Instruments

“This is the pen,” the docent said proudly in front of the red velvet ropes and plexiglass case with the goose quill pen lifted and lighted like the sacred relic it was, “with which Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, Oliver Twist, and A Tale of Two Cities.” The student in the back looked away, questioning whether it was actually the pen of the famous author. Even at his age, he knew it was never about the pen. It was the one who held it.

It’s the same with a violin or piano, a paintbrush or chisel, football or baseball mitt. On their own, they’re nothing but objects. Placed in the hands of an artist, however, they become so much more. When object meets artist, buckle up. Magic happens.

There’s a famous prayer that begins by asking God to make us instruments. The prayer reminds us that we were created to be instruments placed in the hands of the great creator. What occurs when we are held in God’s hands, used for God’s work, is nothing short of miraculous. Instruments like you and me can become instruments of peace, love, forgiveness, even grace.

Love can take the place of hate, faith push doubt aside, and hope transform despair. 

The key is to get our role right. As much as our egos will protest, we’re not the hand. We’re the pens, and that is something to celebrate daily.

All Saints 2021

I have daddy issues. I suppose that’s to be expected. When your father dies when you’re still a boy you think of him as the image and not the person, the hero and not the human. I have slowly come to imagine my father as a person like me - with fears and doubts, successes and failures – and it has not taken away the person I adored. It has only brought him closer and made my admiration shine brighter.

I think of him on All Saints Day, just as I think of countless others who have inspired me spiritually. Some of the saints I think about I’ve never known, the heroes of faith whose lives have reached across centuries and stirred my soul. Others I’ve known, and they’ve inspired me as well. Unfortunately, the word “saint” has always caused me to stumble because it’s a word laced with echoes of perfection or flawlessness. Today, I try to see beyond such distorted theological thinking and celebrate the communion of saints who from their labors rest . . . the ones who, like you and me, had strengths and weaknesses, things of which they were proud and things ashamed. What I celebrate today is the way God’s light shone through their imperfections and made their lives radiant.

Recently, I was sitting in a chapel next to my son looking up at the glorious stained glass windows high above. He pointed to one he particularly liked, the one he helped design. I was drawn not to the window but to the blurry colors smeared on the wall across from the window. Like the window itself, the colors were beautiful. With the help of the afternoon light, colors painted the grey walls. The image was blurred, but the colors still stirred my soul.

I think celebrating that is what All Saints’ Day is all about. 

Here’s an added bonus:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ4fK7PGhWo

“I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me: Blessed
Blessed
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord
For they rest. For they rest. For they rest
From their labours

For they rest from their labours
For they rest from their labours
For they rest from their labours
For they rest from their labours

Even so saith the Spirit
Even so saith the Spirit
For they rest. For they rеst. For they rest

Lux aetеrna, luceat eis
Domine. Domine
Lux aeterna, luceat eis
Cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es
Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis”

Writing and Erasing

One of my favorite descriptions of theology is, writing with one hand and simultaneously erasing with the other. As one who used to live as if life was a cumulative work, with pages and pages that others would read and assess, the idea of writing with one hand and erasing with the other is as unsettling as it is freeing. It’s a image that brings me back to the present, reminding me that, in the end, what was written before and what might be written in the future are nothing to what is being written now. . . today. . . this minute.

I’ve returned to the classroom after many years and, while much is as I remember, there is much that has changed. It’s not new so much as it is louder. The students are desperate to know their grades, and parents wait at the door expecting only glowing remarks about their children. While I applaud the children’s desire to excel, and understand parents’ love, the desire feels more like desperation. I deserve an A, they seem to say with every hand raised. It sometimes feels as if their lives depend on it, or their worth, and that makes me sad. There’s so much I want them to explore even if they fall flat on their face, but they’re paralyzed by the grade they hope to receive.

We’re not much better, you and me. Even though we’ve long graduated from school, we still want an A. Whether it’s at work, home, or social settings we seem determined to shine all the time. Progress is the tarnished cousin to shiny perfection - if not perfection, then at least something better than the person to our right or left. We can dismiss such a notion, but its true of us all at some point, or on some level. It’s even true in our spiritual lives. We’re all about the hand writing, but not so crazy about the hand erasing.

Today, as I welcome the students to class, I’ll walk over and close the door, as I do each morning. As I do so, I hope I can shut out perfection’s looming presence. I hope I can quell the need to perform. I hope I can suspend the hunger for an A. 

“Let’s just write,” I want to say. “Write from that place deep inside, the one so often ignored or denied. Let’s do something we’ve never done before, go somewhere we’ve never been, especially if we aren’t so sure we know how. Then, let’s erase the board, trusting that in the writing (and in the living) magic if found.”