The 60-Second Sabbath

The Approach of Lent

We acknowledge, embrace
    a God who could die.
We align ourselves with
    a God who did die.
And yes, we know how the story ends,
    with resurrection,
but on Good Friday,
    no one had that perspective,
least of all the God who was dying.

God dead.
    God laid out,
cold as stone,
    the body beginning--
like all corpses do--
    to decompose,
to return to dust.

Astonishing, incomprehensible,
    which is why, in part, it resonates as true.
You can't kill God...but we did.
    You can't bury God...but we did.

What to do
    with a dead God?
What to do
    with death outstripped, outdistanced
by love?

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Love Corporeal

For me,
    my life of faith--
more specifically,
    my Christian life of faith,
or my life of Christian faith--
    is a mysterious, ambiguous ride.

It thrills me.

At the heart of it all
    lies love--
love that takes on flesh,
    embodies itself,
and then goes all the way to death
    to demonstrate that it remains indissoluble,
never lost nor diminished,
    never ever.

One potent symbol of this love
    is the Christian Eucharist
(also known as Holy Communion).
    This is love big, real, tangible,
taken in,
    absorbed.

Love immediate and visible,
    plainly palpable,
simple, solid, substantial.

Nourishing love,
    mysterious, ambiguous,
potent.

God is this close.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Places That Matter

Take me to a place that matters to you.
    Where would that be?
        And why that place?

I would take you to the shore of Lake Michigan
    on a warm, calm, summer evening
        when swells rise and fall without breaking.

I would take you to St. John's Cathedral,
    and invite you to sit in silence with me
        beneath soaring stone arches and sun-bright, rainbowed glass.

I would take you to my favorite bookstore or library
    to feel humbled by the thousands of souls waiting on the shelves,
        the endless opportunities for challenge, uplift, transformation

I would take you to Petsmart; we would stand together
    looking at the cats and kittens up for adoption,
        wishing them safe homes and long lives
            (and resisting, as we know we must, the urge to adopt them all).

I would take you into my heart
    and offer you shelter from the painful,
        disappointing, knife-like edges of life.

I would take you into the heavens
    to cruise past galaxies, leap from star to star,
        dine and swap stories with the divine at some far, celestial roadhouse.

And sure, yes, I would take you to Walt Disney World,
    and together we would, for a blessed period, quit all the foolish adulting,
        and embrace innocence, kindness, each other.

And why these places?
    Because all free spirit, feed soul, enhance gratitude, refresh meaning.
            Because they matter to me.

What places matter to you?
    Can you take me there?

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

For the Displaced

I sit in the church library,
    listening to a group
share their understanding
    of place, of home, of belonging.

The woman speaking is an immigrant,
    brought to the U.S. by her husband,
seeking opportunity they could not find
    in their home country.

"When I arrive here, I am displaced," she says,
    "unrooted.
I take deeper breaths
    until I find my place.
I constantly 'home' myself."

I sense no self-pity in her,
    only a practical determination
to do what it takes.

"And then, after 30 years,
    a divorce--a death, in that sense.
And I start again--
    once more seeking home,
        creating home,
        finding home--
    it is still in process."

We wait in silence for a moment.

"I am 1,800 miles from that first home."

She looks around at those she knows in the circle,
    then concludes,
"Here, I am displaced but not alone."

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Stability and Change

We are drawn to home,
    and we are drawn to migration.

This is the human story.

We are torn between
    the rooting of place
    and the desire to move on.

These are both divine gifts:
    the blessing of rest
    and the blessing of restiveness.

Stability and change.

Feel comfortable with where you've come from
    and equally comfortable with where you're headed.

You are meant for both.

To whatever degree I remain,
    to whatever degree I journey,
I am accompanied by God,
    and I am accompanied by you.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

 

The (Near) Sacrifice of Isaac

Or: What the Heck Was God Thinking?

Who hasn't been disturbed by the story of Abraham,
    about to sacrifice his son Isaac on the mountain?
Who hasn't cringed when Isaac asks Abraham,
    "But father, where is the animal for the sacrifice?"
Who hasn't imagined the struggling terror of Isaac,
    the anguished sobbing of Abraham as he prepares
to do the incomprehensible?
    How could God ask this of anyone, we wonder?
What kind of monster tests our loyalty so cruelly?

It's legitimate, first of all, to ask if this is a story of actual events,
    or rather a non-factual (but absolutely true!) story
with a strong lesson for God's people
   (featuring two of Israel's most significant figures,
certain to get the people's attention)
    meant to make its point in a visceral, gut-wrenching, unavoidable way:
This, my people, is no longer what we do!

The current culture sanctioned sacrifice as a way to appease God
    (or, more broadly, "the gods," ancient Israel's and the nations' around them);
here comes the one, true God saying, 
    "We don't do it like this anymore,
and here's a little story to bring that home,
   subtle as a trumpet blast,
a smack to the side of the head.

"Could you imagine your forefather Abraham
    sacrificing his son Isaac?
Neither can I!
    I give myself for you, to you;
you no longer need to."

This story of Abraham and Isaac,
    thus becomes an anti-sacrifice story.
We no longer need to buy God's love, approval, grace
    through sacrifice or ritual.
God's love, approval, grace are given
    out of God's infinite Godness.

Could God be otherwise?

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

    

What Is New

Every day, you wake up to a new place;
    it may look and feel the same,
        but it isn't quite.

Every day, you look in mirror at a new person,
    similar to the one you saw last night,
        but not exactly the same.

Every day, you let go of an old belief,
    to be replaced by one
        more meaningful for you.

Every day, a resolved doubt
    is replaced by a new doubt
        to be struggled with and through.

Every day, you shed some bit of self-consciousness,
    some shred of fear,
        and replace it with just a bit more courage.

We woke up this morning
    new people in a new land
        where joy is possible.

Joy is possible, yes?

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

For Willy, August 2003 - February 2019

(For all those whose homes are inhabited
   by the empty spaces left by those they love.)

Through our home
    moves an empty space
previously filled (only yesterday?)
    by an affable, affectionate black feline
named Willy.

It moves about the house,
    settling--unseen but yet perceived--
on the arm of the chair,
    a corner of the couch,
the cat bed waiting in front of the fireplace,
  the kitchen doorway (always hopeful).

It reaches out to touch my foot
    if I try to walk by
without stopping to scratch ears
    or offer a soft greeting.

It responds to us with barely audible meows.

It leaps unexpectedly into my lap
    when I'm at the computer.

Last night, at bedtime, it waited on Tim's side of the bed
    for five minutes of head butts,
and, in the middle of the night,
    climbed under the covers to spoon with me,
back against my chest, head tucked under my chin,
    purring, purring, purring...

Empty space.

Who knew such nothingness
    could carry this weight, this meaning?
Void cradles memory,
    vacancy longing.

Sadness itself is empty space,
    bewildering us.

Absence invites us
    to draw closer to what is essential,
to pause more often,
    to listen more closely,
touch without hesitation,
    before what we love
converts to empty space.

Goodbye, Willy.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Words Can't Go

So often,
    words can't go where the heart goes.

Maybe it's the moment when you quietly observe your partner or spouse
    staring out the window,
lost in some private place of memory or fancy,
    and what you feel--the very experience itself--
can't be named.
   Ache? Tenderness? Desire? Fear?
Something deep and real and out of reach.

Let it remain there;
    be with whatever that is,
welcomed, appreciated...
    but unidentified.
It's fine this way.

Maybe it's the moment when you observe
    (as in our home)
both cats sleeping against each other, 
    one big curl of contentment,
one head tucked against the other's flank,
    one leg thrown over the other's back.
What happens to my heart in these moments?
    No words for what the heart knows.

But the heart does know,
    and that is enough.

Maybe it's the moment at church,
    when the mystery enters,
the divine mystery that remains mystery,
    refusing to be captured, calculated,
offering transformation but not definition.

The heart surrenders,
    cares little for the what or why,
is joyed into silence.

 And these lines?
    Proving the point:
so often, words can't go where the heart goes.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

The Healing: Part 5

It's our Wednesday night catechumenate class,
and we're discussing spiritual direction:

"Move toward joy,"
    offers the facilitator.
We sit with that for a moment, before she adds:
    "When you move toward what brings you joy,
you draw closer to God.
    God lives in that joy.
Perhaps God is all joy."

Another woman adds,
    "I think of it in terms of either consolation or desolation;
is what you're doing bringing fullness, healing, serenity?
    or emptiness, pain, anxiety?"

Move toward joy.

Choose consolation, not desolation.

My counselor echoes this,
    encouraging me to live for what is positive.
What does your weekend hold?
    Ah, that's sound wonderful;
enjoy every moment of it.
    Do you have any trips planned?
Those are things to anticipate, get excited about.
    You have some great things to look forward to.
Avoid spending time fantasizing about how bad things might be:

    Will I always have pain?
    How will I cope?

And instead fantasize about how great thing might be:

    I'll be hiking in Hawaii in just a few months, without pain.
    I can do the exercises and be back to normal before I know it.

The future is unknown;
    no imagined scenario is real,
so imagine the future you want, not the one you fear.

Choose joy,
    which may mean, every day, choosing to stretch and exercise
even when you don't feel like it,
    because the greater thing you're choosing
is healing, hope, confidence, satisfaction,
    joy.

And he's right.
    When I've done the stretches, when I've exercised,
I feel joy.
    I know consolation in place of desolation.

When I blog? Joy. Consolation.

When I connect with others: Joy. Consolation.

So sure, I was--without my consent--hit by a car.

But I have not lost control of my life.

I have choices to make, every day,
   to move toward joy.
Typing this is one of them.
    The time I will spend on the elliptical will be the next.
Then stretching will be another.
    Preparing to teach Sunday's 4th/5th grade class yet another.

Move toward joy.

Move toward joy.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.