If You Want God Yet Sometimes Wonder

Last Saturday some of my closest friends from college and I had our annual Christmas party. We all ate a potluck Christmas dinner, had a white elephant gift exchange, sang Christmas carols (including my favorite, O Come O Come Emmanuel), read reflective Christmas Scripture passages, drank Kenyan tea, ate decorated sugar cookies, and played games like Catch Phrase and Taboo. It was lovely and restful and the first time this season I felt I was truly practicing Advent, fully anticipating the celebration of Christ's birth on the 25th.

Christmas is always the lightest spiritual season for me, a time when heavy questions about why there's so much suffering in the world quiet down and I'm left with an awe of the lengths that this God I don't understand took to connect with us. The red and green and gold everywhere make life feel a little crisper, a little cleaner to me. There was snow on the ground a few mornings ago, bright even as it melted. 

The physical celebration of Christmas, the hunting down and wrapping and giving of gifts, the travel home, the decorating, the baking--all things I love--sometimes requires so much physical energy that I have little strength or time to take in and store up the hope Christmas offers, the knowledge that humanity is not left alone on earth. With Christmas only days away, I was a bit frustrated and disappointed going into the party that I hadn't taken in much of the spiritual rest Advent offers. 

As I experienced this unease of missing out, I remembered a required reading from my senior year at JBU, a quote from a contemporary English Benedictine nun named Maria Boulding:

“If you want God, and long for union with him, yet sometimes wonder what that means or whether it can mean anything at all, you are already walking with the God who comes. If you are at times so weary and involved with the struggle of living that you have no strength even to want him, yet are still dissatisfied that you don’t, you are already keeping Advent in your life. If you have ever had an obscure intuition that the truth of things is somehow better, greater, more wonderful than you deserve or desire, that the touch of God in your life stills you by its gentleness, that there is a mercy beyond anything you could ever suspect, you are already drawn into the central mystery of salvation.”

So this morning, as I prepare for the drive back to East Texas, as I pack and load up my car with my miniature dachshund and her bed and the presents and all the luggage I think I need for the three-day trip, that hopeful thought is enough--We are walking with the God who comes to us in our wondering and our weariness, and there is a mercy beyond anything we could suspect.

Leaf Litter on Rock Face

Today I put up the four-foot office Christmas tree, wrapped strands of red and white LED lights around its branches, hung the shiny, red, child-proof ornament balls with paperclips, placed the vintage gold star on top. 

I cherish the Christmas season with all of its crisp hope and peppermint. Still. I need to pause a moment before December hits this week, to revel in all the falling yellow, to remember that last warm walk at Lincoln Lake, to chuckle over the frayed red and orange stars that swish back into the office entryway each time I sweep. 

Autumn, above all other seasons I think, reminds us that things on this clod of Earth simply don't stay still. But it also speaks of the beauty present in dormancy, transition, and rest. Its details offer a simultaneously whimsical and wistful picture of change--orange leaves blustered from the oaks along 49, floating above the highway before swinging out of sight.

"Leaf Litter on Rock Face" is a recent find from the Poetry Foundation app that balances the wistful and the whimsy of the season in a way that I found both delightful and thought-provoking:

Leaf Litter on Rock Face

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BY HEATHER MCHUGH

Things are not 

unmoving (or else what   

is ing there for?) 

The things once-living   

fall on the never-living   

all the more movingly for the eye 

that passes over them. 

The wind wells up 

to spill a trail 

of onces off the nevers, 

take opaque from eye 

to mind, or near it — 

every rocking takes some leaving 

to a stonish spirit.

Those Colors Which Have No Name

After a long few months full of transition and multiple kinds of loss—the loss of two housemates who moved to other seasons of life, the loss of a love, the loss of my dad's job—sharing the following poem from Annie Dillard's book of found poems, Mornings Like This, feels appropriate. In her found poems, Dillard takes already existing literature, everything from the collection of van Gogh's letters to The Boy Scout Handbook, and she re-orders sentences and cuts words, creating poems without ever adding a word. I have a special admiration for this poem, which remains grounded in van Gogh's concrete scenes while inviting readers into larger themes he may have been reaching toward.

I Am Trying To Get At Something Utterly Heartbroken

—V. van Gogh, letters, 1873-1890, edited by I. Stone, translated by Johanna van Gogh

I

At the end of the road is a small cottage,

And over it all the blue sky.

I am trying to get at something utterly heartbroken.

The flying birds, the smoking chimneys,

And that figure loitering below in the yard—

If we do not learn from this, then from what shall we learn?

The miners go home in the white snow at twilight.

These people are quite black. Their houses are small.

The time for making dark studies is short.

A patch of brown heath through which a white

Path leads, and sky just delicately tinged,

Yet somewhat passionately brushed.

We who try our best to live, why do we not live more?

II

The branches of poplars and willows rigid like wire.

It may be true that there is no God here,

But there must be one not far off.

A studio with a cradle, a baby's high chair.

Those colors which have no name

Are the real foundation of everything.

What I want is more beautiful huts far away on the heath.

If we are tired, isn't it then because

We have already walked a long way?

The cart with the white horse brings

A wounded man home from the mines.

Bistre and bitumen, well applied,

Make the colouring ripe and mello and generous.

III

A ploughed field with clods of violet earth;

Over all a yellow sky with a yellow sun.

So there is every moment something that moves one intensely.

A bluish-grey line of trees with a few roofs.

I simply could not restrain myself or keep

My hands off it or allow myself to rest.

A mother with her child, in the shadow

Of a large tree against the dune.

To say how many green-greys there are is impossible.

I love so much, so very much, the effect

Of yellow leaves against green trunks.

This is not a thing that I have sought,

But it has come across my path and I have seized it.

Black with Grease and Strong with Gasoline

I recently began re-reading Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. It's a novel written as a letter from an elderly and dying pastor, John Ames, to his young son, telling the story of the boy's family history in their hometown of Gilead, as well as the old man's contemplations about life and the wonder of existence. Of all the books I've read, right now it is my favorite. There's a certain passage at the beginning of Gilead I've especially come to love:

I really can't tell what's beautiful anymore. I passed two young fellows on the street the other day. I know who they are, they work at the garage. They're not churchgoing, either one of them, just decent rascally young fellows who have to be joking all the time, and there they were, propped against the garage wall in the sunshine, lighting up their cigarettes. They're always so black with grease and so strong with gasoline I don't know why they don't catch fire themselves. They were passing remarks back and forth the way they do and laughing that wicked way they have. And it seemed beautiful to me. It is an amazing thing to watch people laugh, the way it sort of takes them over. Sometimes they really do struggle with it. I see that in church often enough. So I wonder what it is and where it comes from, and I wonder what it expends out of your system, so that you have to do it till you're done, like crying in a way, I suppose, except that laughter is much more easily spent. (p 5)

I wasn’t sure why that section meant so much to me until I connected it with another page where Ames contemplates Heaven:

I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all mere apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it. And I can't believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us. In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets. Because I don't imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me try. (p 57)

Of course everyone knows we as human beings are transient, but Ames reminds us that our existence is also beautiful, that our daily humanness is lovely, that our mortality is not only fatal, but fantastic. He reminds us that when we expend our wicked laughter and our jokes and our cigarettes, and when we struggle with tears or are black with grease and strong with gasoline and must rest from our hard work in the sunlight, we contribute to an eternal epic, one that is great and bright, even if all this effort might one day seem like it was only a dream. And that is a stunning comfort to me.

When There's Shooting In The Street, Don't Go Near The Window

This week, I'm offering up a favorite poem of mine, the playful yet sincere "How to Be Perfect"by Ron Padgett, available through The Poetry Foundation, along with a couple briefs thoughts on it. I know I've shared it before via other social media, but it's one worth coming back to. 

How to Be Perfect

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BY RON PADGETT

                                      Everything is perfect, dear friend.

                                                  —KEROUAC

Get some sleep.

Don't give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Don't be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don't be afraid, for

instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep, or that someone

you love will suddenly drop dead.

Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight minutes

four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room

before you save the world. Then save the world.

Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled expression

of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die.

Make eye contact with a tree.

Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of

them.

Dress in a way that pleases both you and those around you.

Do not speak quickly.

Learn something every day. (Dzien dobre!)

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't

forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm's length

and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass ball

collection.

Be loyal.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Design your activities so that they show a pleasing balance

and variety.

Be kind to old people, even when they are obnoxious. When you

become old, be kind to young people. Do not throw your cane at

them when they call you Grandpa. They are your grandchildren!

Live with an animal.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

If you need help, ask for it.

Cultivate good posture until it becomes natural.

If someone murders your child, get a shotgun and blow his head off.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if you

have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want.

Do not waste money you could be giving to those who need it.

Expect society to be defective. Then weep when you find that it is far

more defective than you imagined.

When you borrow something, return it in an even better condition.

As much as possible, use wooden objects instead of plastic or metal

ones.

Look at that bird over there.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Visit foreign countries, except those whose inhabitants have

expressed a desire to kill you.

Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want to.

Meditate on the spiritual. Then go a little further, if you feel like it.

What is out (in) there?

Sing, every once in a while.

Be on time, but if you are late do not give a detailed and lengthy

excuse.

Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't.

Walk upstairs.

Do not practice cannibalism.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do

anything to make it impossible.

Take your phone off the hook at least twice a week.

Keep your windows clean.

Extirpate all traces of personal ambitiousness.

Don't use the word extirpate too often.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not possible, go

to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Grow something.

Do not wander through train stations muttering, "We're all going to

die!"

Count among your true friends people of various stations of life.

Appreciate simple pleasures, such as the pleasure of chewing, the

pleasure of warm water running down your back, the pleasure of a

cool breeze, the pleasure of falling asleep.

Do not exclaim, "Isn't technology wonderful!"

Learn how to stretch your muscles. Stretch them every day.

Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel even

older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put it in cold water immediately. If you bang

your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for twenty

minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of coldness and

gravity.

Learn how to whistle at earsplitting volume.

Be calm in a crisis. The more critical the situation, the calmer you

should be.

Enjoy sex, but don't become obsessed with it. Except for brief periods

in your adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age.

Contemplate everything's opposite.

If you're struck with the fear that you've swum out too far in the

ocean, turn around and go back to the lifeboat.

Keep your childish self alive.

Answer letters promptly. Use attractive stamps, like the one with a

tornado on it.

Cry every once in a while, but only when alone. Then appreciate

how much better you feel. Don't be embarrassed about feeling better.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Do not step off the curb until you can walk all the way across the

street. From the curb you can study the pedestrians who are trapped

in the middle of the crazed and roaring traffic.

Be good.

Walk down different streets.

Backwards.

Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice

that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty.

Stay out of jail.

In later life, become a mystic.

Use Colgate toothpaste in the new Tartar Control formula.

Visit friends and acquaintances in the hospital. When you feel it is

time to leave, do so.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time.

Read and reread great books.

Dig a hole with a shovel.

In winter, before you go to bed, humidify your bedroom.

Know that the only perfect things are a 300 game in bowling and a

27-batter, 27-out game in baseball.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to drink,

say, "Water, please."

Ask "Where is the loo?" but not "Where can I urinate?"

Be kind to physical objects.

Beginning at age forty, get a complete "physical" every few years

from a doctor you trust and feel comfortable with.

Don't read the newspaper more than once a year.

Learn how to say "hello," "thank you," and "chopsticks"

in Mandarin.

Belch and fart, but quietly.

Be especially cordial to foreigners.

See shadow puppet plays and imagine that you are one of the

characters. Or all of them.

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.

I'd only like to add two things: 

         I can't agree with Padgett's line about beauty existing and truth not existing. ("Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice/that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty.") I know now that I will always believe truth exists, and that beauty and truth are somehow connected in a way I want to understand, but that is currently beyond me. Maybe this blog is a way of searching that out.

         Secondly, that sobering last line, "When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window." How interesting that Padgett uses when and not if. It's as if he assumes his entire audience lives in a violent neighborhood--as if he is gently saying, "Yes, there will be shooting, there will be unexpected hurt, there will be numbingly painful happenings in this life. But when they occur, don't go near the window, don't let your curiosity, or concern, or fear, draw you closer than you should be, don't let it put you in range of stray bullets, don't put yourself at extra risk when you can do nothing to help the hurting person." A hard, but a true admonishment, I think. Maybe it is that moment of accepting temporary helplessness and inadequacy to be the hero, that moment of seeing and accepting yourself as you are--a blood and bone human, living a brief, bright, vulnerable existence next to millions of other brief, bright beings--that Padgett is getting at in his last instruction toward how to be perfect.