 By Diane Pate
As I am writing, it is the day after Christmas, the day known around the world as the Feast of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. My first thought is that it’s a shocking story to celebrate immediately after Christmas, yet after some guided reflection, I am struck by how much this story underlines for me a word I’ve been considering this season and into the new year. That word is tension. In the Christmas story, as I see God breaking into the world as the “God with us,” there is tension between joy and sorrow. The baby born in a manger and heralded by angels and kings with great joy grew up to be despised, rejected and crucified, identified as “the man of sorrow, acquainted with grief.” Similarly, in Stephen’s story, Stephen, full of grace and power, did great wonders and signs among the people, yet he was stoned by those who could not withstand the wisdom and Spirit with which he spoke. Tension. In this violent scene, Stephen dies seeing Jesus standing at the right hand of God and he calls out for God to receive his spirit. Joy among the horror. Incarnation offers both promise and threat. Stephen hands over his life to Jesus as gift rather than as loss. I feel tension today as I wake up with a full stomach and a stack of thoughtful presents from yesterday’s family celebration, yet remembering that my brothers and sisters in many parts of the world are waking up to empty stomachs, fear and desperation. My culture’s ideology is inclined to success and strength, yet I am learning that God’s grace flows mostly downhill toward the lowly places. This grace is welcomed by the poor, the sick, the downcast and the outcast. This grace flows downhill in my life where I am humble, weak, vulnerable and poor. I am blessed by the many places where I am strong, loved, purposeful and valued, but I must remember to look for God’s grace with humility and trust as it rolls downhill to the lowly ash heap of my broken places. This is where the grace of God will appear. As I anticipate a new year, I want to hold that tension between joy and sorrow, knowing that the “God with us” is in both, and having an attitude of attendance and expectancy as God breaks into my daily and ordinary life. Coming into the new year, where do you see or experience tension in your life? Is there a lowly ash heap of your broken place that needs God’s grace? Where do you need humility and trust to receive God’s promise? What threat keeps you from accepting it?  By Kenton W. Smith, D.Min., DASD
3:36 AM. Awake…again. Mind working, whirling. Body tossing, turning. Spirit restless in the dark. In my mid eighth decade sleep is impoverished. But Presence is lurking. In the biblical narrative night is a time of brooding unaware of something unimagined being born in the unconscious. What I am writing is not routine, it is not in my training as a theologian or spiritual director. Something unorthodox taught me that chaos is something and a whole lot of something comes of it. I was trained as many of us in the spiritual arts of direction: silence, listening, the long loving look at the real, gazing, the Experience Circle, cataphatic/apophatic prayer, Lectio Divina, the Examine, Centering Prayer, journaling, walking in nature, the Rosary, Reformed spirituality, Catholic spirituality, Feminist spirituality, Ecospirituality, the Ignatian Exercises, discernment (personally and systemically), theopoetics, artistry, Taizé, et al. Like most of us I have practiced various forms of these disciplines for nearly thirty years. I was filled to overflowing…and then I was not. Maybe I was bored, distracted, trying too hard. Maybe I was aging out. Or maybe it was something Else. Something original, fresh born. In the early 2000’s I was a group facilitator in the DASD program at SFTS. Our instructor invited us to discover our own name for God. We could hold to one or all the names we knew for the Mystery we call God or search for something more personal, alive, enduring. I confess by this time the name of Jesus had worn out on me. Overuse I suppose, weaponized by some, commercialized by too many, hijacked by politicians. During an hour of silence it came to me, moving, stirring, energizing, bonding to my soul and body. Ever since I have been married to this secretive name*, never wavering, never fading, moving through me like a life form not my own yet my own. But I forgot the spiritual practice of naming. I kept on keeping on until I couldn’t. Twenty some years later it was 3:36 AM. Awake. Chaos inside. A cataphatic apophatic swirl of consciousness and unconsciousness streaming thoughts and images of God mixed with nonsense and longing. It felt raw unhinged like prayer without shape or discipline or practice. I forced myself to return to the mantra of my secretive name: Desire of My Heart*. Begging to fall asleep. Then out of nothing, something moving through from the other side, something unspoken, unheard, but present and active. It was just a notion like “Who am I to you, who do you say I am?” Only it wasn’t like that, it was more like a life-giving energy that sought me out. Over the next weeks the invitation returned nightly and “tapped” through my unconscious to my conscious knowing. These qualities are not theology or dogma which are attempts to describe God as a thing “[and] by their very nature are inadequate” but “can only be expressed in symbols or analogies(1)." Theology is faith seeking understanding(2) , spirituality is faith seeking intimacy (3). Intimacy with God is a whole lot of something. * The essential nature of God is Beauty. Beauty is a mystical presence (O’Donohue). All the world is beautiful, everyone is beautiful, I am beautiful. * The essential nature of God is Belonging. Everyone belongs. I belong. As a helpless introvert I have rarely known actual belonging. * The essential nature of God is Friendship. The existential nature of my knowing God is not that of superior but that of an equal. This is the meaning of incarnation, isn’t it? I am lonely for human friendship but this perceived experience of God is like a bond of mutual attraction. * The essential nature of God is Good. My (our) essential nature is good. Nothing about us can extinguish what God has created in us. *The essential nature of our nature is created Unfinished. Creation is unfinished. God is unfinished. I am unfinished. Like my secretive name for God these cautiously stated notions are mantras that grow my being and thriving in a way of knowing myself, seeing others, referencing my lived relationship to God. The mantras expand my consciousness of the world, its beauty, wonder, griefs and sorrows, work to be done. Are they enough? Of course not, the Mystery of God can only be expressed in limited terms and each of us will only have limited notions. I really can’t explain how this works, nothing is something, when I go into the unknown the unknown knows me and desires to be known by me. 1 Lucien Joseph Richard, The Spirituality of John Calvin (Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press, 1974), 186- 187. 2 Attributed to St. Augustine and St. Anselm. 3 Andrew Dreitcer, “The History of Christian Spirituality” (course notes, San Francisco Theological Seminary, DASD, 1998).  By Jim Peterson
Take a moment to gaze at the image. Really open yourself to let it in and stir you. Be fully present to the scene and immerse yourself in it for a while. What feelings arise? What memories are stirred? Does some inclination to respond come to you? 2 When we wake up or are struck awake fortuitously as I was by this scene, and truly pay attention -- when we pay real, deep attention -- we come to see the world in an altogether new way. We “see” what is deeper, more real, more alive. The world shimmers with light, vitality, and unity, all held in love. Poets have long known this and expressed it in ways that open us to this wonder. Two examples: O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. --Edna St. Vincent Millay: God’s World I have to wonder what scene Millay came upon that day. Certainly one comparable in awesomeness to the one I saw at Lake Tahoe. Such love does the sky now pour, that whenever I stand in a field, I have to wring out the light When I get home. --Saint Francis of Assisi Here Saint Francis does not seem to respond to an extraordinary scene that would catch the attention of all but the most jaded. He simply stands in a field, and sees with deep eyes. I recall an experience I had once when, upon going outside at midday for a walk I was suddenly struck by a light, a brilliance, an inner aliveness that seemed to pervade the bushes and trees nearby, and even to reside in everything I saw. It was as though the leaves were the very source of light, rather than mere reflectors. They seemed to dance and shimmer from an aliveness that came from within. The entire world seemed aglow. And I was a participant in it. I was indeed astonished! Though this experience lasted only a short while, I have since lived with the knowledge that what I saw then is always present, whether I notice it or now or not -- and I do get hints of it from time to time if I am paying deep attention. What astonishing experiences have you undergone that have opened you up to a deeper reality? Perhaps gazing on your newborn child, the wonderment of a new relationship, or … ? One of the barriers that keeps us blinded to the splendor of the world, is our practice of labeling what we see and, having labeled it, proceeding as though the label captures the essence. This is a useful practice for navigating our environment and our days -- if we stopped to truly see everything before us, we’d barely make it out of the house in the morning! But if we never stop and open to the wonder that is always all around us, we miss the heart of what it is to be alive. Sometimes it takes the actions of children to reawaken us to this wonder: the little girl reaching up to try to touch a butterfly, or a young boy delighting in making big splashes in a small puddle. My granddaughter wakened me to her wondering eyes once when (at about age 3) she lay down in the grass among the fallen autumn leaves, gazing up at the leaves still falling, and making “snow” angels with her arms and legs in the leaves already fallen. She saw just as Edna St. Vincent Millay saw. What habits or ways of making your way in the world have kept you from seeing with wonder and being astonished. Conversely, what opens you to being astonished? As you ponder these questions, may you find ways of letting your attentiveness lead you into an openness to astonishment. “Pay attention, Be astonished, …” Then, perhaps, you will be moved to “Tell about it!” Footnotes: 1 This is the second phrase in a three-phrase stanza (#4) of the poem, “Sometimes,” by Mary Oliver. The three together are: Pay attention; be astonished, tell about it! 2 The photo was taken at Lake Tahoe one afternoon. I was in a room overlooking the lake when I saw this happening outside and was so astonished, I quickly took out my iPhone camera and snapped the image. A pure gift, there for a moment and gone.  By Savoy Stevens
In a world that often pushes us to hide our flaws and project a perfect image, authenticity and vulnerability are acts of courage. They require us to take off our masks and allow ourselves to be seen—flaws and all. And while it can feel risky, these qualities are essential for true growth and transformation. When we think of growth, we often imagine it as a straight path upward. But more often than not, real growth looks messy. It involves moments where we feel lost, uncertain, or even broken. The truth is, those uncomfortable moments are precisely where transformation happens. In 2 Corinthians 12:9, Paul writes, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." God doesn't wait for us to be perfect to work in our lives. He meets us in our vulnerability and uses it as the foundation for growth. Authenticity, then, becomes the key to opening that door. When we are honest about who we are—our fears, our struggles, our doubts—we invite God to step in. It’s not about having it all together but about having the courage to admit when we don’t. Psalm 34:18 reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” It’s in our brokenness, not our perfection, that we often experience God’s presence most profoundly. Vulnerability also builds resilience. When we acknowledge our weaknesses, we become more open to God’s strength working through us. In letting go of the need to appear strong, we gain a deeper reliance on God. Vulnerability allows us to lean into this trust, knowing that we don’t have to have all the answers.Growth isn’t about avoiding hardship or pretending we have it all figured out. It’s about stepping into the discomfort of vulnerability, knowing that God is with us in those moments. In embracing our authenticity, we create space for God to do His transformative work, shaping us into who we were always meant to be. So, the next time you feel the pressure to be perfect, remember that God’s grace shines brightest through your cracks. It’s in those moments of vulnerability that real growth takes root and flourishes. Be authentic, be vulnerable, and trust that God is doing something beautiful within you.  By Jim Peterson
Wake up. Look. See! To pay attention to life Is to gain one’s life. What, wisdom asks, do you get when you really pay attention to your life? A life! This suggests that life in its fullest is lived only as we pay attention to it. On the reverse side, it has been observed that that of which we are unconscious rules us. Our behavior is largely shaped by forces, dispositions, habits, beliefs, assumptions of which we are mostly unaware because they are so deeply embedded in our body, psyche, and spirit. We can sleep our way through life spurred and guided by such unconscious influences. But this need not be the case; we can wake up, the first step on the journey of spirit. The antidote to walking through life in our sleep is the practice of paying attention. The Hebrew scriptures tell the story of Moses encountering a burning bush in the wilderness. When he sees the bush ablaze yet not consumed, he stops, turns, and pays attention. Elizabeth Barrett Browning captures such a moment as only a poet can: “Earth’s crammed with heaven / And every common bush afire with God, / But only he who sees takes off his shoes; / The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.” [Excerpt from Aurora Leigh] I like to think that the bush Moses saw was ablaze all day long, and many a traveler had passed by unseeing; only Moses was practiced enough in paying attention to see something more than a brightly lit bush. Have you ever experienced something like this: seeing something or someone with wider eyes, with the eyes of the heart, where something more, something deeper that is there all along is revealed? But there is more to the story. It goes on to reveal that when Moses paid attention, he was instructed to take off his shoes – this was holy ground, after all; it is sacred space that we enter when we pay deep attention. Then Moses is addressed by a voice from the bush that ultimately leads to his calling to be the leader and former of a nation. The steps in this story are: stop / turn / attend / listen / and respond. Moses full life is revealed and turns on this experience, which starts with his paying attention. The challenge for us is that paying attention in this deep way is hard work. It takes intention, an act of our will. And it is fraught with uncertainty and fear: What will we “hear”? Will it call for a response that we don’t want to make (Moses, indeed, argued vigorously with God about his calling). Will it dislodge us from our comfortable life (shepherding, in Moses’ case)? Will we be safe afterwards? Will we be alone; who will accompany us? These are fundamental questions of life’s meaning, of safety, of belonging. Sometimes it is so much easier to stick with sleepwalking through life where these questions can be kept, we imagine, at bay. For us to take the risk of paying attention we need to open ourselves in trust that this is what the journey of faith requires and that we come into the fullness of who we are and are meant to be only in this way. This is not a trust that we can gin up for ourselves. It must be uncovered, discovered, received, taken in. While life experience can sometimes undermine this process of trust building, it is when we attend to life more fully that it can generate, build, and sustain our trust. If we cannot find it readily within ourselves, the deep trust in Life we observe in others can help. Here too, paying attention (in this case to others) is a fruitful practice. Moreover, trust builds on trust, and if we step out in small ways, the results can make bigger steps possible. The underlying engine of this growth is the practice of paying attention and in doing that, responding as we are able. In what ways has trust grown in you? How has your own attentiveness to unfolding life played a role in this growth? Ultimately, our trust is in the “voice” we hear from the burning bush – in the “more,” the universe, a higher power, or the mystery we call God (or any of several other names). It is, at heart, a relationship. It is not just a “what” we are paying attention to, but more deeply a “who.” As we pay attention more and more to this “who,” we discover more and more the fullness of our own life. Wake up! Look and see. And gain your life. |