Most mornings I do church in our loft, at my desk, looking out the window into the woods. There’s always a lot going on outside this window, but the focal point is a Tulip tree.

I have watched this particular tree grow from a sprout into a straight and tall youngster of about 30’. I have watched its leaves come and go, and its limbs stretch for the sun for over eight years. I feel like we have something of a relationship.

The other morning, I was noticing that the recent winds have sped its annual shedding. Leaves that I remember as tiny buds, then full and green, now yellow with occasional brown, are letting go, and returning to the earth.

As I pondered this seasonal cycle, a little twitch on the end of one of the tree’s branches caught my eye. It was an Eastern Phoebe, likely born and raised in the nest between the window I was looking out of and the eave of our cabin. This nest has been a summer home for Phoebes for years now.

I grabbed the binoculars that I keep on the sill, focused in, and wondered what year this gal or fellow came along. I wondered if it had inherited the family home, and if it would be cleaning it up a bit, and hatching the next generation come spring.

Later, as I read in another book by the Spirit, I came across these words from Colossians 1:23, “The gospel has been proclaimed to every creature under heaven.” I looked back at my tree, looked around for the Phoebe, but it was gone.

“The gospel has been proclaimed to every creature?” Funny, I’ve never seen a Phoebe with a bible under its wing, and I doubt the Tulip tree will be able to get to this year’s revival at the Baptist church down the road. How was the gospel proclaimed to creatures that don’t speak English, let alone ancient Greek? And, is humanity a part of this congregation that hears the wordless good news?

It would seem obvious that books, hymns, and sacred buildings don’t have an exclusive claim to the Spirit. The Spirit certainly proclaims in ways far higher than ours.

I’m thinking that there is a hum in the universe that we all, trees, birds, and people, are invited to hear. A hum of wonder. A hum of life. A hum of love. A hum that invites everything that has breath to hum along.

Could it be that simply being alive, creations of the Lord of Life, and bearers of that sacred spark, puts all of creation into the loving presence of the one in whom we live, and move, and have our being?

Again, all this is certainly higher than my ways, but it feels like good news to me.

I was feeling pretty good about myself the other morning. For about ninety seconds.

I was journaling, writing down my hopes, intentions, and prayers for the day. “May I see more clearly. May I remember to look around with love. Help me be a better husband, father, friend, and neighbor.”

I wasn’t trying for world’s best, but I was serious. I wanted to follow more nearly. I really did.

Then, my pen wrote something that I hadn’t given it permission to write. “May I do these things without regard for recognition.”

Wait, what? Flirt with sainthood and nobody notices?

I looked at those words, the ink still drying on the page, and I came to the cold, shocking truth. I care a bunch what other people think. In fact, it’s embarrassing to think how often I imagine being admired for doing good things.

Sometimes, I even say it out loud. I’ve heard me say way more than once that I want my wife and daughters to be proud of me. Of course, some things I don’t say out loud because they aren’t quite as acceptable as wanting your family to be proud.

I often imagine what it will be like for my opponents when the scales drop from their eyes, and they see how Christian I am.

As long as I’m being open here, I’ll confess that I’ve even pictured what it will be like at my funeral. I wonder about what folks will say about the impact I’ve made. That’s probably a little too revealing, but it was shocking for me to realize how much the possibility of recognition motivates me.

What if nobody comes to my funeral? What if no one notices? Worse, what if I am not really doing anything note worthy? There’s a lot of people that want to be better husbands, fathers, friends, and neighbors.

Can I live a quiet life, doing small things, without regard for recognition? I mean, it seems like the Pulitzer folks would have contacted me by now if I was being considered. I don’t even see an appreciation plaque on the horizon.

Again, can I live a quiet life, doing small things, without regard for recognition? Any recognition? I hope so. In fact, I hope so a lot. I think that would be the most freeing thing that’s happened to me in a while.

If I could somehow get there, I would be free to walk a simple path, being and doing me. Unhindered. I could become the me God is creating, not a false me built on vanity and chasing empty recognition.

Sort of like the crow dancing in the wind, not because anyone is watching, but because it can. Like the waterfall that splashes when no one is there. Like the perfect lily that only a bumble bee will see. Like the kids playing soccer, and actually not keeping score. Like the woman praying and smiling in an empty room. Like the folks who love, not because other folks love them, but because they can, because they choose to.

Without regard for recognition.

I don’t care what you think.

Aw, that’s not true. I need a pat on the back now and then. That’s okay. It’s just that there are better reasons than approval to follow more nearly.

I like to imagine what Jesus’ band of disciples would look like if he were walking around the United States these days. Pretty sure it would be eye popping.

Let’s start with the obvious. Of course, every race and various mixes of every race would be in the Jesus circle.

Now, lets go wider. Every gender identity would have a seat in the circle as well. The truck driver with a million safe miles behind him would be there, proudly wearing his red, MAGA cap. Sitting next to him, not really happy about it, would be the university professor, her heart still stinging from Hillary’s loss. There would be a police officer, a day trader, a CFO, and a non documented laborer. And, likely someone attached to each of the letters in the LGBTQ community. Plus, a hearty helping of so called, regular folks. The folks you see at Walmart.

There would be some religious leaders as well, but they wouldn’t actually be in the circle. They’d be observing from the outside, unwilling to go all in, due their tightly held beliefs.

If that’s not eye popping enough for you, make your own list. Just make sure you have someone representing everything from zealots, to tax collectors, to fishermen, to women of means, to folks just beyond the fringe of social acceptability. And, remember where the religious leaders were seated. Certainly eye popping in first century Palestine.

Somehow Jesus kept such a diverse group on the same page. Except, of course, when they were arguing, or trying to be Jesus’ favorite, or disappearing when things got dicey. But mostly, pretty much on the same page.

I truly wonder what got them to sit at the same table, and almost play nice.

I guess continually hearing Jesus say that the call is to become like a little child, and seek to be the servant in the group helped. Not to mention, do unto others as you’d have them do to you, love your neighbor as a part of yourself, and take up your cross and follow.

Mostly though, I think it came from deep inside. I think on some level they got that, beyond politics, theology, and lifestyle; the foundation of each one’s identity is, beloved child of God. Each one. Everyone. Jesus certainly spoke words that affirmed this. Words of life.

Perhaps if we got that, we wouldn’t be so in your face with one-another with our caps, badges, and favorite issues.

Now, here’s the thing. My exercise of imagination really wasn’t that hard. I have met, and celebrated at the Lord’s table with all the folks mentioned in paragraphs two and three. I celebrate that. Each one has a gift for me. I need each one in my life. We are all God’s child.

The Spirit is moving throughout the world today. The call is to come and follow. There is a seat at the table with my name on it, and there are seats at the table with the names of the folks in paragraphs two and three on them. Friend, there’s a seat with your name on it. We’re all on the invitation list. We just need to remember that none of us are bouncers.

May God help us come as little children, seeking to be the one who serves, and always remembering who it is that offers the Word of Life.

Today’s word: creativity.

I recently heard Brian McLaren say that creativity is where the Spirit is moving these days. Art, prose, poetry, architecture, landscape design, music… his list went on. These are the things that will help humanity will see a path beyond division and selfishness. It’s the artists; those who touch us deeply, the ones who shove us toward empathy, and make us want to do a little better, who speak Spirit.

I’ll admit that when I heard that, I thought, “Well, I guess I’m officially on the sidelines now. I am certainly not creative.”

It felt like middle school and my friends were wondering who I was going ask to the Spring dance. Nobody. I can not dance. And, I do not for a minute believe no one will be watching. Even if no one else is, my partner will certainly be watching, and wondering if I actually thought I was dancing. Nope. Just like the middle school dance, I guess I’ll sit this movement of the Spirit out.

Then, I took a breath, and asked middle school me to please be quiet for a second. “Dude, that was a long time ago.”

I actually have been known to dance a little bit. Sometimes, the music moves, literally moves me. Why, not long ago, I was was dancing with my sweetie of fifty years on a beach in Hawaii, and I didn’t care who was watching.

And, sometimes I experience creativity. It comes from deep inside, or maybe from someplace outside, it’s hard to tell which, but it comes.

I ponder a little, play a little, imagine a little, and there it is: a story, an insight, a vision for that bush in the garden, an awesome Dad joke, a photo of a lizard on a rock, a whispered prayer of gratitude. Or maybe it’s simply figuring out how to encourage and support an unknown artist that is in a creativity league most of us will never visit. I’m a part. Look at me doing creativity.

Of course my work isn’t award winning or show stopping. In fact, sometimes even my best Dad jokes are simply ignored. That’s cool. It still has a life. Is qualifies. It’s creativity.

Creativity. Where the Spirit moves. It’s where we connect to one another, and remember who we are, who we all are. We somehow partner with the Creator. It comes for within and from out side of us. It feeds that spark that makes us truly human.

I think McLaren is on to something.

The narrator sits in a cell, facing death, and comes to faith.

“I was about to spiral away when I decided I needed to claim something that I knew was true, something I could hold on to when the morning came. And there it was. I knew that whatever was factual in my memory, I loved. I loved Jesus no matter what was real. I loved Acco and our time together. I loved James, Matthew, and all the others. I loved my brother, I loved Julia and her mother, I loved the life I had known since I met Jesus, and I loved enough that, yes, I forgave Marcus. He really was lost; there was nothing to be mad at. Love. It had to come from somewhere. Whether that water had actually turned to wine or not, I loved more than I would have ever thought possible because I had known Jesus. I had something to hold on to. I was going to be alright. I guess love is stronger than death.” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 110)

As I write this, I am surrounded by miracles. Within and without.

Outside, seen through my window, there is a three hundred million year old stone that lay quietly, covered by a Blue Ridge Mountain for eons. Twenty years ago, a tiny piece of a fraction in the blinks of time, a backhoe moved it to its current resting place.

Feeling a bit like a voyeur, I have watched lizards holding spring dances on it. Perhaps on some level they are hoping they’ve met the right gal or fellow, and maybe a little family of lizard kids will come along. Lizard kids, green anoles actually, that can change from brown to green when they sun themselves on a bright new leaf. A leaf, like the ones that are budding on the limbs of the poplar tree, growing next to the ancient stone.

Inside, aside from the biological wonder of functioning systems that are keeping me on this side of the veil, I am. I’m thinking. I’m processing. Creating. Remembering. Living.

God within and all around. God in every thing and contained by no thing.

All of this is wondrous, and proof that Elizabeth Barrett Browning was absolutely correct when she said, “Earth’s crammed with heaven.” It’s all sacred, and holds a spark of the divine. It’s even sacramental, transforming our way of living when we join its song.

Creation, God’s first language, sings the glory of God to those with ears to hear. Still, that doesn’t tell the whole story. It doesn’t completely cover what we mean when we proclaim in the Easter season that, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”

We aren’t simply proclaiming biological and geological wonder. We proclaim love. We proclaim that love is alive and love is stronger than death.

Julian of Norwich didn’t find the ability to give us, “All will be well, and all manner of things will be well,” because the dogwoods were blooming. Her strong word of hope, that was born in the midst of plague and suffering, came to her because she had experienced the love of The Designer of All Miracles. She knew the love of the One That Creates, looks at it, and says, “I love it!” (My paraphrase). She knew the love of the Christ that has died, is risen, and will come again. She had experienced Christ with us.

How can we, like Julian, and like the narrator in The Samaritan’s Friend when he was facing a cruel death, know that Christ is with us?Well, chances are we won’t have the opportunity that Thomas had when he came to faith as he inspected Jesus’s wounded hands and side. But we know love. We love our family, friends, and life. We find ourselves able to love those who are strange to us; those who are a little scary at first. We even find ourselves, perhaps surprisingly, able to forgive. Where does this come from? Love comes from God. That, my friends, is Christ with us.

Join me: Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed.

Jesus is crucified.

“Everyone was quiet, wanting to hear if Jesus did indeed have anything he wanted to say. Jesus slowly raised his head and looked right at Simon. He held his gaze for a minute in a way that I had seen many times. He actually looked like himself for a moment. He pulled himself up, took in a long breath of air, and slowly said, “I want you to know that I forgive you. You’re lost. You have no idea what you are doing.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked away from that hill, away from the holy city, and headed north. I felt like I was the one that was lost, and I certainly had no idea what I was doing. (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 68)

I stepped out of the psych ward and into the hall after visiting, we’ll call her Suzy. She was a preteen, basketball playing, honest yet sneaky, beautiful, and hilarious little girl. When she laughed, her crystal blue eyes sparkled like sun on a dew drop.

She hadn’t been laughing lately. On this day, her eyes were dull, and the self inflicted wounds on her arm were fresh.

When the door clicked shut, she began to wail. It was loud. It was feral. It was heart rending. She cried from a hurt that was going to require a good deal more than a trip to the ice cream shop for a cone.

I couldn’t walk. I had to find a chair. I sat listening, unwilling to walk away while she wailed. I wanted to wail with her. I wanted to wail loudly. I wanted to paint the air blue with curse words. I wanted to beat on heaven’s door and demand an answer to my boiling “why?” Instead, I sat and silently cried with her until I couldn’t hear her anymore.

The day after tomorrow is Good Friday, and I can’t remember why they call it “good.” A beautiful human was crucified. He wasn’t assassinated like Abraham, John, Malcolm, Martin, and Bobby. He was legally arrested, tortured, and nailed to some erected lumber while religious folks stood around and waited for him to die. It’s hard to look, but if we are brave enough to truly look, we see the truth. Terrible happens. A magical rabbit leaving us a basket full of candy won’t make this right.

Like the narrator in The Samaritan’s Friend, I want to walk away, but I intend to sit.

I intend to sit because walking off, and saying, “I’ll see you Sunday” seems disrespectful. It feels like I’d be making it less than what it is. Sure, Sunday’s coming, but it ain’t here yet.

Right now, children are crying, innocents are suffering, and the powerful are legally treating folks like they are a commodity.

Of course we ask why, and it feels like we get no answer. But I do know that somehow the one on the cross does speak, and is saying something to us in all this. I am not entirely sure what it is. I just know it’s something like, “I hear you. I know what it feels like, but this is not the end. Stay with me. I am certainly going to stay with you.”

Mother is preparing the narrator and Acco to walk the path to the end of the world.

“The last thing on Mother’s morning agenda had to do with the ink and needle. Mother told us that she wanted to give us a tattoo of her choosing to remind us of our purpose. I told her that I would have to pass on that one, but Acco got his and since I couldn’t read their language I had to ask him what it said.

“To find and be truly you.” he said.” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 85)

Our days on Iona were coming to a close. I had climbed Dun I. I had walked a good bit, and had viewed the North Atlantic from every side of the isle. I had broken bread with pilgrims. We had shared our stories, discussed theology, history, Celtic legends, literature, and some other stuff that probably doesn’t matter. I had worshiped at The Abbey, joining with a community whose stated purpose says in part, “we are brought to Iona not to be changed into ‘religious’ people, but rather to be made more fully human.”

Now, in the bedroom by myself, I sat pondering, cross legged on the bottom bunk, where over the last few nights my snores had joined the chorus of my brothers’. I was trying to discern the bubbling in my heart. Something had happened in this thin place.

Something had clicked. What was it? An “aha” was trying to hatch. And, then it came.

It came by way of Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tale, The Ugly Duckling. Somehow, in that solitary moment, the Spirit whispered in my soul, “You’re not a duck at all,” and this square peg resolved to stop trying on round holes.

“You’re not a duck at all.” The thought warmed my heart. I actually found it a little funny. On some level, I already knew this. More than a few times I had heard me described as “a little weird” and “a bit of a rebel.”

Among other things; I drink beer, much to the chagrin of my conservative friends in upstate South Carolina. And occasionally, I drink cheap beer, much to the chagrin of my brewery hopping friends in Asheville, aka “Beer City”, North Carolina. Perhaps even more appalling, I’ve been known to plop a little ketchup on my steak.

I’m just playing. It went deeper than that.

You’ll remember that the little swan in the story had been told all it’s life it was ugly. Too tall. Too loud. Not the right color. Ugly.I’m not sure why everyone felt like they had to weigh in, but that was what he heard, everywhere he went.

Unfortunately, there are some folks in the church that have taken on the ministry declaring ugliness. They tell us we are wretches, sinners at our core, and God had to do something as dramatic as sending someone to be brutally killed in order to have a relationship with us. They say we are all supposed to be ducks. No swans, geese, or crows are allowed. They say even the ones trying to be ducks are getting it wrong. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

Thing is, we’re not ducks at all. We, every single, individual, one of us, are God’s beloved. We are divine at our core, sacred, and as Richard Rohr and others have said, the cross isn’t about changing God’s mind about us, it’s about changing our mind about God. The big aha (gospel, good news) is that we are faithfully loved and cherished. The Creator who said “it is good” looks at us, Christ bearing, made in God’s image humans, and says, “My beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

Our call is to be us, truly us.

Of course there are wounds and deep scars. Some have been inflicted upon us, and some are self inflicted. Heaviest of all, some we have inflicted on others. But, don’t let my acknowledging this truth distract us from the stronger truth of who we truly are.

We, as our truest selves, are claimed. We are God’s own, and loved.

We’re not ducks at all.

“if I don’t, will you throw the stone next time? If anyone here could, by your standards, it would be you. If I do this again next week and the week after and the week after will you throw the stone, Jesus? There has to be a line. When will you throw it, Jesus?”

The hurt on Jesus’s face was evident. “Rachel, that will never happen.” (The Samaritan’s Friend, pages 49 and 50)

The names in the following haven’t been changed to protect the innocent. No one in the following is innocent.

Jimmy told his mom he was spending the night at Phil’s. Jeff, the preacher’s son, told his mom, he was spending the night at Phil’s. Phil, told his mom he was spending the night at Jimmy’s. That night the three twelve year old boys were sitting around a campfire, between the river and the railroad tracks, smoking stolen Winston cigarettes, and practicing their cussing, as they retold dirty jokes they had read in the magazine they weren’t supposed to have.

At some point, just after the last stars had come out, Jimmy casually picked up a stick on the edge of the fire pit so he could toss it into the middle of the blaze. Pain. Ten, on the scale of one to ten, shot from his fingers into his brain as he realized that the stick was more ember than stick. Somehow, he held back tears as he poured water from his canteen on his fingers, and the other two boys laughed at him, not with him.

Later, after they had run out of jokes, and the cuss words were losing their charm, the conversation turned to theology. Jeff, the preacher’s son, asked Jimmy how his hand was. Then, as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire he asked, “Can you imagine what it would be like to burn like that, all over your body, for ever and ever?” Jeff’s father, the preacher, would have been proud. The boys were ready for the altar call.

Jimmy decided right there and right then he was going straighten up. He’d never smoke again, he’d stop cussing, and for sure he’d start paying attention in Sunday School. He meant it. He had decided follow Jesus. Unfortunately, his resolve fell short of lasting forty-eight hours by a good bit.

As the years passed, Jimmy was saved several times. One time in particular, he prayed the sinner’s prayer as he read a gospel tract that featured a cartoon depiction of people from every nation being thrown into a fiery pit. The forty-eight hour barrier was never broken.

More time passed (I guess I can start using the first person singular), and I started hearing things like, “Jesus loves you,” “You’re accepted,” “love never ends,” and “God is love.” I’m sure I had always heard them, they just started taking root. Over time, those words became stronger and more transforming than any reference to punishment.

“Love Lifted Me” became my favorite old time hymn, because, well, love lifted me, changed my heart, gave me new life, helped me see others as sacred, helped me see me as sacred, became a way of life, saved me from a life of fear (How long can I go on? A long time.)

I’ll admit the forty-eight hour barrier probably still stands. We all fall, cuss, and forget, but I’m ever called back. Welcomed. Not condemned. When we stray, the Jesus that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John try their best to show us, searches until he finds, and helps us get back on the path.

It was easy for me to write that Jesus helps a fallen Rachel up, and tells her that he would never throw a stone. Never say never? Well, I believe with all my heart that you can in at least one case.

“One morning, when it was just us, I blurted out, “I’m not much of a prayer guy.” Jesus was quite but I knew I had his full attention. “I mean, I pray but mostly because I feel like I ought to. I run out of things to say. My mind wanders, and I get distracted. And, I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel anything, I get bored.

“Like I said, not much of a prayer guy.”

“Wanna be?” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 28)

The Lord’s Prayer, The Jesus Prayer, breath prayer, prompted prayer, extemporaneous prayer, be still and know, prayer walks, morning devotions, vespers, compline, intercession, praise,“help me”, gratitude, listen, pour it all out, “wow”, ACTS, confession, conversational, collect, praying the hours, pray at the stop light, chant, sing, dance, pray while washing dishes, ancient prayers, “What’s up?”, “Thou who art”, saying grace, praying in secret, praying in unison, just talk, be sure to listen, contemplative prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Often we view Lent as a time to “work on our prayer life,” but oh my, where to start? Perhaps, before we start working, it would be good to remember that our prayer life is just that, it’s a life. It’s not so much doing this or saying that as it’s a way of living. The apostle Paul said it this way, “In God, we live and move and have our being.”

A few years ago, I heard a bashful young woman confess to a wise nun that she wasn’t sure how to pray. The nun took her hands, looked into her anxious face, and said, “Dear one, if you’re breathing, you’re praying.” It’s life. The invitation is not so much to do it as it is to become aware of it.

With that in mind, receive this blessing as you begin your work:

Where to start?

Anywhere.

When to start?

Now.

How to start?

Take the first step. Say the first word.

Breathe.

Knowing that you are welcome.

Knowing that you already started.

You started right here. Right now. A while back.

You’re breathing. You’re praying.

The Spirit smiles like your best friend smiles when she sees you coming.

“Jesus had dark brown eyes, very dark. When he was serious, you hoped he wouldn’t look at you. You knew the gaze would be too intense. You were certain that he would see through every mask and know all your secrets – every sin, every shameful act or thought. But then, when he did look at you, it wasn’t like that at all. Yes, he saw right through you and he saw all that stuff, but it wasn’t with harshness or judgment. It was kindness, hope, and possibility… you were stunned to realize that he thought you were, well, just wonderful.” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 24)

What would your theology be in one, simple sentence? I crowd-sourced that question on Facebook a few days ago, and I got some very good responses:

– Jesus loves me, this I know

– God is love

– Be kind to one each other

– Do as Jesus instructed

– Love God and others

– The One who knows me best loves me the most

– We are never alone

– You cannot look into the eyes of anyone that God doesn’t love

And, proving the effectiveness of a couple of ad campaigns, He Get Us and #BeLikeJesus.

And, I got a couple of head scratchers.

I appreciated greatly my friends sharing a piece of their heart, and they certainly gave me some good pondering material. However, the reason behind my asking is the realization that my own foundational sentence has recently changed.

For several years, “Love God and love others” was bedrock for me. Now it’s, “I am loved.” I believe our loving God and loving others rests on this. Our ability to love is a sharing of the love we have received. We love because we are loved.

That may sound sweet and simple, but I actually find it very hard to take in. Like a lot of folks I find it relatively easy to believe God loves others, everybody. But in my doubting heart, my membership in the club called “everybody” is occasionally in question.

I could give a lot of reasons for my feeling this way. Some I can reason away, others are more sticky. For now, let’s just saw it’s quite a list.

This is why I have always had trouble with the concept of loving neighbors like I love myself. A lot of days, that’s not a very high bar.

But, what if Christ actually does think I’m wonderful? A miracle? A bearer of a divine spark? Well, that would completely change everything, wouldn’t it? It certainly takes loving others to whole new level.

So breathe it in for a few seconds you wonderful, miraculous, divine spark carrying, you. Seriously, breathe in “I am loved,” breathe out, “I love.”

That’s the breath of life. Everything grows for there.