Category: Reflections

Dearly Beloved,
Grace and Peace to you.
         
I’m going to take a break from Unfolding Light for a week. I love writing this; it’s part of my morning prayer routine. And I know it’s something that others count on. But for that very reason it’s a good thing to stop every once in a while. It reminds both me and you that we can survive without this.

At a meeting at church recently the leader asked us, “What do you long for?” One response was, “Four days without anybody needing me.” I thought, “That’s what the Bible calls Sabbath.” Sabbath is not a requirement, not a list of things we can’t do. It’s freedom from having to do them. That’s hard for us to grasp in this culture in which we are addicted to busyness. Part of the addiction is the belief that we have to be useful, we have to be accomplishing something, we have to justify our existence. And Sabbath says, No, you don’t. You just have to be. Your worth in this world is not defined by what you do, even for those who really count on you. Ultimately what we need to be able to count on is not is that people serve us but that they are themselves. Sabbath is an invitation to be yourself and do nothing else, even for a little while.

Dare to make sabbath time for yourself—for yourself—a little bit each day, each week, each month. Trust that this radical act of self-emptying is actually for God. God commanded the Sabbath not to get us to follow rules, but for our sake: to give us permission to be ourselves without any requirements, without anybody needing us to do anything. Sabbath is freedom, and God wants nothing more than for us to be free, and to be ourselves.        

Deep Blessings,
Pastor Steve

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

To receive Unfolding Light as a daily e-mail,
write to me at unfoldinglight8(at)hotmail.com

You, the voice that I know
because you know me,

because you call me by my name,
the unsaid name you gave me,

voice of silence, speak.
Utter me into myself.

Shepherd of my soul,
lead me into my body.

Lead this kept sheep
out of my want.

Through this death-shadowed valley
bring me with you.

I obediently follow
to perfect freedom.

Out of the sheepfold
comes a flock of love.

                              — May 9, 2014

 

Dearly Beloved,
Grace and Peace to you.
         
         
There are a couple thousand of you. I only know a few.
But you whom I do know, I always think of you as I write,
sometimes quite individually. Some of you are thousands
of miles away, and I can’t know what your day was like
yesterday, what hopes or dreads awoke with you today.
But I close my eyes and think of you, and I write. And if I,
who am riddled with fears and desires and cowed by my
sad, desperate ego, can think of you even this little, how
much more the One who is closer to you than your blood,
who knows why the tears comes to your eyes before you
begin to feel, who loves you so madly as to surrender
the whole universe to be with you, even at your foulest—
how much more the Beloved holds you close, and does
nothing without the deepest mindfulness of you. How
much more lovingly the Beloved looks at you, turns the
page to a new day, smiling quietly, and begins to write.

Deep Blessings,
Pastor Steve

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

To receive Unfolding Light as a daily e-mail,
write to me at unfoldinglight8(at)hotmail.com

        
         The sheep follow
         because they know the shepherd’s voice.
                  —John 10.4

Ignore the hubbub within,
the sales pitches and the rants,
the thrilled anxiety of lurking disaster,
the voice of the displeased father,
the unhappy mother,
the fearful voices that remind you
how you should fit in and don’t,
what you have to do and can’t,
who you ought to be and won’t.

Don’t listen to that rush of that traffic,
the chanting of those crowds.

Listen beneath the clamor
to the quiet, gentle voice
of One who knows you,
who walks with you,
who accepts your pains
and cherishes your wondering
and bears your deepest longing,
who does not need for you to know
or believe or prove,
but honors who you are
and believes in who you are becoming.

Listen for the voice of One
who gives voice to you when you cannot,
who loves you for your sake alone,
yet gathers you into a blessed flock,
the quiet voice that rises from deep within,
as naturally as grass in springtime,
the sun in the morning,
the voice of love, not fear.

Listen for the voice of the Beloved
and follow that one alone
into this day,
into the gift of your life.
    

                  —May 7, 2014

 

Dry bunch grass. Sand.
No path, just wideness, and dirt.
Or narrowness, and shadows.
Rocks, rough, rough rocks.
No way, no way to see
the way.

Valley where death
is solid enough
to have a shadow.

You know me, and
this valley, and where
to find me in it.

Gentle shepherd,
I need your voice. I need
your quiet call. I need
your gentle going:
no drama, no crying out,
just walking,
soft footfall in barren soil.

I will follow.
I don’t see a path, can’t yet
make out the green pasture.
Just follow your feet
on rocky ground.
Just follow your voice.
It is so soft

it’s only here in the barrens
that I hear it.

Beloved,
As I travel among the suffering I always reach into my little golden bag of prayers that you give me and I give them one. They can’t always tell, but I can see that it makes a difference. Thank you for those prayers. The wonderful thing is, they never run out. Isn’t that cool?

Give my love to everyone there.

Love,
God.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

To subscribe to Unfolding Light by daily e-mail write to unfoldinglight5(at)hotmail.com

While they were walking along, talking,
Jesus himself came near and went with them,
but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.

Beloved, you have walked with us in our journeys.
Help us to trust your presence, even when we cannot see.

They stood still and looked sad.
He asked them, “What things are you discussing?”

You have entered into our sorrows.
We thank you for your healing.

He interpreted to them the scriptures.

So much in our lives does not make sense
except in light of your loving presence.
Give us wisdom rooted in your grace.

They urged him to stay.

Something in us desires you,
reaches out for you, invites you in.
Come, enter, and share the bread of this life.

He took bread, blessed, it broke it, and gave it to them.

Bless our lives with your gratitude,
your faithful, unseen presence
and your loving purpose,
gather us into your Body,
break our hearts for the world,
and give us to your children in hope and joy.
 

         You have been born anew,
         not of perishable but of imperishable seed,
         through the living and enduring word of God.
                  —1 Peter 1.23

Our one-month old grandson squirms and fidgets in my arms. He stares into space, not yet able to focus his eyes. He thrashes, not yet in control of his limbs. He burps and squawks and spits up, his digestive system not yet running smoothly. He can’t quite hold up his head yet, but he tries. This is all fairly exhausting, so he sleeps a lot. But not through the night. This sounds pretty chaotic and disorganized, but it’s perfect for a one-month old. Every moment his systems are getting organized, his abilities are improving, and his brain is growing, processing an incredible amount of ability and awareness. All this takes time. Meanwhile, he is as beautiful as can be.

It’s hard work being born anew. God has raised us from death— that’s the fun part that we can tell stories about in church. But then comes the hard work. We leave behind the old life, the habits and assumptions rooted in our old false fears, the coping tricks that we now see are not life-giving, the bound-up self-image, the grave clothes we still haven’t shed. “Unbind him,” Jesus said when Lazarus emerged from the tomb. It’s hard work. With God’s word living in us, we take on new habits, practice new skills, exercise new awareness, try and fail and try again to live in new ways. We learn to forgive ourselves for how awkward it often is. It’s perfect for a newborn.

So keep at it. Accept the hard work. Take intentional steps. As hard as it is, as often as you fail, you are held in God’s arms. You are cherished more than you can imagine. You are as beautiful as can be.

 

When the morning reached out its dawning hand to us
when we had thought there could be nothing but night,
when a fellow traveler walked with us in our sorrow,
a stranger even, who was willing to listen,
when someone helped us find wisdom in our losses,
when something in us, unnoticed until it spoke,
called out to another to come in, to share a life,
when we ate together, embraced one another’s
hunger and gratitude, bore one another’s craved blessing,
when we stood in the definite, unnameable presence like rain
that followed us as intimately as our breath,
when a Word spoke to us from inside things,
things as plain as bread, broken open for us as a gift,
when the world was not alone of us, but one, and gathered,
when we walked along, and the road received us,
and the real and ordinary was enough for us, blessed and given,
didn’t our hearts burn within us?
 

 

Little one, my Beloved,
my dear newborn infant,
I hold you in my arms.
You can’t form words for me;
you hardly know that I am.
But I love you.

There is nothing you have to do
to please me. I am already pleased.
You don’t need to be “good,”
in fact you often aren’t.
You cry in my arms.
You are entirely self-absorbed.
You cause me great trials.
You spit up on me.
You eat and breathe and poop,
and that is enough for you.
And it is enough for me.
I love you.

When you are cranky I feel for you,
though I can’t always soothe you.
When you fuss I do not scold,
I just keep holding you.
It is most beautiful when you are at peace,
surrendered, in my arms.

You are working so hard, becoming,
growing, becoming aware.
It will happen all your life,
mostly within, without your knowing,
this new life.
And I will continue to birth you,
invite you to die and be raised
into newness.

You are beautiful.
Accomplishing nothing, you are beautiful.
I can’t wait to see your gifts unfold.
I can’t possess you or control your future,
but I will go though it with you.
I can’t promise good fortune,
but I promise you love.
In fact, I will suffer with you,
I will die for you.
I will be with you, for you are mine, and I love you.

You can’t comprehend my love for you,
or the vast blessing I surround you with.
You never will.

You will pray to me, not knowing
that I hold you in my arms.
You will always be my delight,
and I will always love you
simply because I am your Father,
your Mother.
This is my Covenant. Forever.