Pray to God

“Pray to God, but continue to row to shore.” – Russian proverb

I like this little saying. It reminds me that my life is a participation in the life of God. One of the ways that God is helping me to shore is by working with me through my arms. However, this proverb seems to assume that of these two – praying and rowing – it is the rowing that I am more likely to forget.

Personally, I’m pretty good at remembering to row. I like the feeling of it. I exert a force; I see myself move. And I think that I am doing it. I learn to trust in myself. This image of rowing our own little boats to shore is deeply engrained in the American identity of the self-made person. To have faith in oneself is part of our national ethic.

I’ve been rowing real hard this week. With the launch of Kairos – a new Sunday morning program for youth – there is much work to be done. The shore looks far off yet. Will we be there by Sunday? And if so, will there be any place to sit? (The new chairs are on back order.)

A parent and I were chatting at a basketball game this week. We were talking about Kairos, where we are now and what work remains to be done. She offered to help in all kinds of wonderful ways. She would talk to her friends, serve as a mentor, think of guest speakers, and encourage her son to sign up. And then, perhaps noticing a slightly frantic look in my eye, she offered one more thing: to pray to God.

Pray to God. Oh yeah, right. I was rowing alone again, wasn’t I? Anxiety will do that. I was trying to get to the shore by rowing harder and faster. Of course, what on earth would be the point of getting to the shore only to realize that God wasn’t in the boat? “For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life?” (Mark 8:36)

We are not alone in the boat. Others travel with us. As the Body of Christ, we remind one another to seek a healthy balance of rowing and praying, which might sometimes require a rearranging of that Russian proverb.

Row to shore, but continue to pray to God. 

Sharing Life

I'm celebrating my 31^st birthday today. Connected to that, I received a check in the mail yesterday from my grandma. My birthday gift this year is slightly larger than it was last year.

It's part of a trend. Every few years, she increases her gifts by a modest amount. If the trend holds, my brother Jamie will receive a check for the same amount when he turns 28 in March.

That sort of thing used to make me so mad.

“He should have to wait three more years,” I would have thought. “I didn't get that much money when I was his age. It's not fair.”

I counted and compared all manner of things in this way.

Bedtimes.

Weekly allowances.

Grams of sugar per serving in breakfast cereal.

For most of my childhood, our mother wouldn't buy anything sweeter than 6 grams of sugar per serving. When she finally softened a little and started bringing home Cinnamon Life, we both got to eat it right away. That didn't make any sense to me. According to my math, Jamie had another three years, two months, and five days of regular old Life Cereal for breakfast.

My enjoyment of Cinnamon Life was decreased because my brother got to have it too. And illegitimately. Unfairly. Three years early.

I, on the other hand, deserved the Cinnamon Life. After all, I'd waited till the ripe old age of twelve. Just like you're supposed to.

It would be pain-causing enough if I were merely obsessed with getting things. What makes this being human all the more difficult is that it's not just the getting things that I like. It's also the feeling that I deserve what I'm getting – money, stuff, praise – and the fact that, hopefully, the people who don't deserve such things – like my younger brother – don't get them.

Here we are on Epiphany. Twelve days after Christmas. The Wise Men have arrived, bearing their gifts from afar. Today we celebrate the late comers who nearly turn Jesus' life over to Herod.

We don't hear any more about the shepherds, but I wonder where they are and what they're thinking. Perhaps they're still nearby. The glow from the Angels' visit has dimmed somewhat by now. The good news of great joy is still pretty good, but not quite as new, and the shepherds have returned to work keeping their flocks. Their Christmas vacation is over.

Are there hearts still brimming with love and charity? And, if not, what do they think at the sight of the Wise Men?

Who invited them?

Where are they from?

Are they wearing capes?

Do they get Jesus too?

Because we were here first.

If sharing cereal with family is hard, how hard might it be to share God with strangers?

And if the shepherds were still hanging around, what might the Wise Men have said to one another on seeing them there?

Balthazar, are you sure the star has stopped completely?? 
Maybe it's just slowed down a little bit. 
This can't be the place, can it?

Even if the shepherds and Wise Men thought or said such things, as human beings might well have, there is great hope here for us. After all, the Wise Men make this great, holy pilgrimage not to a temple or shrine, but to a home, to a bedside. They find God not in stone, but in flesh.

Growing up I understood going to church to be a good thing, and fighting with my brother to be a bad thing. Now I see that I’ve probably learned as much about God’s love from having a brother as I have from going to church. Through all the silly fights about things like cereal, and a few more serious ones, we are best friends. God’s love resides with us in all of our humanity. It is to this – God with us – that the Wise Men pay homage.

Epiphany

Epiphany –
How God's Light Reaches All the Wise Men
Even the Foolish Ones

My best friend, Brian, and I are somewhere
in the Black Hills of South Dakota
in the woods, on foot, looking for our tent.
It’s long after sunset.
It’s just begun to rain.
And we are lost.

It’s a different kind of lost 
than I’ve ever been before,
lost without any bearing.
The night is moonless, and the path a distant memory.
The darkness swallows all but the nearest trees.

The tent is wherever Brian pitched it
while I was warming the beans for dinner.
He says he tied a piece of navy fabric to an evergreen
to mark the spot.
He also says that it’s right near a rock.
If only we can find the rock and the tree we’ll surely find
the screaming orange tent with silver reflectors on every side.

I’m dressed for the effortless stroll to the tent 
I thought this would be,
wearing flip flops and shorts, 
cradling an increasingly wet sleeping bag.
At this point, I'd happily sleep in the car 
if we could find our way back.

But we are lost –

Not only to where we are going, 
but from where we have come.
Lost.
So I stand in the dark and rain, 
doing the only thing I can,
getting mad,
and mocking him in my head.

A piece of navy fabric? 
A nearby rock?
Really? 
Really?

People die from better ideas than this
and get Darwin awards for improving the human genome.

This isn't some weekend camping trip.
I quit my job for this,
spent months planning and preparing,
planning and re-planning
and perfecting my plans.
A piece of navy fabric?!

Underneath my anger I do wonder
what will happen to us.
No, it’s not so cold, 
but how cold is cold enough to kill
when combined with wet and exposed skin?

I contemplate this question more
out of spite
than true concern.
If we die 
that’ll show Brian 
how dumb he is.

This is where I am –

Not merely lost in the woods,
but in the dark and cold of my own mind,
when I look up
in exasperation and defeat
and see through the canopy above me

Stars,
so many stars
that I shudder,
the way I would were it sunlight
falling on my skin after a swim.

Suddenly it's almost warm
and the rain – falling from a clear sky –
a blessing, not a curse,
and I find myself
so glad to be here,
wherever here is,
where everywhere I look is
so much more than eye can see,

And the improbability of being here
whispers against my neck hairs
of the greater improbability
of being here at all.