with a smirk, with a slight roll of her eyes, or with a bit of salt in her tone. Perhaps Mary placed hands of her hips, convinced that she’s got God’s messenger in a corner now. “Can he really think this is possible?”
We can bring our questions the way Mary did. Do you have things you must know, questions you’ve been afraid to ask God because God couldn’t hear them? I wonder if you can stretch your faith a bit, or have it stretched. I wonder if we can hear all those biblical questions, in the Psalms and in the lives of God’s people, and use those queries to encourage us to raise our own. Maybe our questions will become our best prayers, and maybe God can handle them.
Here are a few of my current questions:
Such a contemplative thing to say:
Perhaps the reason we so often experience happiness only in hindsight, and that any deliberate campaign to achieve it is so misguided, is that it isn’t an obtainable goal in itself but only an after-effect. It’s the consequence of having lived in the way that we’re supposed to—by which I don’t mean ethically correctly but fully, consciously engaged in the business of living. In this respect it resembles averted vision, a phenomenon familiar to backyard astronomers whereby, in order to pick out a very faint star, you have to let your gaze drift casually to the space just next to it; if you look directly at it, it vanishes. And it’s also true, come to think of it, that the only stars we ever see are not the real stars, those blinding cataclysms in the present, but always only the light of the untouchable past.
From Tim Kreider’s We Learn Nothing, pg. 218
I read Barbara Holmes’ book on contemplative practices in the Black Church the other month, and the book was as amazing as it was historically grounding and refreshing. In it she says, “Some sacred spaces bear none of the expected characteristics.”
It is within the spirit of contemplation and the gift of sacred spaces that I offer this poetic piece which Nate shared with me. You may enjoy it, but hopefully you won’t (in the best way). There is language in this that you may not want to blast:
When history is collapsed into myth, responsibilities become diffused, and repentance and reconciliation become impossible. In the inflated realm of mythical oppression, villains are so villainous that no one sees themselves reflected on the image. Few can trace accrued privileges to specific and intentional evil acts. Similarly, victims become so quintessentially and epically victimized that all escape routes from the condition are sealed off by a maze of self-doubt, blaming, and low self-esteem. The antidote to this phenomenon is to attend to the details, to understand the specific events, ancestors, life stories, causes of oppression, and avenues of social change. Historical and spiritual specificity is salvific. Then and only then can the movement toward moral flourishing begin.
I can’t tell how you interpret most of what I say. We talk enough for me to have some understanding. Perhaps, I’m simply slow. Still, you remind me that conversations are full of so many more things than words. I suppose, in that way, you push me into contemplation, into the long corridor where words are far behind us. As for what you said, about the writing project in front of you, I hope you know that I’m in the circle of your biggest supporters. Get it done, and savor as much of the getting as you can. I’ll be the one wearing glasses at the end of the finish line, reminding you of your greatness and of the next race that’s set before you. Please keep going.
Peter Scazzero, a pastor in New York, asks 10 questions of preachers in an article at Preaching Today, and they just may apply to other vocations and professions as well with some slight nuance. See if any of these speak to you, your life. I’ve included a sentence from the article along with the question:
I think all of these are relevant for ministers, even ministers who aren’t preaching regularly. But these questions can be just as anchoring for people who work in other areas. Peter’s post is full, and if these questions interest you, do read the entire article here.
I’ve accepted the fact that when I’m on my bicycle I’m doing more prayerful work than I am exercise. When I do get to it, I maintain the same distance, about 18 miles, and even pedal within the same time frame, approximately 1.5 hours. But I’m pretty sure that I get more spiritually out of cycling than I do physically.
Of course, I also resist such artificial splits. I think physical exercise is spiritual. I think God relates to us through our physical frames. God made those bodies, knows them well, and wouldn’t have us detaching our selves from them. I’ve written about this in pieces before, but the more I think of it, the more riding becomes a time of prayer.
The other day I wasn’t riding as well. The wind was against me. It was, at least, in my face. I resolved that there was a difference. After about four miles, I conked out, slowed down, got off the bike, and walked for a minute. Then I turned around, got back on the bike, and rode home.
I was frustrated. I wasn’t tired. But I didn’t have the normal course in me that morning. I listened to my body. It wasn’t saying much. My legs felt heavy. The air around me was loud. I heard myself during all those similar days when I felt the same way, back when I would mutter a mantra like, “Keep pedaling.” Or, “You can slow down, but don’t turn around.”
I’m not good at turning around. I’m not good at changing course. I’m excellent at seeing an end and getting to it. Detours, changes, adaptations, and enhancements–terrible things they are–though I’ve learned how to do them with some facility, are not what I’m naturally constituted for. I am the person who gets to the destination. With screaming feet or aching legs or a throbbing head, I don’t turn away from the path.
So, on those days when I’ve quit, I’ve bemoaned such failures. That’s what they are to me, failures. Because I tell myself, when I begin, what the day’s ride will be. The minimum is always what I did last time. I don’t make allowances for weakness, for less sleep, for crankiness, or for the weight of the two dozen things I’m thinking through while I ride.
The other morning, I rode back and felt the wind gently pushing behind me. It was as if I was finally riding in the right direction. When I trailed around the Point, I stopped at sat in a circle of rocks and listened to the water lapping against the stones, trading claps with green leaves overhead. The wind and water sang to the tunes of the birds flapping around the area. I stretched my legs and took an unnecessary breath. I told myself that I hadn’t quite earned a seat. I had more riding to do. The message coming inside the wind said to me quickly, almost sharply, that there are things that I can’t do.
I got up, hardly motivated to listen to more than that. It was an answer to many things. I didn’t need to hear the voice of the wind. I didn’t want to hear the voice of the Spirit. I had heard enough. And I didn’t have to travel my normal course for it.
We were eating breakfast yesterday when I noticed something Dawn told me a couple weeks ago. I said to her back then that I was trying to get the boy’s breakfast done. She asked if I was going somewhere. I wasn’t.
That small exchange reminded me of something that came back yesterday morning. The boy teaches me, in small and big ways, to slow down, to resist rushing.
We were eating again. There’s something about eating that speeds me up or, in this case, slows me down. The morning routine is routine. We get up. I complain and grumble and mutter for an hour or so until I can find my words. At the same time, the boy runs around. He sings. He runs one of his trucks down the small hallway. He pushes that mower thing and I say stop. Then we get dressed. Sometimes that means the boy showers with me. Most times he’s already been bathed the night before and simply needs to change clothes. He’ll run to me when my shower stops. We’ll finish our father and son routine. After we’re dressed, he’ll ask for breakfast. I’ll get things together, explaining how much quicker things would go if he were able to help. He looks at me in that confusing-but-knowing way.
Breakfast is on the table. I start with helping him pick up his spoon. We transition to him eating himself. I’m eating my food; he’s eating his. His spoons are filled with smaller heaps of oatmeal. I’m almost done with mine. At one point I thought about my wife’s comment. Where are you going? What do you have to do?
I read Parker Palmer last summer. I think it was The Active Life. It may have been Hidden Wholeness. I read both of them in preparation for a class, and I bleed the memory together of both books. But there was a part where he was describing contemplation. If memory’s right, contemplation has to do with being present. With living in the present. Often you get at contemplation by solitude or by practicing something like silence—which no parent can conceivably do. He said that contemplation could be anything, that it could be any activity, not just sitting. It wasn’t a particular type of activity or inactivity. Living contemplatively looked differently and it looked like a lot of things potentially.
I’ve thought about being a contemplative parent. I’ve thought about living with an awareness of myself and my son and my family. I don’t want to rush through life or through the stages of life with the boy. And then there’s breakfast.
Breakfast pulls me into the routine and the schedule. It pushes me to the familiar, and the familiar isn’t contemplation. I can learn contemplation and practice it, but it’s work. It’s hard to not rush through breakfast. It’s hard to not rush through everything else. It’s tempting to move through it all without being aware or being present. But yesterday when I thought about Dawn’s question, I slowed down. I gave the boy back his spoon. I took a deep breath and watched him eat. I watched him turn his head and talk about nothing I could understand. I let the boy rule that part of the meal. And it was slow. And it was everything I needed, even if I didn’t want it.
Michael Washington 