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.

“We weren’t the first to arrive that morning. Sitting off in a corner was my new friend, the tax collector, Matthew. He was sitting close to the back corner, on one of the benches against the wall. His head was bowed and his shoulders so slumped and sad looking that it was hard to see that he was actually rather tall and strong.” (The Samaritan’s Friend page 17)

In Luke, chapter 18, Jesus tells a story about two men praying in the synagogue. One is reminding himself, and God, that he is living the good life. He gets it. He’s on God’s dean’s list. He says, “I thank you,” but can you really thank God while patting yourself on the back?

The other man can barely mumble, “God, be merciful to me.” He doesn’t say why he so desperately desires mercy, he just labels himself a sinner.

I’m sure you remember which one Jesus likes best but, let’s not rush to that.

The guy who refers to God once and himself four times while praying certainly isn’t a sympathetic figure, but he is keeping a good Lent. He’s fasting. He’s tithing. He probably didn’t wash last Wednesday’s ashes off till Friday morning. Truth be told, he’s the one I resolve to become every year around this time. Oops.

In spite of our desire to do better, it’s not the religious honor student that finds God, it’s the one that sounds pitiful. The one that’s checking all the right boxes, misses it.

That’s a little distressing. Surely Lent’s invitation isn’t to become pitiful and halt all religious practices.

It is necessary however, to see that Lent’s invitation is more about the heart than actions. Doing this, doing that, doing more of this, and a lot more of that, is a hard and fast way to get nowhere.

The proud man would probably disagree. He wasn’t the one slumped in the corner. His heart didn’t hurt at all. According to his scoreboard, he was winning. It’s likely he went home feeling pretty good about himself.

The man asking for mercy might not want to agree either. His heart hurt. He felt like he was lost. He obviously had some deep regrets, and wasn’t happy with the way life was going. When he shook the rabbi’s hand at the end of the service, he did not say, “Enjoyed it, Rev.”

Is that the price we pay for giving up the merit badge chase? Is this part of what it means to “take up your cross?” Does the pain of falling short push us to the back corner, buried by our failure to be the spouse, parent, friend, person we hoped to be?

This is where good spiritual directors ask, “What do you think God says about all this?” So, what is God saying to us, as we sit back in the furthermost corner?

Like I said earlier, I’m sure you remember which one Jesus likes best.

I can easily picture Jesus, who is sometimes referred to as God-among-us, smiling politely at the proud man as he walks by, on his way to go and sit with his friend in the corner.

It’s harder than checking all the right boxes. Box checking feels good. Heart rending, well, it rends your heart. But, somehow Christ approves and says, “Now you’re on the right track. Where do you want to go from here?”

“As they walked away, I wondered where they were going. I wanted to ask. I wanted to talk some more. What I really wanted was for them to take me with them. Just as I was realizing this, Jesus stopped and turned around. He looked at me for long moment, grinned like he was daring me and said, ‘You want to come?’

Didn’t bother to ask where. ‘Yes. Yes I do?’” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 10)

The first chapter of The Samaritan’s Friend is my retelling of the marriage at Cana; the wedding recounted in John, chapter two, where the water gets turned into wine. Good wine. Not six dollars a bottle, and bunch of it. A bunch.

I had a hard time writing about that. Not because I have a problem with alcohol in the Bible. I like the idea of Jesus providing good wine at a wedding. It says a lot about him, who he was, and how Christ is present in life’s sacred times. Again, it was good wine and a bunch of it. My struggle is not concerning what the guests were drinking. I struggle with miracles.

Water changing into high quality wine, blind folks instantly seeing clearly, people who have been unable to stand for decades jumping up and dancing; these things are problematic for me.

It’s not because I don’t believe that the One who exists before the universe, and taught bumblebees to fly, can’t pull these things off. And just between us, I’ve witnessed more than a couple of events that defy reasoning and go beyond typical human experience. I just don’t think expecting a life of jaw dropping, rescuing from struggle, miracles is the path.

Going through life thinking that the seas will part and giants will be easily defeated leads to magical thinking. (Magic as in delusional, not magic as in first kisses or babies lying on your chest.)

Seas rarely part, giants often win, and beautiful people are crucified. That’s the reality of it.

Welcome to Ash Wednesday. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Jesus’s call to come and follow is a call to walk in that reality. It’s a call to know that Christ is present when we throw up after chemo, or weep bitterly, wishing for one more afternoon with a loved one.

Been there. Done that. Christ was present.

Of course, life isn’t all hurling and grieving. There are jokes, hugs, and hearts filled with love. But, hear me, I’ve observed all that coming from a man in a wheelchair.

The peculiar call of Ash Wednesday and Lent is to dare to follow into reality, not a Jesus themed Disney world.

It is a dare. It requires courage, and it requires faith. A faith that trusts that somehow, someway, even though there may be some pretty tough days, the worst word is never the last word.

You want to come?

Rejoice with me friends! My book, The Samaritan’s Friend, has been published and is available in all the usual online places.

Since you follow this blog, I would like to make an offer that holds a small request.

If you would like a free copy, send me an email, Hunter62415@gmail.com and I will send one, signed if you wish. The ask is that after reading it, you post a picture of the book on social media, saying that you read it, and that you also find the book on amazon.com and give it an honest review. Yep, I’m enlisting you as my launch team.

No worries if you have other things on your plate, but if you do read it, I love to hear what you think.

Grace, Jim

In a few weeks I will turn 70, completing my seventieth spin around the sun as they say.

I like saying it that way. A year long trip around our personal star feels cooler than adding another candle to a crowded cake. Plus, it inspires some pondering.

This year, I’m taking the ride with over 7 billion other Homo Sapiens. That’s a bunch of passengers. Over the course of our planet’s life maybe 117 billion of us have been born.

Of course it took us between 200,000 and 300,000 years to do that. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the mountain outside my western North Carolina window is 480 million years old. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the earth is 4.5 billion years old. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the universe is 13.7 billion years old. I’m not sure what was, or how old that may be, before the universe exploded into existence.

On top of it all, we’re invited to consider that the One who started this with such wild extravagance, has no beginning.

Back to our personal star. It’s not surprising that some ancients considered Sol a deity. He keeps us alive, makes things grow, and if he goes out, we go out. I don’t pray to him but I sure appreciate him. He lives in the neighborhood we call The Milky Way, which has between 100 and 400 billion other stars. It’s a pretty big neighborhood, about 100,000 light years across. There are maybe 100 billion such neighborhoods. We call them galaxies.

Meanwhile, on the back deck, there is a spider meticulously weaving her web. She’s hoping a gentleman spider will come by, they’ll hit it off, and she can get her eggs tucked away before it gets too cold. I believe that the One that knows when sparrows fall, the one without a beginning, is somehow in her and with her.

Maybe Adam, the Terminix man, won’t notice her when he comes by next week. I’m not going to point her out.

So here we are, the current Charlotte and me, riding an air bubble around my favorite star.

In the immensity of all this, here’s something I believe about Charlotte the spider. And me. And you. You remember Pooh’s buddy, Tigger? I believe he got it right when he sang, “The wonderful thing about Tigger is I’m the only one.” He is the only one, and I believe we can all sing with him, inserting our names.

In the vastness of time and space, you and I are completely, for ever and ever, unique. There has never been a you, and there will never be another you. That’s true for snowflakes, leaves, spiders, you, and me. If possible, that makes us all, the whole thing, even more amazing and sacred.

My plan when I do hit 70 is to take a walk. Nod to the sun. Watch a leaf fall. Hum a little “All Creatures of Our God and King.” Be glad I was born.