The 60-Second Sabbath

Was Jesus a Grownup?

I asserted (back on October 22), that there are no grownups. Part of maturing is acknowledging and embracing this. To be human means not being a grownup; to some degree, we all remain insecure, self-centered children. And that's okay. It's who we are. Better to acknowledge and deal with it kindly than to bluff our way pretending to be what we are not.

But really--no grownups?

I readily admit I admire a host of people (my spiritual heroes) who appear to me to be more grown-up than others: the Dalai Lama, for example, and Thich Nhat Hanh, Anne Lamott, Maya Angelou, the Buddha, Richard Rohr, Meister Eckhart, Rumi, Mother Teresa, Mary Oliver...

I have the sense, however, that every person on this list would be the first to assert, "Me? Are you kidding? I'm no grownup." That admirable self-awareness is why they're on my list to start with.

But what about Jesus? Was he a grownup? Christian theology has, for centuries, insisted that Jesus was both fully human and fully divine. This, of course, is crazy talk, which is one reason why, as Christian doctrines go, I still accept it. The incarnation is one of those doctrines--so completely implausible--that it has to contain truth. We call this sort of thing a mystery...the mystery of the incarnation (which we celebrate during Advent and Christmas). Throughout the ages, millions of pages of text have been written trying to puzzle this out. If you feel the need to settle it for yourself, have at it.

Back to Jesus: Jesus was fully human, therefore, not a grownup. There, I said it. Jesus, like me, like you, had his periods of real, authentic, painful, wrenching self-doubt. It started early: Do my parents really love me? If I talk to that girl, will she think I'm a dork? Jesus, like me, like you, didn't always control his urges: He threw a few toys. He swore, just like Joseph, when he hit his thumb with the hammer. He could have handled the whole cleansing-the-temple-thing with less agression and more assertiveness. Jesus was 100% fully human, and, as a human, experienced life like we do.

Oh, and Jesus was 100% fully God, too. I have a harder time relating to this, of course. But I think I get glimpses--joy and love, wonder and laughter, self-sacrifice and compassion. Jesus was all of that as well...100% of that. He was all the beauty of God.

So there you have it. If he was fully human, Jesus was not a grownup, though he certainly would head the top of my list of humans who appear more grown-up than the rest of us. And would he also have said, "Me? No, I'm no grownup!"? Oh, wait, I think he did: "Why do you call me a grownup? No one is a grownup except God alone" (Mark 10:18).

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Unselfing

If it unselfs you,
treasure it,
cultivate it.

If it muscles through your grim, monotonous monitoring
of what others think of you
or whether or not you measure up,
make a note.

If it picks you up,
shakes you out,
and drops you a few feet away from yourself,
it's true gift.

Rinse and repeat.

"Beauty is a small tear in the fabric of reality that pulls us through to a bigger world" (Simone Weil).

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

On Silent Retreat

"There is nothing in the world," says Meister Eckhart, "that resembles God quite like silence."

All I hear, at this moment, is the sound of my pen tip rolling across the paper. It's that quiet. I sit up in the bed, journal on my lap. This is so different from at home. At home the air purifer hums, the traffic ebbs and flows four stories below, the TV or the stereo (never very loud) talks or sings, the cats meow or burble, the humans talk. It's never silent--never. I sleep with ear plugs.

Here, when I shift my feet beneath the covers, I hear the sound of my toes rubbing against the top sheet. This strikes me as remarkable, so I do it again, just to listen.

Pen on paper, toes under the sheets--I recall Meister Eckhart and say, aloud, so I hear it, "This is like God."

What did Eckhart mean? What do I mean? I stop writing and relax my feet. This silence contains possibility, unknown and unclaimed. This silence is mystery, both present and not present. This silence envelopes me, like a blanket or a shawl; it penetrates, like heat from a wood stove; it hushes, like a finger touching my parted lips.

This is like God.

Or, perhaps, this is God...

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Amma

Breathe in. "Abba." Breathe out. "Abba."

One of the ways I pray is to silently repeat words or phrases, often matched to my breathing (if sitting) or my steps (if walking). This is nothing unique, but an ancient way of Christian prayer. I might use the biblical "Jesus Prayer," or the familiar Lord's Prayer, or any of a number of other prayers or mantras I've borrowed, adapted or developed.

Lot's of time, I'll use the word Abba, which Jesus used to refer to God. Abba comes from the Aramaic, and means, roughly, "Daddy." Jesus called God "Daddy." I like the intimacy and trust shown by this.

And so I've called God "Abba," especially when needing to still my active mind, calm my weary spirit and rest for a while in the arms of the transcendent. I sit in stillness; I inhale, attending to my breath, and silently say, "Abba"; I exhale, attending to my breath, and silently say, "Abba." I make space for Abba. I welcome Abba. Abba comes.

At some point, though, I felt the need to balance the maleness of Abba. God isn't a man, obviously. (God is spirit, yes?), and I wanted, in this practice, the awareness that God not only loves and cares for me like a healthy, functional father, but like a healthy, functional mother as well. God not only embodies all that is wonderfully masculine, but also all that is equally, wonderfully feminine.

So I made up a new name for God: I took the simple word Mama and rearranged the letters to form what seemed to me like a decent feminine equivalent to Abba: Amma. Never mind that this was my own invention, I knew what it meant, God knew what it meant, and it worked for me.

Breath comes in: "Abba." Breath flows out: "Amma."

Well, guess what? A few years after incorporating Amma into my meditation, I learned that Amma is, in fact, the female counterpart of Abba. It was a word all along.

I like to imagine, when Jesus was off praying by himself (which we know he did), out of earshot of the culturally patriarchical ears of most of his listeners, that he used Amma too.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Prayer

Don't say prayers. Be prayer.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 
 

Autumn in the Garden of Eden

As winter approaches the Garden of Eden,
autumn's cleansing hand
strips bare the branches
of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

What, then, is left to know?

Stare up through the black, beseeching limbs
to the infinity of stars beyond.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Write You Own Blog! (Part 3)

It's my final morning staying with the Sisters of Loretto, reading, writing, breathing, meditating, being. Since I'm away, this blog's all yours. I thought you might like to respond to this quote, from Fr. James Clark:

    "The best place to hide from God is religion."

From personal experience, I can relate. Can you? I invite you to respond in the comments section below.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 
 

Write Your Own Blog! (Part 2)

I'm on a personal retreat for a few days, so I'm inviting you, the reader, to write the blog yourself. You might consider what Jewel sings in her moving song "Hands" (by Jewel Kilcher and Patrick Leonard):

    "In the end, only kindness matters.
    In the end, only kindness matters.
    I will get down on my knees, and I will pray..."

I think of Jesus' ministry, and particularly what he says at the end of Matthew 25 about feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked and visiting those in prison. "Yes," he says, "Only kindness matters. And the way I extend that kindness is through you."

Feel free to respond to Jewel's words in the comments box below.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Write Your Own Blog! (Part 1)

I'm staying for a few days with the Sisters of Loretto at their Spirituality Center southwest of Denver. In my absence, feel free to complete today's blog yourself. You might respond to this quote from Sister Miriam Therese Winter (author of The Gospel According to Mary and Paradoxology), who, in a talk I heard several years ago, described her calling:

    "I am trying to sow seeds of doubt into our certainties."

For me, this has been a simple, profoundly transformative statement, one that has helped me replace the illusion of security with honest growth, to replace religious complacency and arrogance with a more vibrant, evolving relationship with God.

Feel free to share your response to Sister Miriam in the comments box below.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

The River

In Hidalgo there's a river
that's renewed my faith in grace;
strongly flows with cooling water
for my body and my face.

Lord, you knew that this was coming,
placed it on our journey back,
knew our bodies needed cleansing,
and our souls refreshment lacked.

So we walked the village pathway,
stood upon a huge rock shelf,
watched while water filled the spillway
doubted all and pinched ourselves.

It was real, the rocks and water,
rapids, holes and pools green!
So before our faith could falter
we plunged in that gracious stream.

Praise the Lord and Alleluia!
What a joy again to swim!
Feeling coolness flowing over,
diving deep to rise again.

I swam to where the falls descended
and with boys of naked brown
once again a child pretended--
clamored up and floated down.

What delight that river offered,
brought back faith in Mexico;
much resentment soon was covered,
washed away with river's flow.

All too soon we left the site,
heading back with work to do;
I returned to see that night
if it had another view:

Black and forceful, deaf'ning noise,
pluming shadows from the rocks,
awesome power, pride and poise,
spirit shaking with the shocks.

The river, God and I were there;
we talked of things both small and grand,
but mostly I within that prayer
thanked both for being close at hand.

(Written on August 16, 1982, toward the end of a summer spent in Mexico. I was on a two-month, summer mission trip, both challenging and transformative. I'm grateful for the experience, but, as is often the case in these situations, I learned a lot of hard lessons, mostly about  getting over my cheap self (as a friend of mine used to say) and realizing that "our way" is only one way out of many...and really no better, just different.)

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.