Like a Weaned Child

Yesterday, through friends, the Lord reminded me of  this quiet childlike posture he began teaching me in 2007 according to my journal. They reminded me of Psalm 131, and so I went searching for it in my many journals.  I found that, back then,  I was recognizing the need for Sabbatical, but not realizing it as a lifestyle.  I have continued to wrestle instead of rest.  One friend graced me with Corrie ten Boom's words, "Jesus was Lord, is Lord and will be Lord.  Don't wrestle, just nestle."  As I considered the words of I John 4:10, "...not that we loved God, but that He loved us,"   I remembered these words from Jill Philip's song, "Gently lay your head upon my chest; I will comfort you like a mother while you rest."   For me, at least a couple trips around this "doing and overdoing" mountain are teaching me about a pride in my heart that still wants to arrange for love for myself in activity.  His rebuke yesterday was gentle and full of love that I long to repent of this pride and once again to understand this love better.  So I review these thoughts given to me a few years before with new anticipation.

This Psalm outlines the process of rest and trust.   The perfect picture of trust is a small child asleep against the chest of his/her mother, listening to her heartbeat.  When we are proud (wanting greatness and approval), when we are haughty (casting our eyes about judging, anticipating that next move of an enemy) and when we involve ourselves with great matters or things too difficult (trying to control the uncontrollable), these activities bring our soul off the lap of our Father.  As Wayne Jacobsen says in So You Don't Want to Go to Church Anymore, we become driven by “our anxiety that God is not working on our behalf.”  I want to learn a trust that leans on His chest.  As Jacobsen writes, "Trusting doesn’t make you a couch potato. As you follow him you’ll find yourself doing more than you’ve ever done, but it won’t be the frantic activity of a desperate person, it will be the simple obedience of a loved child."

Psalm 131

O Lord, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty.

Nor do I involve myself in great matters, or in things too difficult for me.

Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; like a weaned child rests against his mother,

My soul is like a weaned child within me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord

From this time forth and forever.

In response to Psalm 131, I wrote these words four years ago.  Here I am in the fall.  The fall, gracious and silent, lies down with a throw and sighs contentedly.  This fall reminds me of my years living near the the stillness of the Ponderosa Pines in the Front Range of Colorado where the air was utterly still, cool and clean.  I felt that I was resting under the wing of the Holy Spirit, so it is with this Nebraska fall.   The air has the same golden cool, clean still quality; the angle of the sun produces a more orange sunlight to replace the bright white sunlight of summer.  This golden light reflected in warm orange, yellow and crimson colored leaves relaxes like a good yawn and stretch.  The whole earth is yawning and stretching, getting ready for its much deserved and long overdue winter rest.  And so the natural rhythm of life is that activity must necessarily give way to stillness, rest.   Natural rhythms seem to point to the rhythm of grace – ceasing all striving, all the work and receiving the God-given gift of being relaxed in his love, accepted, as the Psalmist says like a “weaned child on his mother’s breast."  Living there, living in grace is perfect contentment.  So I join contentment on my deck though an anxious child wanting so badly to do it herself, to impress her daddy, and to secure her own future whines noisily. I take that child in my arms and rock her slowly.  “Listen to the quiet and settle down for a nap,” I tell her,  "Daddy has done everything; there is nothing left to do."

I am grateful for the gentle cycles of the seasons.   I am grateful for His gentleness in the cycles of my own sins and shortcomings.   I can learn to trust and lean on and love a daddy who is so steady and sure in His pursuit of me.  I can love a daddy who will patiently teach me the same lessons over and over again.  I am so glad he has disappointed every illusion I've had about myself, that he has thwarted every attempt to gain confidence in the approval and attention of others, and that He has left me no place to go but home.  At home I find Him waiting in his large, stuffed chair waiting to hold me again.  I can really live here. 

Shared Light

In the beginning, the Word already existed, He was with God, and her was God.   He was in the beginning with God.  He created everything there is.  Nothing exists that he didn't make.  Life itself was in him, and this life gives light to everyone.  The light shines through the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. John 1:1-5, 14

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.  Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord. Ephesians 5:8-10

Light is the quality God chooses to share with us; it is the name he chooses to share with us.  In Matthew 5:14, Jesus says, "You are the light of the world."   He doesn't say we become the light or that we imitate the light.  Rather, it is something that we are in the Lord.   A life event triggered some feelings of inadequacy, some issues of low self esteem.  Pride.   I chose to hold these feelings and issues before the Lord.  Something I don't always do.  Sometimes I wallow in it a while.  I believe the Lord gave me a picture of a single candle burning in the darkness and reminded me of the truth, 'You are the light of the world.'   He is the light; I am the light.  Holy Wonder.

Now light is often thought of as displacing darkness, revealing blemishes, or pushing back evil.  No doubt it it. But light also gives life, comes from life, nourishes life and is set inside our lives as believers.  The implications for rest are enormous.  Light shines or doesn't shine.  It never strives to shine.  Light simply is or is not.  The light in our life comes from being with the Light, absorbing the light.  I think when our behavior is less than enlightened by the law.  Our failure is not in our trying to be the light, but our failure to absorb the light, a failure of identity with the light.  

The antidote for a soul diseased by shame is always a reminder of identity.  I am the light; you are the light.  Darkness, even our own darkness, can never extinguish it.  Our failures do not disqualify us as children of light.  A candle is a candle.  It doesn't make itself one.  We need to be continually replacing our identity and walking as children of light because that's what we ARE, not what we become.  Somehow through this process of accepting and holding on to this identity, we discover what pleases the Lord.  Wonder of wonders, we become pinpoints of Kingdom-of-God light breaking through into and invading the darkness of the kingdom of this world wherever we are.   We are part of a transformation of cosmic proportions hidden in the dailiness of our ordinary lives.  No matter who we are, we've been given a significance so large as it should crowd out our small feelings.

What are you doing here Elijah?

1 Kings 19:9-13

New Living Translation (NLT) 

9 There he came to a cave, where he spent the night.
The Lord Speaks to Elijah But the Lord said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

10 Elijah replied, “I have zealously served the Lord God Almighty. But the people of Israel have broken their covenant with you, torn down your altars, and killed every one of your prophets. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me, too.”

11 “Go out and stand before me on the mountain,” the Lord told him. And as Elijah stood there, the Lord passed by, and a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 12 And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And a voice said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?

I was sitting comfortably in the home of a faithful sister in the Lord.   My purpose was to meditate on these words and practice silence.  Hoping to hear that gentle whisper Elijah heard.  Don't you love Elijah.  He's so brutally honest before the Lord.   I've been serving you, and let me tell you it stinks.   That's his answer to the Lord's question, "What are you doing here Elijah?"  They (the people of Israel) seek his life, the ultimate rejection despite all his work on behalf of Israel and on behalf of the Lord himself.   And they (Ahab, Jezebel and company) are clearly wrong, and he's the one exhausted, hiding in cave. Nice.

Then the Lord literally shakes him up, three times, three different ways.  Finally comes the whisper and the question again, "What are you doing here Elijah?"    Those words were haunting me this morning because I am so interested in the subject of doing and not doing and when to do the doing and how to think about the doing.  Shoot, my head is a windstorm.  Then my eyes drifted to this painting on the wall of my Jesus sister's room.

The painting is "The Storm on the Sea of Galilee" by Rembrandt van Rijn.   From my chair, I noticed first the figures in the light.  These disciples are in the rigging fervently working the sails, keeping the boat afloat, and keeping everyone safe.  They didn't know or didn't understand that Jesus was capable of stilling the sea, of erasing the danger, of eliminating the need to work so fervently and so hard.

I had to get up and walk across the room to see the figures in the back of the boat, in the shadow.   I stood there a while and had to look at the painting closely to find the face of Jesus and to notice the faces of those beseeching and questioning Jesus.  They are all gathered around looking into his face, straining to hear his voice. Art critics say that because there are fourteen figures in the painting that Rembrandt painted himself into that painting along with the twelve disciples and Jesus.  I feel as if brother Rembrandt is inviting me to do the same, and so I read Mark 6:45-52 and Matthew 11:28-30.   And I think about that day on Sea of Galilee.  

Then my eyes fall on some words I highlighted in Learning to be Comfortable with Silence by Terri Loewens.  She says about that verse in Psalm 46:10 'Be Still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth'  these words: "I looked at the verse in a number of translations.  The words 'be still' can also mean: 'That's enough! Calm down'  'Let go of you concerns'  'Stop fighting'  'Step out of the traffic and take a long, loving look at me, your High God'  'Cease striving'  'Let go'  'Relax.' "    That's what I am doing Lord.  Learning to take a long, loving look at your face.  

Later in a small gathering of sisters, the Lord drives home his new task for me.  It's like listening to the sweet chimes of my great grandmother's mantle clock. Ding. One sister reminds me of the words of a hymn: "Turn your eyes upon Jesus; Look full into His wonderful face.  And the things of this world will grow strangely dim; in the light of his glory and grace." Ding. Another sister sees a picture of Jesus and I gazing at one another. He turns and silences the voices of accusation in my head.  Ding.  Another sister remembers these words from her meditation: Let all the tumult in me cease,/ Enfold me Lord in your peace.  Then the hour with him is over.  I am overwhelmed with His love and His gentleness.

The word of the Lord was coming to me and answering my "doing" questions.  Oswald Chambers writes the "measure of the worth of our public activity for God is the private profound communion we have with Him (where) worship, waiting and work go together as demonstrated in the life of Jesus."  What are you doing here Pam?   I'm coming down from the rigging and the engineering of my own safety to the back of the boat, to see your face, and to wait for you to calm the waves, to wait for you to say, "Peace, be still."

Shame, The Darkened Skin

 Don't stare at me because I am dark -- the sun has darkened my skin.  My brothers were angry with me; they forced me to care for their vineyards, so I couldn't care for myself -- my own vineyard. (Song of Solomon 1: 6 NLV)


The words come from the young woman, who represents those beloved by Jesus,  in the Song of Solomon.  This poor lover comes to her beloved, Jesus, ashamed because she dark and ugly, exhausted by work in the vineyards.  She's worked in the vineyards of those who've manipulated her in their anger to care for their vineyards. She's worked so hard there has been no time, no energy to care for herself -- her own vineyard.    Work worn and ugly she comes to her lover feeling spent and shamed.  She's worked in the vineyard to keep her angry brothers from being angry with her.  The angry brothers cannot love her leaving her feeling ugly and ashamed, afraid the lover will stare at her in disgust for giving herself to those who would abuse her for profit instead of pursuing her lover.  He understands her need for love.

The lover proceeds to tell her, his lover, how lovely she is.  It doesn't matter that she's become a shabby field hand of angry brothers. Instead, he leads her into secret gardens to speak of how lovely she is.  Responding, relaxing from her shame, she begins to enjoy his gaze rather than fear his stare and to speak of his strength and of his rugged handsome face. Worship.  The two lovers are enthralled with the presence of the other.

He speaks to her again: My Dove is hiding behind the rocks, behind an outcrop on the cliff.  Let me see your face; let me hear your voice.  For your voice is pleasant, and your face is lovely. Catch all the little foxes, before they ruin the vineyard of love, for the grapevines are blossoming.  (Song of Solomon 2: 14-15 NLV)   Again she hides in shame in the rocks; her wasted darkened body is disgusting only to her, not to the lover.  Instead, the lover longs for that face; he longs for that voice.  She asks him to catch all the little foxes that would ruin the vineyard of their love, before they ruin the love as it produces fruit.   The foxes will eat the grapes destroying this vineyard.  Instinctively she know she cannot keep herself from selling herself again to angry brothers or keep herself from hiding in the rocks.  I want to believe you love me, my face, and my voice; Lover defend our love she asks.

My lover is mine, and I am his. He browses among the lilies. (Song of Solomon 2:16)

My Sabbatical Life

This blog started out as a way to chronicle the lessons of a sabbatical year, a year of rest and restoration from a deep, unhealthy weariness that caused physical pain and deep depression.  My sabbatical year turned into a return to busyness and exhaustion; then again to rest.   I'm finding myself in a place where my body will simply not allow me to live life at the frenetic pace I had become accustomed to keeping.  At first I discovered guilt, shame, grief, bitterness, anger and a deep "lostness."  However, day by day I become more and more aware of His priorities, His presence, and His love.  I am learning to live life from a place of centered rest realizing that this isn't a break so that I can do; this sabbatical is the life He's been urging me to live for many years.  I can see that He's sewn the seeds of this life through the words so many people in many places for years, really since my heart began searching for Him and for this deep rest.  Though I've known His love for many years, in My Sabbatical Life I've come to enjoy it, and I don't want to live anywhere else the rest of my life.  "Be still and know that I am God" is not a recess; it's a lifestyle.   Stillness is bringing a slower, richer, more life-giving activity than I've ever known. 

My greedy heart is still prone to plunge itself the muchness and manyness of our culture. I am still confessing the sinful lifestyle of religious perfectionism that insists I can find and give life on my own, that insists that everyone around me validate my efforts.   I still want to stuff the holes in my heart with all that this paradise lost we live in offers.  I still suffer from delusions of grandeur that fool me into believing that I must save and can save every organization, every project, every hurt feeling or every lost heart.   If I don't run in and do, all will be lost.  I live in an imagination that spins more ideas than I can possibly do in a lifetime.  Now I am learning to lay all these distractions at the foot of the cross and walk hand in hand with the Master in a different direction.  Sabbatical is the place from which every new journey, every new relationship is launched.

Jesus is patiently teaching me how to live here and how to find my way back when I wander.   We do well when we share the stories of our journey with one another.   We do well when we speak of what we are learning of Jesus.   We live well when we encourage one another to know Him instead of do more.   If we know Him, we know what He is doing.  If we know Him, we can do that things He is doing and no more.  If we know Him, we know He is already smiling.  If we know Him, even the most mundane tasks are Holy.  If we know Him, we have done all He needs us to do.  He will do the rest.   Discovering what this life looks like and remembering its lessons are the purposes of this blog.  It serves as an altar of remembrance for me, and I hope an encouragement to find Jesus and sit on His lap for you.