"above all things..."

 

"somebody with a hurt that I could have helped,

somebody with a hand that I could have held,

when I just can't see past myself,

Lord, help me be...

"a little more like mercy, a little more like grace

a little more like kindness, goodness, love, and faith

a little more like patience, a little more like peace

a little more like Jesus, 

"a little less like me..."

The above lyrics are from Zach Williams' song, "Less Like Me," and speak to the kind of hope I see as a natural part of the camp experience each summer.  Let me explain.

From January first, throughout the summer, and into the cooler days of autumn, I pray for camp(s).  Part of that prayer is looking for relevant spiritual insights and precedent-setting cases of divine law in the weekly Bible lessons that include passages from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy.

This morning's study of scripture included two prayers that were like bookends, holding the camp experience in the middle between them.  

The first is a passage from I Chronicles that has often been referred to as "the Prayer of Jabez:"

"And Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, "Oh that Thou wouldest bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that thine hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldest keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me." 

This prayer has been lauded in song, sermon, and in a popular book by that title.  It's a prayer that has always puzzled me in its popularity.  Of course I can seen the attraction to a prayer that would bring fulfillment to the promises that Jabez is asking for.   

The other prayer is from III John in the New Testament: 

"Beloved, I wish above all things that thou mayest prosper and be in health."

This prayer, although familiar, has never reached the level of spiritual pop culture recognition that the "Prayer of Jabez" reached in the early days of the 21st century with the publication of its namesake book.

Seeing these two prayers together in this week's lesson, was eye opening for me.  And what I see at camp sits right in the middle of those two prayers.  

As campers our children arrive at camp as guests to be, as a favorite hymn promises, "cared for, watched over, beloved, and protected," -- by staff, counselors, nurses, practitioners, and camp/bunkhouse moms/parents. Their context is one of being the recipient of blessings. 

But exposure to the very nature of camp, starts to nurtures the seed of Christ-like selflessness in them.  They watch a counselor -- tired from a full day of mountaineering or sailing -- rise in the middle of the night to pray with a homesick camper.  The experience the power of selfless service, generosity of heart, extraordinary patience, and seamless grace.  

And their lives begin to take on the purity of John's prayer for others.  Their greatest desire becomes," I can't wait to be on staff."  I know with our daughters, even though they had the opportunity of staying campers for two more years - and being served.  They couldn't wait to be on staff - and serve.  

What happens in their lives -- and in Scripture -- between those two spiritual bookends?  For me, it is the presence of Jesus - and his followers today. It is his Christly example of unselfed love that shifts our prayers from "enlarge my borders," to enlarge my heart.  From bless me, to one of "that thou may prosper and be in health."   

It astounds me that of all the things that John could have wanted for himself, those closest to him, the church he has grown, the community he was in fellowship with -- he would pray for the health and prosperity of one of Paul's followers -- not even his own "tribe," -- as what he wished for above all things.

I will leave this here -- but not before giving thanks for every counselor, staff member, director, facilities technician, and camp mom/bunkhouse parent I witnessed living John's prayer every day this summer. 

thank you. 

offered with Love, 

Cate

"only Jesus..."

 

"and I, 

I don't want to leave a legacy,

I don't care if they remember me;

only Jesus..."

I just wrote an entire post about my evolving relationship with Jesus over the past twenty five years -- and how the Angel Studios production of The Chosen has impacted that relationship -- and  it disappeared.  So...

God must have wanted me to hold it close and only share it one-on-one, or in a much more intimate setting.  I will do that. If you have not watched The Chosen, I can't recommend it highly enough.  If you have questions about my own journey - please feel free to call.  In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this link to Casting Crown's beautiful song, "Only Jesus."  It says it all for me today.

Sending each of you -- all my love, 

Cate

"there was Jesus..."

"when the life I had,
came crashing to the ground;

when the friends I had,
were nowhere to be found;

there was Jesus..."

Dolly Parton and Zac Williams' song, "There Was Jesus," has meant so much to me.

In my faith tradition, we don't talk a lot about our relationship with Jesus. We talk more about the presence of the Christ.  We acknowledge the Christ in consciousness. But this post not about that deeply spiritual concept of Christ. It is about my relationship with Jesus.

"Why?" you may ask, would I write about this, -- especially when I was doing so well at not stirring things up. Because, it isn't honest for me to post month-after-month about the healing power of the Christ, and not acknowledge a relationship that is second only to my love for God.

You see, when everything is stripped from you, and you are left without human comfort, you find him. And once you have found him, you never let him go.

The details of my loneliness -- during a particularly challenging time -- are not important. Suffice it to say that Mary Baker Eddy perfectly described it when she wrote:

“Would existence without personal friends be to you a blank? Then the time will come when you will be solitary, left without sympathy; but this seeming vacuum is already filled with divine Love."
 

Been there. Felt that. And in that seeming vacuum, I found him. Not "him," as in a guy in a white robe, but him as a mentor, a shepherd, a friend -- the one who would lead me out of the emptiness of abstraction, and into the fullness of his living, breathing, palpating love.

In Scripture we are introduced to the man who would inspire gospel choirs to sing: "what a friend we have in Jesus."  To know his friendship is to never be alone again.

I remember well the nights that I sat alone in a near empty apartment and realized that I had no one to call. I had spent all day "taking calls," but felt undeserving of the same unconditional, spiritual acceptance that I try to bring to every call that comes into my office.

You see, I've made choices that did not always align with what others expected of me. My reservoir of trust - in my own ability to intuit divine guidance - sometimes runs low. There are times when I have taken all of my cues about myself, from the opinions of others. And those opinions have, at times, been full of derision.

Sitting in the dark, the light from streetlamps all that illumined the empty silence of an empty room, I begged God for something clear and unquestionable. If I was a bad person, tell me - so that I could repent and change. For all I really wanted was to love, trust, and honor Him - more each day.

What He sent me - however - was not a message. It was a man. It was His son. And in the dark, my heart is flooded with his story. I have felt held in the comfort of his example, his words, his self-sacrificing love.

In my sorrow -- he was there. In my self-doubt - he was there.  With the woman, taken "in the very act" -- he was there. With the mother begging for her daughter's life -- he was there. His words, his comforting touch, his trust in our Father's love -- it has been there to hold me close. It is there to whisper assurance. It was there to rebuke, to restore, to return me to our shared home in the Father's house - time and time again.

Sitting in the silence, I was sitting with him. Not with a specter. Not with a character from a story. Not with a superhero. I was sitting with Jesus. I was asking him about our Father.  Asking him to tell me about His love.  I was weeping in his arms. I was pouring out my heart's deepest questions, and he invariably turned me to his timeless message - "the kingdom of God is within you." Be still. Listen. I am here. I will not leave you comfortless. I have come to you."

Of the 809 times that Mary Baker Eddy refers to Jesus in her writings, 646 of them are without reference to him in connection with "Christ." And though she refers to Christ 868 times, only 494 of those instances are where it is not in connection with "Jesus" or "the Church of Christ, Scientist."

Her relationship to Jesus has humbled me. One night, when my family was living in the carriage house at Eddy's last former home on Beacon Street in Chestnut Hill, I offered to do the security check on "the big house," -- a condition of our residency. As I climbed the stairs - flashlight in hand - I came to her bedroom, and paused. I was curious about the "images" that she surrounded herself with during her darkest hours.

Eddy faced many dark nights in that last house. Her days were filled with writing, healing, founding the Christian Science Monitor, helping to guide church leadership, and facing a world that questioned her every move and decision. Her household would later recount how dark those nights actually were for her at times.

And that night, I noted that on the wall, directly opposite her bed - in that small modest room, were three images. A small painting of a pastoral scene, a familiar painting of Daniel in the Lion's Den, and a portrait of Jesus. One that you might see in many Christian homes of her day.

It took my breath away - to think that she would wake in the night to a painting of Daniel's unfailing trust, a scene reminiscent of her girlhood in Bow, and a portrait of Jesus. I will never forget the feeling of wanting to feel what she had felt when she looked at it. It left me with a longing for something more than just words about Jesus. I wanted to know why his portrait hung on her bedroom wall and what it meant to her.

One night sitting alone in a dark apartment, I understood.

offered with Love,

Kate

"where no fear was..."

"where no fear was..."

This will be a very brief post. My friend, Nancy, shared this extraordinary recording of "Psalm Fifty-three," in Aramaic -- as it was sung in a Georgian church for the Pope's visit.

I couldn't help but wonder, "why the 53rd Psalm?" So I went to my Bible and read along -- not that I thought, for a moment, that I would have the words in the right place - but the sounds were there. Yes, they were plaintive, hungry, hopeful. But it was when my eyes landed on this passage from Psalm 53:5, that I felt it in my bones:

“There were they
in great fear,
where no fear was..."
 

For me, this is the entire message of the 53rd Psalm. One doesn't have to get the words in the right place, in order to feel the power of this psalm in the language Jesus would have known it in.

I can't help but wonder, if, as David wrote this psalm, he wasn't looking into his own heart and feeling the power of self-examination. Was he the "fool" he is referring to in opening passage? Is he the one whom he realizes is seeing his brother man as "corrupt." Is this the fear that he, later in the psalm, realizes - "no fear was?"

I found it so moving to hear this psalm in Aramaic - the language of Jesus, who knew these songs of his ancestor so well. Jesus, who experienced them so deeply. Who, as we know - from his referencing Psalm 22, on the cross - turned to them in times of heartbreak and trial. Would he have recited them, or sung them out from a heart full of longing?  Would he have hungered to know when "the salvation of Israel would come out of Zion, and Israel would rejoice."

Just as these psalms were "at hand" for Jesus, they are here for us -- to turn to in moments of isolation, darkness, and hope.

We - as brothers and sisters in God's love - are as one in our longing to feel His grace resonating through us, and resting on our loved ones, our neighbors, and our global care-community -- as this choir is in its deeper harmonies.

offered with Love,

Kate


You might also like this beautiful recording of our "Lord's Prayer," in Aramaic.

"I and my Father -- are one..."

"i know,
i know,
i am, i am;

i and my Father,
are one..."

Sometimes it starts with a statement of Truth - and then I go looking for the song that I sense must be out there. Today's post happened that way. I woke up with Jesus' declaration "I and my Father are one," filling my heart. And then, Kathy Sarada's, "I am,"  found me. I'd never heard her voice before -- I will not forget it.

The world seems so divided. But it isn't. Don't be fooled. The "friend" who posted a meme that hurts your soul, is as much you, as she is herself. The hatred that fills the news each night is begging for you to give it an identity -- him, her, them, theirs -- but the only identity available is your brother or sister in Christ. Refuse to name it. Refuse to claim it.

For the last few years, one word has tried to take up residence in my heart. That word is, "idiot." It is not a word that I could ever remember saying aloud, or silently to myself -- about anyone. It has always been an offensive word to me. And yet, it has hissed like a snake almost every day for months.

When it first started, I wasn't as alert to its tactics as I should have been. It seemed justified. It seemed like the only outlet I had for venting my sorrow and frustration. It had a name. It had a face. It had a history of reasons for letting that word live. But it wasn't living in "that person," it was taking up residence in my heart. And it was an ugly tenant.

Evicting it was not as easy as you may think it should have been.  It was there banging on the pipes when I woke up each morning.  And it tried to be the last one to turn off the lights at the end of the day.  But I have been vigilant.

Once I realized that my mental or audible voicing of the word "idiot," -- to vent sadness and frustration -- was not stinking up anyone else's "home" -- only mine, I was more alert to its disguises as it approached my door. It would often come in the mask of alertness.  As if I needed to be alert to how ugly the world had become.  But I didn't need to be alert to the stench of cruelty.  That was the lie. What I really needed to be aware of, was beauty, kindness, holiness, honesty. Then anything unlike a beautiful thought, was clearly inadmissible.  And I could start with the word, "idiot." What an ugly word.

To "voice" that word -- silently, or audibly -- was my admission that I was detached from Truth.  To even think it about someone else, was to be detached from another being -- one that I shared a consciousness of our collective humanity with.  It was to separate myself from humanity itself, and thus, to feel detached from my own humanity. And it always felt like I was flailing in space without a tether.

My tethering, which was only, always, ever to God, was found in claiming that "I and my Father were one." This meant that I needed to see every being as an extension of my own family. To feel oneness with God was to feel oneness with those I had cruelly dismissed as "idiots." I am embarrassed to even type that sentence. But to completely and irrevocably evict this word from my house -- my "consciousness of Love," -- I must name it, and claim it, as the mental trespasser it is.

To be one with my Father is to be one with His heart -- to love what, and who, He loves. Impartially, universally, unconditionally. It is to know "grace" -- the unearned and unmerited favor of God.  This is where Christian Science has been a haven of rest for my weary soul. I don't have to figure out who to love. I don't have to determine what is lovable. Christian Science has taught me that love isn't a sorting hat, it is a lens through which everyone and everything is seen in its true nature.

I keep coming back to the story of the Prodigal Son and how often I have sorted myself - or others - either into the younger son's "I am a screw up, but I am so humbly grateful for Your mercy" camp, or the older son's "what about me -- I've done everything right - where's my party" camp. When who I really needed to identify myself with -- the Father.

To be one with the Father -- to feel the beating of His heart -- is to be unconditionally loving.  To love both of your sons with all that you have in your heart. To be waiting for the younger to come home to receive his inheritance, and to be sitting with your lap piled high, just waiting for the older son to realize that "all that you have is already his" and always has been. And to remind him that it is his own brother that had come home.

No matter how his younger brother had behaved, that boy was still his own Father's loved son. It didn't matter how justified the older brother felt by his younger brother's choices. Nothing could deprive him of his own expression of grace. He had every right to know himself as a faithful son -- standing at his Father's side, celebrating the return of a beloved member of His family.

So, although I could write about the healing of this crack in my heart's door all day, suffice it to say that the only five letter word - that starts with an "i" -- I am now admitting into my heart is, "image." There is only the image of God. The image and likeness of Love.  Anyone else doesn't belong here.

Everyday, I still have to ask myself, "What is the image you are admitting? What are you image-ining about your Father's son or daughter? What image is taking up residence in your heart?" And if that other "i" word is banging around, I can't afford the luxury of enjoying its rental income -- and I can't hesitate in serving an immediate eviction notice.

I will leave this here. We are one. We cannot be fooled by the lie that man -- any man -- is a liar. The lie and the liar are one -- that is because, the only lie is, that there is a liar to call ugly names. Man has only one name.  He is the image of Truth. Period.

offered with Love,

Kate


postscript May 6, 2020 -- someone shared this information with me and I feel like I should share it here:

"For the Greeks, “idiot” carried a very precise and special meaning. The person who was only interested in private life, private gain, private advantage, private circumstances and who did not care about the public good or the public welfare.
In both ancient and modern Greece, idiots are those had/have no conception of a public good, common wealth or shared interest in society.

"To the Greeks, the pioneers of democracy, the creators of the demos, such a person was the most contemptible of all. Because even the Greeks seemed to understand: you can’t make a functioning democracy out of idiots."

"have mercy on the traveler..."

"Lord, make soft
the stranger's bed;

rest the weary feet
see the mother,
see the father
see the child,
have mercy on the traveler..."

This summer I've been a traveler. Thousands of miles. Tonight, as I think about beginning my long journey home, Sara Groves song touches me deeply. If you haven't heard  "Jesus, See the Traveler,"  I hope you will take a moment to hear this prayer.

Jesus saw the traveler. He was with them on the road.  Not the Pharaoh carried by slaves in a livery. Not the King in a golden coach.  Not the soldier high in the saddle on a noble horse. No, he spoke to, and of, the stranger in a strange land. The son who wanders from the security of his father's home. The Levite who is robbed on the road and left for half dead until another stranger - a  Samaritan - binds up his wounds. The Canaanite woman who brings her daughter to a strange land for healing.  And he is a stranger who asks for water in a foreign village.

He ministers to the ten lepers he meets on the road. He, himself, a traveler - from city-to-city - preaching the gospel of the kingdom. A stranger, a wanderer, a man in exile, an errant son, an immigrant, a border crosser - these were his people.

When I was preparing to leave home for my own 7 week journey this summer, I was not fleeing anything but familiarity and routine.  But still, I was wakeful for nights learning up to my departure.  Was my car sound enough for such a long drive?  Would our pups think I'd disappeared?  Would my children feel that I'd gone "on holiday," when they were working so hard.  Was I being fair asking my husband to take on my household chores in addition to his own? What if I broke down on the highway? Where would I sleep in the middle of the night?

Knowing that I am an intelligent woman with a car, a credit card, and a love for road trips - you might think that these are silly concerns. But they were insinuating themselves aggressively. I had my car trip-checked my our mechanic twice within a two week period. I called my credit card company and back to let them know exactly what states I would be driving through so that my cards would not be rejected.

And then I thought of the many refugees and asylum seekers who are may be fleeing hostile countries with small children -- and I wept. I had so many resources, and still I was anxious. How must it feel to leave all that is familiar with just what you could carry, with children needing your assistance?

I remember when the girls were little and we would drive from the Midwest to camp each summer. I would get tired and need to rest. I would pull into a rest area and because it was often quite warm -- even at night -- I would leave the car running and tell the girls that "mommy just needs to closer her eyes for a minute" -- but I couldn't rest. I worried that somehow the car would engage into gear and start rolling. I would fret that the girls would figure out how to open their doors -- even though I had the child locks set. I worried about how to keep them safe while I rested. I was not a mother with a baby on her back crossing the desert. I was in a luxury SUV with air=conditioning, snacks, movies, and child locks.

I sorely felt my privilege in the context of their circumstances. How could I be anxious? Yet, I was. However, it was what we had in common that finally brought me peace. Each and every one of us -- as travelers -- has the same, "God with us."

And we have the example of the ultimate spiritual traveler. A man who carried no credit card -- or even a scrip for holding resources, gathering victuals, or saving something for later. This traveler knew that whether he was crossing the wilderness, sleeping in the desert, or navigating a storm-tossed sea, His Father was with him. Paving the way, providing what he needed, comforting him in the night, bringing him to a place of rest.

He had hundreds of precedent setting cases of spiritual trust to refer to. He knew the story of Moses parting the Red Sea, of Hagar finding water flowing from a rock, and the prophet's promise that there would be streams in the desert. He trusted that his Father loved him, just as much as he loved Moses, and Elijah, and Joseph, and Abraham, and...

As I prepare for the next leg of this journey, I am following him into a deeper trust. This passage from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and health with Key to the Scriptures is a traveler's prayer:

"As the children of Israel were guided triumphantly through the Red Sea, the dark ebbing and flowing tides of human fear, — as they were led through the wilderness, walking wearily through the great desert of human hopes, and anticipating the promised joy, — so shall the spiritual idea guide all right desires in their passage from sense to Soul, from a material sense of existence to the spiritual, up to the glory prepared for them who love God. Stately Science pauses not, but moves before them, a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, leading to divine heights."

Whether your summer travels are finished, still in progress, or ready to begin again; -- I pray you feel God's presence guiding you and guarding your every step, mile, boarder-crossing.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"there is a great gulf fixed...."

"all you ever wanted
was my heart, my simple heart
to You, that's all
that really mattered...”

Selah's  "Broken Ladders"  reminds me that when I follow Jesus' example, I am following someone who loves God more than self. Someone who is so willing to deny the ego -- at all costs.

It is his life of self-examination and humility that touches me most deeply these days. Every story, every parable, every wise word, and selfless deed is a signpost leading me into a deeper sense of my own oneness with God.

And this oneness with the divine cannot exist where there is a separate ego that I am defending, grooming, protecting, exalting. But within a deeper desire to for self-nothingness, every gospel story comes alive with new meaning and guidance.

This week, it was the parable of the rich man, and the beggar:

"There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day:

And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table.

And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried;

And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.

But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented.

And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence."

There are a few more citations to this parable -- but this is the part that was included in my Scriptural study this week, so I am focusing on it.

For such a long time, I thought that Jesus, in the telling of this parable, was judging the rich, and comforting the poor. But something about it has never sat peacefully with me.

It just seems so contrary to the same Jesus who refused to get embroiled in judging the woman who was "taken in adultery, in the very act." The Jesus who would rather write in the sand, than weigh in on an obvious case of moral turpitude.

But, if I am nothing else, I am persistent. Or as my teacher and mentor once said, "you are like a dog after a bone, when it comes to this "stuff." No argument here.

Speaking of dogs and bones -- that is where this parable came to life for me. As I read it, listened to it, and studied it over-and-over-again this week, one section in particular stood out to me:

"And desiring to be fed with the crumbs
which fell from the rich man's table..."

It was like a bur in my side. I knew that passage felt familiar. And I knew exactly where it was from. It is, for me, one of the most profound shifts in Jesus' ministry:

"And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.

But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us. But he answered and said, I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.

Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me.

But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs.

And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table.

Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour."

And suddenly I could see, this was not a parable in which Jesus was passing judgment on the behavior of others, but a window on his own inner wrestling.

Before the Canaanite woman's approach and cross-questioning, Jesus was on the fast-track to becoming the Messiah. A royal priesthood. Someone clad in the finest linen and purple. The Messiah was a nationalistic leader. He was expected to defend the Jewish nation's right to the promised land, as the chosen people.

But this woman - a non-Jew no less - throws the worst kind of wrench in that plan. She brings his plan into alignment with his message.  And without pointing fingers, she helps him see the inconsistency. Once seen, his entire ministry shifts.

He begins referring to Samaritans and strangers in his parables. He is giving water to the woman at the well in Samaria. He is found eating with Greeks and Romans. His love is inclusive. His message is universal. His healing is impartial. All are worth, all are welcome, all are whole. The kingdom of God is his nation and it is within everyone. The child of God is his brethren. The beggar - hungering after righteousness, health, and comfort -- is his mentor.

But, he must have also wrestled with the once-upon-a-time arrogance of  "I am not sent, but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel [the Jewish nation.]"  How to reconcile his own journey from royal priesthood to hungry beggar? How to gently -- but honestly -- share this shift with his disciples and his followers? How to humbly own his journey? How to love us enough to let us walk this path with him?  A parable.

And, I love that through this parable, he claims his right to identify himself rightly - with the beggar - when he says:

"And between us and you [the rich man]
there is a great gulf fixed:

so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence."

Such complete redemption.  Such a clear sense of no longer being on that side of the gulf.  Of that old, self-certain "rich man," who can never again cross over, and enter his consciousness of being. He claims his place on the side of the beggar - those hungry for the Love of an all-inclusive Father.

He reminds us that once we have seen the impartial and universal nature of God's love for all -- we can never return to the hell of hierarchies. The brimstone of thinking that there are those who are worthy, and those who are less.  The uncertainty of wondering which side of the gulf we will find ourselves on at any given moment.

Can I just say how much I love this man's example of self-examination and compassion. I love him - more than I can possibly say. Selah's song says what is in my heart:

"Wonderful, merciful Savior,
precious redeemer and friend;

who would have thought
that a Lamb would,
rescue the souls of men? "

offered with Love,

Cate

"i'm just a nobody..."

"The moral of the story is,
everybody's got a purpose.

So when I hear that devil
start talking to me - saying,
"who do you think you are?"

I say:

"I'm just a nobody,
trying to tell everybody
all about somebody,
who saved my soul...”

Casting Crowns'  "Nobody"  is my favorite song today. It had me at "who do you think you are?" I hope you will give it a listen.

My relationship with Jesus Christ has evolved. For some years it was confusing for me. Was Jesus a concept or a man. And did I love Jesus, or just the Christ-spirit that the man Jesus was the highest human example of?

Did I want a relationship with Jesus, or did I just want to understand the Christ-message he delivered to humanity through his recorded words and works?

One late night, while doing a security sweep of Mary Baker Eddy's last former home, I noted the placement of a portrait of Jesus in her bedroom - on the opposite wall from her headboard. This was so moving for me.

I knew something of the many "dark nights of the soul," she had experienced in that particular room -- from the biographies written and personal reminiscences shared by her closest household staff. To discover that, in the darkest hours of her final years there, it was his face that she had had hung on the wall in front of her -- well, to say the least, it touched me deeply. But it also gave me the permission I needed to find my own, more meaningful, relationship with him.

Since then, I have let this relationship "emerge gently." From a deeper reading of the gospels, to my heart's genuine hunger to know him, I've let Love instruct and guide me. Earlier this summer, it was this line from a loved hymn:

"Think what Jesus
did to win thee,
child of heaven,
canst' thou repine?" "

that moved me into a fuller sense of what it means to "love Jesus." The word "repine," -- by the way -- means "to worry or fret."

I have spent this summer, thinking about what Jesus did to win me -- to win my heart. In considering this question, I couldn't help but think of other times whens someone has won my heart. To ponder more deeply, what has "won me over?" Kindness to my children. Mercy shown. A willingness to look beyond a fault or failing. Persistence in loving. An unfailing devotion to seeing the best in someone when it seemed undeserving.

But, what has Jesus done to win my heart? Well, all of those things -- and so much more. And whenever I have felt fretful or worried about anything, I have gone back to this invitation -- to think about what Jesus did to win my heart. It's been so beautiful. And it has encouraged me to get to know Jesus in new ways. And when we know Jesus, we love him. How can we not?

Driving alone, three quarters of the way across the United States this summer, I have had many, many hours to be quiet, to pray, to ask questions, to listen for answers -- or at least a fresh perspective on the question itself. And to be honest, there have been quite a number of times when I found myself fretting or worrying about something.

But time and again, it has been this exercise -- of thinking what Jesus did to win my heart -- that has pulled me up short, humbled the myopathy of personal sense, and refocused my heart on gratitude for his example of love, compassion, selflessness, sacrifice, humility, and grace.

And the most amazing part for me is, that Jesus wasn't trying to win my heart for himself -- but for his Father, our Father -- God. He gave me a perspective on God that superseded any personal sense of himself. He was doing everything he could to show me what an amazing Parent we share. For this, I love him even more.

So now, when "the devil" tries to bait me with the question: "who do you think you are?" I am able to answer with absolute confidence and self-clarity:

"I'm just a nobody,
trying to tell everybody
all about somebody,
who saved my soul..."

I hope you have a wonderful day. With God as my Life, and Jesus Christ in my heart - I know I will.


offered with Love,

Cate

"i've been changed. yes, really changed...."

"I don't know how
to love him;
what to do,
how to move him

I've been changed;
yes, really changed..."

It's been 46 years since I first heard Yvonne Ellian's hauntingly beautiful performance of "I Don't Know How to Love Him" from the film adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber's rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar. I was barely more than a girl, how could I have understood what she was singing about? But I did. Or at least I caught a glimmer of the kind of love that could transform you.

I have known this kind of love. I have been blessed by it, confused by it, and yes, changed by it. There are times when it felt very personal. The kindness of this stranger, the compassion of that neighbor, the way "he" saw me, the words she spoke in my darkest hour. That kind of love.

In our humaness we want to cling to it -- to them. To make that person our beloved, our best friend, our savior. I did.

But experience has taught me that this kind of transformative love cannot be possessed. It cannot be held in our arms. For love to be transformative, it must be infinite, impartial, impersonal. It must be released into its native element -- the All-in-allness of universal being. To attempt its containment is to limit our own sense of its power.

I think of this each year when I consider Mary Magdalene's pivotal role in the Easter story. There is some question about how and when the Magdalene encountered Jesus -- was she the woman of questionable reputation who crashed the Pharisees dinner party and washed the Mater's feet with her tears, or was she a successful business woman from the coastal town of Magdala? We don't know. But here is what we do know. Out of her, Jesus cast seven demons. Whether those demons were fornication or ambition - he cast them out.

Either way, once touched by Jesus' love, there was no going back. She follows him as a 13th disciple. And when the time came for someone to be with him - in his hours of agony on the cross - it was she, and his mother, who joined the disciple John in that holy watch.

When all hope seemed lost - and the rest of the disciples had retreated to an upper chamber - it was Mary Magdalene and his Mother who went to the sepulcher with oil and sweet-smelling spices to anoint his body.

And when the angel appeared, quietly heralding her Master's resurrection, she was ready, waiting, expectant. Why? Because she had already experienced the resurrection of life in herself. She knew what the Christ was capable of. More than the resurrection of the flesh, it was the resurrection of her own innocence, that convinced her that the impossible -- was possible.

And, when she joyously rushed to tell her brethren disciples that their Master was alive, their distrust of her message received the risen Savior's stern rebuke for their hardness of heart in not believing her.

The Magdalene's unwavering love for, and trust in, the Christ-message of resurrecting Love, is an integral part of the Easter story. It sings with as full a voice as the Savior's own. It is as much her story, as his. It is one of the greatest love stories of all time.


offered with Love,

Kate

"the third side..."

"When the soul
lies down in that grass,
the world is too full
to talk about..."

David Wilcox and Nancy Petit's, "Out Beyond Ideas,"  gives musical form to the poet Rumi's profound invitation that we meet him in the field where healing and understanding take root and bear fruit.

This morning my loved friend Ginny Nilsen shared this passage from an essay "Through My Enemy's Eyes" [A Journal of Positive Futures - Winter 2002.] It touches so beautifully on this "place" that is so critical to spiritual healing:

"Inmate proposes alternative to dualistic thinking:

Prison inmate and former prison-rights activist Troy Chapman, sentenced at the age of 21 to life in prison, discusses what he calls "the third side":

"I had spent most of my life splitting the world up into two sides, then fighting to defend one against the other. It was a game in which there were strategies, a clear objective, a field of play, and an opponent.

The poet Rumi pointed to something beyond this game when he said,

'Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing there is a field. I'll meet you there.'

"When I began to see myself in other -— even in my enemies -— I found myself heading for Rumi's field. Here the game is not a game. No one wins unless and until everyone wins. The line between victim and perpetrator no longer runs between 'I' and 'Other.' It now runs right through the center of my soul. I am both, as we are all both.

"What then is left to fight for? Where does an out-of-work activist go? Well, God is hiring and God is on the third side. Not the prisoner's side or the jailer's side. Not the Left or the Right.

"The third side is that little-represented side of healing. It's the side that cares as much about the enemy as the friend, that says love is the only justice, the only victory there is. It does not want anyone destroyed. It does not want to win if someone else must lose. It wants something much larger than winning and losing."

"Through my enemy's eyes"
Yes! A Journal of Positive Futures
Winter 2002”

Isn't this the "side" that Jesus advocated for. The place from which he wrote in the dust and urged self-righteous indignation to sit in the quiet field of self-examination and compassion.

Isn't this the only place from which he could have said [as reported in Luke's gospel]:

"love your enemies and do good,
and lend, hoping for nothing again.

for He is kind unto the unthankful,
and to the evil.

Be ye therefore merciful;
Judge not,
and ye shall not be judged;
Condemn not,
and ye shall not be condemned;
Forgive,
and ye shall be forgiven..."

To gather in this field of the third side, is to listen with the heart -- and to do so, without the filter of self-certainty and pre-judgment. It is to take off one's shoes and walk on holy ground.

My sister, Nancy Mullane, wrote a book titled, "Life After Murder: Five Men in Search of Redemption." In it she shares the journeys of five men who'd been found guilty of murder and sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole. She tells their stories with a journalist's clear, unbiased voice.

I remember reading one man's chilling account of the crime that had led to his incarceration. Earlier, I had met this man at Nancy's book launch event -- after he had been released on parole. He was humble, thoughtful, and gracious. Reading his story, I felt myself take off my shoes and step into that field. I was beyond my own long-held preconceived notions of what kind of man would commit murder. I was willing to hear his story through the lens of his heart -- without bias or fear.

I also remember, so clearly, the tears I shed for that young man, who'd barely been an adult, when a robbery went horribly wrong. And the sudden realization that:

"There, but for the grace of God, go I...”

How many times had I lost my temper as a teenager fighting with my sister over a shared skirt or a missing shoe. How often had I lashed out, said something unkind, pinched, or even thrown a hair brush.  In those moments I was "out of control" -- willing to act on hair-trigger emotions. But I'd also had the privilege of access to books, counselors, and an extended family of spiritual resources for diffusing frustration and feelings of helplessness.

In this field beyond the ideas right and wrong-doing -- and who is on which side -- I felt a new sense of what it meant to have "an understanding heart." This understanding wasn't about figuring out the meaning of a spiritual text. It was about standing next to someone and looking at things from their point of view for the purpose of understanding where they were coming from -- without judgment or opinion. It was the feeling of their hand in yours and the pulse of your common humanity.  It was sharing the space of the third side.

I think Troy Chapman says it so well in the above essay:

"The third side is that little-represented side of healing.

It's the side that cares as much about the enemy 
as the friend, that says love is the only justice, 
the only victory there is.

It does not want anyone destroyed. It does not want to win
if someone else must lose. It wants something much larger
than winning and losing...”

It wants healing -- for one, and for all. It is the place where, as Mary Baker Eddy writes in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Love is impartial and universal
in its adaptation and bestowals.”

I will meet you there.

offered with Love,

Kate

After reading this post, Ginny sent me a clip from Harry and Meghan's Royal Wedding with this performance of The Kingdom Choir singing "Stand By Me,"  let's stand by one another within the space of the third side.

"to forgive..."

"do you want to be free,
do you want to believe,
do you want breathe again,
live again, love again..." 

I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed when my eyes caught the title of a post on the Sojourner blogsite, "Are Christians Supposed to Forgive Abusers?"

It made me think of Sara Renner's hauntingly beautiful song, "Forgive".  It is a song that has brought such healing peace to me over the years.

But it also reminded me of an experience I had over 25 years ago.  I was on a panel of speakers addressing the topic of addiction from a spiritual perspective.

We were fielding questions from the audience when a young mother stood up and asked, "What if my husband is abusive while using drugs, do I leave him -- or do I need to stay and pray for him?  I love him but I don't know how to forgive him?"

The auditorium became silent.  For some reason, the rest of the panelists turned to me -- perhaps because I was the oldest on the panel and a woman.  But I felt trapped.  I'd witnessed  so much abuse in my life.  I didn't know what to say.  The atmospheric pressure in that hall felt heavy and demanding.

I stopped breathing and sat in the absolute stillness of my true being -- not a girl who'd been molested, not the young woman who'd been beaten unconscious -- but the daughter of God.  Someone who had never been touched by anger or fear.  One whose right to love had never been violated or stunted by trauma.

But what should I say? What could I say?  The theme of the conference was, "The Love that Heals."  And that was the thought that filled me like a soaring balloon. Whatever I said, it had to be about Love -- at every point.

I heard myself begin slowly, "Sometimes we have to love someone enough to separate ourselves from them when they are behaving -- or making choices -- that we absolutely know they will regret when they awaken from the dream of a false sense of who they are.  We have to love them enough to say "no" in a way that doesn't allow them to act out those hideous lies in our presence.

In that moment, it became as clear as day to me -- Love is always the motive.  Sometimes we have to leave.  Not because we hate or despise the other person, but because we love them too much to let them use us in a way that they will regret. Not because we are afraid, but because we love their true nature.  

We walk away from being a witness to any violation of their deepest humanity.  We remove the opportunity for self-loathing. We let nothing obscure their path to self-forgiveness.

This wasn't just a cool thought.  It was visceral.  I felt the truth of this inspiration course through every vein in my body.

I didn't need to forgive the perpetrators of my abuse, or the abuse of others -- I needed to love them enough to not let my human thinking about them -- and our story -- get in the way of their direct and immediate relationship with God, divine Love.

In her "Daily Prayer," Mary Baker Eddy asks us to give up our right to be the forgiver, the savior, the assessor, the judge and jury:

"Thy kingdom come,
let the reign of divine Truth, Life, and Love 
be established in me, and rule out of me all sin,
and may Thy Word enrich the affections 
of all mankind and govern them."

As I sat there listening to the other panelists share their thoughts, in response to her question, it all began to make sense to me.  My job wasn't to figure out whether someone deserved my love, my forgiveness, or even my consent to their right to experience God's mercy -- my job was to trust God's direct and unwavering presence in their hearts.  It is God's province -- not mine -- to make someone aware of their mistakes, to correct those lies, to move them beyond behavior that was regrettable.  It is God's love that frees them from the bondage of falsely identifying themselves.

What I could do, was deprive anyone of "me" - as a prop in their dream.  And I could do that out of love, not out of fear or anger.

I could separate them from my hurt feelings -- and thereby separate myself from them as well.  I could forgive - forego - any sense of sin -- a word which shares the same etymological root as the word "sunder, to separate" I could forego the belief that I, or anyone else, could ever be separated from God as Love.

I could set clear boundaries for what was acceptable behavior from a child of God.  I could love enough to not let someone violate those boundaries -- with me.

This was not about letting go, but letting God.  It was about loving more, not less.  It made room for healing and restoration.  It opened the door to redemption and promise.

What it boiled down to -- was Love.  Love, love love love love.

This insight has helped me more times than I can say.

When someone asks, "Do you forgive me?" I am perplexed and stunned by the question. I can't help but remember Jesus' beautiful plea from the cross:

"Father forgive them..." 

He doesn't say: "Father, show me how to forgive them." But Father, forgive them.   The forgiveness is all Thine.  

In referring to this Scripture, Mary Baker Eddy states in her last published work, The First Church of Christ, Scientist and Miscellany: 

"In our struggles with sin and sinners, 

the we drop compliance with their desires, 

insist on what we know is right, and act

accordingly, the disguised or the self-satisfied

mind, not ready to be uplifted, rebels, 

misconstrues our best motives, and calls 

them unkind.  But this is the cross.  Take it up,

-- it wants the crown; and in the spirit of our 

great Exemplar pray: 

"Father, forgive them; 
for they know not

what they do." 

In each of these profoundly practical statements of inspiration and guidance, we are looking at the most currently recorded words of two deeply spiritual mentors: Jesus and Mary Baker Eddy - on the subject of forgiveness.  

Forgiveness is "of the Father."  For me, Eddy's "Daily Prayer," and Jesus' example from the cross, are the highest sense of forgiveness known to man.  Forgiveness is not mine to give. It happens in the sacred sanctuary of one's relationship with the Father.  

While it is our privilege to step back -- and let the dear Christ enter in -- to heal.    

offered with Love,

Kate