Disorientation

Today I was at a coffee shop with my kids. While they ate their breakfast bagels, I watched a man with dirty clothes and scruffy hair count coins on his table. He had a small coffee and he kept sorting out his change, occasionally looking up at the menu board. He counted again, looked up once more, and finally stopped. Then he put the money in his pocket and slumped over his coffee again, a tired look in his eyes.

I grew up in a large city and spent time working with the poor, so I am no stranger to people down on their luck and no stranger to the multitude of arguments people have on whether you should ever give money. What surprised me today was how hard it was for me to even look at the man because when I did I had to bite back tears.

This week at work we had a conference for the students with Dr. Gideon Strauss and the theme was “Wonder, Heartbreak, and Hope.” Part of the talk was modeled on Walter Brueggemann’s Spirituality of the Psalms in which he describes movement among the psalms through orientation, disorientation, and reorientation. Brueggemann re-configured an earlier work on the psalms for this version, which came out in response to September 11: “these tragic events suggest how urgent the descent into disorientation is for the practice of faith” (xv). It is difficult and yet necessary to reach for God in moments of disorientation. And yet so often we put all our energy into convincing others we are fine, keep ourselves so busy that we can’t hear the heartbreaking questions rolling around in our minds.

The question I most want to answer, and likewise the one I most like to ask is this: How did you survive? And sometimes I have to ask it of myself, so I remember that reorientation is not always where I live. We are all of us pilgrims in a land of darkness and sooner or later we will find ourselves in the storms of disorientation. What we need is to tell each other the stories of how we found our way back, to tell those stories loudly and with hope so we can believe.

For the man in the coffee shop, I paused slightly on my way out the door to drop a toonie on his table. Before I was even close enough, he put his hand out—a response he made automatically and without hesitation. And he said “thank you” to me as I dropped the coin in his hand and kept walking. Part of me criticized myself for giving money, something I had so often been warned against, and part of me wanted to pat myself on the back for enacting some kind of biblical parable of lost coins found and the gift of unexpected grace. Instead I found myself once again biting back tears. For all the times I want to deny my own descent into disorientation and the weakness I find there, I saw in this man what I have not yet learned: the simple act of being broken and ready to receive.

Uncreated Light

I don’t know when or why this ritual started, but it has been part of my children’s bedtime routine as long as I can remember. When I tuck them in, I say the Numbers 6 blessing over them: “The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you, the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.” I tried for a while using other blessings from the Bible, but they didn’t go for it. Their sense of ownership of these words is so complete, they still smile whenever they hear it in church and whisper, “Mom, that’s my blessing!”

Yesterday we were walking around the zoo and it was a beautiful sunny day. Sitting on a bench, I closed my eyes and soaked in the sense of warmth, well-being, and life that sun brought to me. I could almost feel my anxieties letting go, the irritation of being sick and the loneliness of moving lessening as my body relaxed. There, with the sun on my face, I felt strong, at peace, and whole. And maybe I got right then a hint of what it must be like for God to make his face shine on me. I wish it were as easy as finding some sun to soak my face in. But the light that truly cuts through despair comes from God alone, which I suppose is good news for despair that seems at times God-sized.

Today in church we sang an old Latin hymn, paraphrased here by John Dryden. The second verse addresses the Creator Spirit as “source of uncreated light.” The word “uncreated” stuck with me. Uncreated in that it is above, before, and beyond created things; uncreated in that it is beyond human strength to produce it. I think it is normal to want to find again the feeling of goodness I got sitting with the sun on my face. But no matter how determined my efforts to find it, the lesson of uncreated light is that it comes ever and only as a gift. I can’t create it. I can’t control it. I can only yearn for it, and pray for myself and for others that God would “make his face shine on us.”

Maybe the best news about uncreated light is that it is, by nature, greater than all the created darkness humans have brought forth in the world since Eden. Uncreated light that shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it. Light made not by human hands, but the irrepressible light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. So God of uncreated light, shine this day your face upon us. Cut through the night that threatens and make us believe again in light so great that no darkness created by human hands can even come close to dimming its glory.

The Soundtrack of My Life

The words that we speak and hear and think every day are like the lines in a movie. The same words, the same lines, can have a completely different meaning depending on the soundtrack behind them. A simple phrase like “Here he comes!” can conjure up dread or delight, depending on whether the music hits an ominous tone or a crescendo of excitement. So with our words, we say “Here he comes!” or whatever else and we think, perhaps, that we know what those words mean, that somehow we are in control of them. But running underneath the noise of our many words runs a soundtrack of God’s story for us, and if we do not make time and space to listen, it is entirely possible we will get the meanings completely wrong.

When we lived in Grand Rapids, I heard a few notes and thought I knew where my story was going: working with the poor, visiting prisons and homeless shelters, taking seminary classes—it all fit together and seemed like good work that God would be pleased for me to do. But into this there is a giant turn as we move far away from family and friends, cutting me off from what I think I was supposed to be doing. And in that process, I have realized how much I think there is some kind of hierarchy with God—people who work with the poor are the “coolest,” people who serve privileged white corporate places are less admirable. Is it so hard for me to let go of that instant sense of moral superiority that working with the oppressed gave me? Have I in fact moved farther from God’s will being farther from the poor in my day-to-day life? I am impatient for God to use me in some large, obvious way, but perhaps what he wants is for me to do a whole lot of small, hidden things instead.

I find myself constantly thinking of better stories than the one God seems to be writing for me, stories that even seem more in line with God’s purposes on earth. But then I go back to the idea of soundtrack and realize I have no clue about God’s purposes on earth or how I might best serve them. I have the music of my own desires playing so loudly in my head I don't "get" it even when I think I do.

During our move and just after, my son watched the movie King of Dreams over and over again. In the part where Joseph struggles to understand God’s purpose he sings a song from jail called, “You Know Better Than I.” I downloaded it because I find it so compelling. And maybe God is trying to show me even as I write that this is the soundtrack of my life at this moment. A soundtrack that tells me God does know better than I do. Do I really believe that? No. But every time I hear it playing as I drive alone in the car, I find myself weeping. Tears for what I had that I find it so hard to let go of, tears for how much I want to be able to lose myself in whatever story God is writing, tears for all the things that make it hard for me to trust, tears for recognizing that whether I am serving in prison or feeding the corporate bottom line, God loves me the same. EXACTLY the same. And when I can hear even faintly that music behind the work of my life, I finally begin to believe the story will turn out right in the end.