Just felt like talking today rather than writing…
In the Olive Press with Jesus {part eight: Chancing the Arm}
Chancing the Arm by Chuck Killian {guest contributor and my dad}
There is a well-worn story from the Middle Ages about two Irish families, the Ormonds and Kildares, who were involved in a bitter feud. Besieged by Gerald Fitzgerald (the Earl of Kildare), Sir James Butler (the Earl of Ormond) and his followers took refuge in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin.
The siege wore on for several weeks and Gerald Fitzgerald concluded that the feud was foolish. The two families worshipped the same God, lived in the same community, and attended the same church—yet they were engaged in a life or death battle. Fitzgerald went to the chapel door where the Ormonds were holed up. He called upon Sir James and promised on his honor that no harm would come to him.
Sir James feared treachery and refused to respond. Fitzgerald grabbed a spear and hacked a hole in the door. Then he thrust his arm through it. In a moment his arm was grasped by Sir James and the feud ended. It was from this gesture that we get the expression “Chancing (risking) one’s arm.”
“Chancing the arm!” Make the decision. We can continue to feud with ourselves, refusing to relinquish our need to be in control, or we can take the risk that leads to freedom and liberation.
Chancing the arm? It sounds so foolish. Yes it does; something like the Cross—which says to every last one of us—regardless of who we are, what we have done, or where we have been, we are loved unconditionally. The feud need last no longer!
Prayer: Father, I am grateful for your arms that stretched long and wide, high and deep, breaking through my walls and making a way for freedom. Thank you for taking a chance on me. Humbly I receive your hand of fellowship this day. Amen.
In the Olive Press with Jesus {part seven: Doing Grief}
It’s been two months since she died… their mom, my friend (you can read about it here). This past week, my husband and I made the six-hour round trip to their home to share with them in their sorrow. To do grief. To remember her and to allow that remembrance to touch us deeply where it hurts.
Doing grief. It wasn’t easy; grief never is. I don’t suppose I’ve ever really witnessed this kind of sorrow… in many ways unfamiliar territory for me. Funeral grief—the kind of grief that packs in and around the initial parting of a loved one—has been my common experience. Grief that comes two months later? Well, that kind of grief is easier to pack away for those of us who sit on the outside of its unwrapping. We aren’t privy to this kind of gut-wrenching grief unless we are the direct recipients of its painful prod. But just because we don’t feel the sorrow, see the sorrow, hold the sorrow as profoundly as those who’ve lost someone close, doesn’t mean that sorrow no longer exists.
They feel it. They see it. They hold it. They grieve deeply behind hidden doors, behind expectations, behind forced smiles, trying desperately to fit into a world that’s moving on, despite the fact that grief isn’t in any hurry to leave. And that, friends, is an added burden to a grieving soul. Grief cannot live outside the boundaries of human existence. Grief cannot separate itself from common conversation and daily deliberations. When grief moves into a heart, grief stays. Certainly, over time, grief changes, but I’m not convinced it ever really leaves. What I am convinced of is the need to allow grief room enough, time enough, and respect enough to breathe—to work itself into and out of our hearts as it comes.
We must acknowledge it, whether a deeply felt, personal grief or the deep grief of a friend. We mustn’t clutter it, stuff it, or bury it. We simply and profoundly need to let it breathe and then to do the seemingly impossible—breathe alongside it. Not underestimate or overestimate what it is, but to let what “is”… just be.
This is our grieving season, friends … a lengthy round trip to Calvary and back where we come alongside God’s grief to feel it, see it, and hold it. Just for awhile. Just long enough for it to breathe strong remembrance into our souls. We weren’t there at the funeral some 2000 years ago; we’ve only heard stories about it. But here we are today, walking into that story, standing heart-to-heart with the One who wrote that story, and receiving its painful truth as our portion. His grief belongs to us; it is now part of our stories forever forward.
There’s no room for cluttering, stuffing, and burying the truth of Christ’s cross… not for those of us who call ourselves by his name. Easter pilgrims are those who willingly carry the suffering cross for self and for others, knowing it will hurt… greater still, knowing it will consecrate our hearts for a deeper identification with Jesus. The cross is what he came to do; in doing so, he and the world around him, “did grief” … continues to do grief. Why should we do any less?
Do better for Jesus this week; do better for those you love. Come alongside them to breathe with them. In doing so, you give them Easter’s breath … Easter’s best. As always…
Peace for the Journey,
In the Olive Press with Jesus {part six: from within and without}
We are about halfway through the Lenten Season. Passion Week and Easter are just around the corner. This in-between time is tough work. The Ashes of Wednesday are washed off and we hunger for the sight of the lilies. The forty day ordeal–this time of self-reflection, of going inward and deeper, calling for repentance–enables us to discover that the continent of the inner soul is the real ‘lost continent’ and it seems so far away. How far?
Some time ago, I saw a film at the space museum in Washington, D. C., The Power of Ten. A man is lying on a beach, and the camera is 10 meters above him—10 to the power of one. The trip begins into space—10 to the power of 2, 10 the power of 10 and by now you are out among the Saturn rings. By the time you get to 10 to the power of 24, you are among stars that are light years from each other—billions of them infinitely larger than our ‘milky way.’ As I viewed this scene I began to ponder some questions: Who am I? Where am I going? Where will I be in a 100 years? Can an infinite God who is behind all of this care about me?
Then the camera reverses, speeding back to planet earth. And there is the man still basking in the Florida sun, but the camera doesn’t stop. It focuses on a square inch of skin on the man’s arm, and proceeds inward—10 to the minus power 1, 10 to the minus power 12 where you reach the cell, the basic unit of all life. And at 10 to the minus power of 24, you reach the atom. Our bodies are made up of billions and billions of these complicated, yet well organized atoms. If an atom were as big as the head on a pin, the atoms in a grain of sand would make a cube, a mile high, a mile wide, and a mile long.
I shared this little tidbit with a scientist-scholar and he remarked, “It is just as far within as it is without.” Well, where does this leave us?
We are talking about a Lenten Journey; the story of One who invaded the stream of history, fleshing Himself among us, God incarnate—as the poet W. H. Auden put it, “The Alien Unknown reveals Himself.” All the questions above have their locus in that Revelation and the immeasurableness of my world. The one without and the one within are under the custodial care of an infinite Creator, who dispatched the affairs of the universe in a twinkling of an eye. That being the case, the ‘inward journey’ leaves me with one resolve. It is summed up best for me by C. S. Lewis who said, “We are not imperfect creatures needing improvement, but rebels who must lay down their arms.”
When that happens, one covers far more territory that 10 to the minus power of 24; and in so doing, the journey is nearly complete and the ‘lost continent’ is found.
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I am grateful for my father’s contributions at the blog during this Lenten season. While reading his words for this particular post, I recalled a particularly moving scene from the movie The Passion of the Christ. I was able to find the clip on youtube. The first two minutes of the video hold this scene, and while it is difficult to watch, it helps me to focus on this “within and without”–God’s ever watchful perspective on his beloved, his created … us. Oh the beautiful, lovely mystery of God! One day soon, we’ll fully grasp the length, depth, breadth and width of it all. Until then, keep to it, friends. Keep to the cross of Jesus Christ. Shalom.
In the Olive Press with Jesus {part five: Gifts from the Desert}…
Once again, my father is making an appearance today to share with us a few thoughts from his Lenten journey. In doing so, he asks us to consider our own pilgrimages to the cross this year. I pray you are blessed by his words, even more so challenged by them: to walk deeply with Jesus, think thoughtfully about Jesus, and apply willingly the truth He reveals about himself on the road to Calvary. There are gifts to be found along the way and as we go. Here are a few…
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In the desert we are free of distractions. We are reduced to the bare necessities of existence; survival is our only quest. And we soon discover that all the distractions that once claimed our attention have become, in fact, our bondage. This awakening is the first gift of the desert. And like the children of Israel in the wilderness, we must make a choice: either to return to Egypt with its slavery and comfortable idols, or strike out boldly into the unknown for the sake of a promise given, yet unrealized.
And if that is done, it won’t be long until we discover the second gift of the desert—we leave behind our false selves and get a glimpse of our true self-image; that is, we see ourselves as God sees us—the beginning of the person God always intended us to be—the persons we always hoped to be!
The third gift of the desert is community. In community we will find courage to admit our vulnerability and weakness, and we will discover a wisdom and strength for one another we never knew by ourselves. Community will teach us that we move ahead together or not at all. In community we will be surprised to learn that the things we thought would bring frustration and anxiety are, in fact, our very salvation.
The best part of the desert, the uncharted part of Lent, is all about receiving gifts: gifts of freedom, of knowing who we are and that we are not alone. Blessed be God who every year gives us 40 days to rediscover these healing and transforming gifts for ourselves and one another. The desert can end up being the most giving place we have ever been. We can make a choice: to return to the distractions of our bondage, or to be free!
Open our eyes and our hearts, Lord, to see and to receive the many gifts you have for us as we travel this desert road together. Amen.
*What “gifts” have you discovered in your desert pilgrimages?