The treasure in the field

We read in Matthew 13:44 that The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in the field. I always thought of that treasure as something we find, something we sell all we have to buy that field so that we can keep that treasure, a treasure outside of ourselves.

But another thought occurred to me when I was talking to a friend about the goodness that we have within, but often fail to remember. This happens especially when God seems deaf to our prayers, when we are crying out for guidance and open doors. When we cry for help and hear nothing but silence, it is easy then to blame myself: I am not heard because I am not pure enough. God cannot give me what I ask for because I have failed in some way. It is always my fault, my failure, my negligence. That is the temptation.

That is when I realized, gosh, I am not the one who gives all for the treasure hidden in the field so much as God. Because In Jesus, God came down and gave up his God-hood. And for what? For nothing less than myself. Oh how easy it is to forget that I have hidden inside of me all sorts of gifts from God. I have goodness that I sometimes hide, and generosity, and kindness and mercy. But I forget. I get caught up in appearing strong and hard and immoveable. Because that is what my culture or my self tells me I should be. I forget that inside of me is a treasure chest of goodness, compassion and mercy.

And so, when God does not hear my prayers, when doors do not open for me as they have in the past, let me not dishonor myself. God gave all for a treasure hidden in the field. It's for me to remember. And that will help me in my wait.

As to why God makes me wait, well thought that would require a whole new post.

God's imperfect gifts

When we read theology about God and God-likenss, we read about perfection. In fact, we read terms like all knowing, all goodness, all perfection. So, if this is true, then why are God's gift's so all-flawed?

I come to this question as I remember my cat, Buttons, the cat that came as an answer to prayer. My gift from God.  It happened like this: I had transferred to a new monastery and felt lonely and homesick. I prayed I would "see" a kitty. Instead, I found a little kitten abandoned by its mother, curled up in the leaves. He was about 4 weeks old, scrawny, flea ridden, tiny, and needed someone to care for him. I was allowed to keep him. It was a true gift from God.

But this gift was not perfect. He was not the sweet, cuddly kitten I wanted. As a feral kitty, he retained his wild streak as he grew up, which he unleashed on me when I least wanted it. He was fussy about his food and easily upset if he didn’t get his way. And he used to wake me up early, really early.

One time I looked at this "gift from God" and wondered, why did my gift have to be so imperfect? If God is so perfect, why can't God's gifts be perfect too?

And then I thought, perhaps it is my concept that is flawed. Perhaps my flawed thinking comes from the human experience.  Ever ask someone for help and have them take over? Like since you asked, somehow you are deficient, and they must do it themselves. Ask, and you will be controlled.

God is not like that. When you ask God for a gift, God does not take over. God does not treat you or me like we are so deficient that we cannot handle life. Instead, God gives us what is very fallible. Because God knows, we can handle it. We can take those gifts and figure it out. God does not need to take over in our lives and treat us as idiots. God has greater respect for us than that.

So, when I remember Buttons, I remember the good as well as the difficult. I remember how I had him for 14 years. I remember how I would find him waiting for me at the door every single time I came home. I remember how he loved to sleep on my feet, nap in whatever room I settled in, and would talk to me. I remember him with fondness, because despite his flaws, he was truly my gift from God.

And so, when I receive an imperfect gift from God, I want to remember, I can handle it. Because even though God's gift is not perfect, it is right for me.

Looking in all the wrong places

Ever notice how we tend to seek our security outside of ourselves instead of within, where the real strength lies? Perhaps if we re-read psalm 23, the psalm of the Good Shepherd, we would challenge our search. It reads: "Even though I walk in the valley of darkness, I fear no evil, for you are with me.”

Not to fear in darkness, now that is a test of faith. I think sometimes that test is asking us, how much do I believe in myself? How strongly do I believe in God's presence? How much do I seek within instead of without?

I am lucky that I grew up with parents who trusted me. They used to ask me to do things I didn't think I could do. Only in looking back do I realize, they were challenging my own opinion of myself.

Perhaps this is the meaning of walking in the valley of darkness and not fearing evil. It is God's way of saying, you have greater strengths than you know, you are stronger than you realize. You have a David inside of yourself that can overtake any Goliath. You just need to reach down for those pebbles of faith and trust.

Psalm 23 has long puzzled me for its seeming contradictions. "I shall not want" along side "I fear no evil". I did not find either true for me for a long time. I did want, and I did fear the darkness. But maybe they are not meant to be oppositional. Maybe such lines are complimentary. Maybe it is the darkness that teaches me not to want, because it teaches me that what I most need is not out there somewhere. It is right here inside of me. It has been here all along. I just looked for peace and security in the wrong places.

What to do with unanswered prayer

Unanswered prayer. I don't know about you, but I have many. Not just from today, but from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. In fact, I have a life time of unanswered prayers. From years and years of asking. From years and years of needs. And so, I look at all of these unanswered prayers and wonder, what does it say about me? What does it say about my God?

I am not sure, but I suspect it has to do with mystery.

Mystery is such a part of our lives that I doubt we think much about it. And yet, we are confronted with it when we think of faith, of prayer, and of eternity. So much unknowing.

The right kind of mystery offers us the chance to sit in wonder. And we can only sit in wonder when we learn silence.

Silence is more than lack of noise. The kind of silence we need to be still before mystery seems to come only after we have been disappointed, when life has not turned out as we thought it should, when answers no longer satisfy. Then, we seem to come to a silence that waits.

I learned that kind of silence as a nun living in a monastery. I learned it through unanswered prayer, lots of unanswered prayer. When you are a cloistered nun, and your whole life is given over to prayer, unanswered prayer is not just an annoyance, it hits at the very core of your dedicated life. It brings into question everything you say you believe in and the very life you live.

In that time, in a time of accumulated unanswered prayer, I gave up asking. I no longer knew what to say. I became dumb before God. It was not a kind dumb, like that of a lamb, but a desperate dumb, like a soul who is in despair. A silence imposed by God's silence. A silence that results from darkness. My unanswered prayers became a kind of dumb that knows not what to say or even what to think.

In that darkness, in that silence, I learned a new kind of prayer. I learned to be open to mystery. I learned a prayer that listens.

Sitting before God in a stance of listening brought me into a whole new relationship with God. Sitting in silence, I discovered that the God I thought I knew was a God I did not know. I came to realize that I was being lifted up precisely when I thought I was being cast down. I found that the fog that seemed to shroud me was really passing clouds along my journey as my spiritual life came to a new horizon.

It was silence that helped me to be open to mystery. And I learned that silence, the right kind of silence, because of unanswered prayer.

And so today, when my prayer goes unanswered, I try to remember the words of psalm 46:10: Be still and know that I am God.  I try to remember, having my prayer answered is not the most important thing in life. Entering deeper into mystery is.

Reading the Prodigal with different eyes

Sometimes when I hear familiar passages from the Gospels, I think we've got it all wrong. For example, take the story of the Prodigal Son. It seems pretty straightforward. Squander your livelihood, and you'll end up crawling back begging for forgiveness.

Yet, I do not think that is the real interpretation we should get. I think the story is really about each one of us, and how God gives us an inheritance and sets us free to follow the desires of our hearts.  The message is not that such adventure is sinful, but that not all adventures are the right ones. Best of all, God does not expect us to get it right the first time. God instead is waiting for us every time we realize this path is not right for me, and I need to return and think again?

If the prodigal had not gone away and seen life from a different perspective, he would never have come to really know his father. Knowing that father took the honestly of acknowledging he'd made a mistake. And as the story so dramatically portrays, the Father didn't love him less for that, but more.

I sometimes think our tidied up religion keeps us from seeing the reality of life. We cannot live within a structure that keeps us from all harm. That isn't living; that is slavery. To venture forth means to deal with life as it really is, without pretense or false virtue. We will be robbed, we will be a victim at some point, and we will also betray our own best selves. But that is not the end of story (like time now to crawl back and beg). That is part of our journey.

I know only too many who, for fear of making a mistake, continue in a false life, where expectations can be met, and no surprise will throw them off guard. Yet, they are the most unhappy people I know.

The prodigal son took a chance at life. And in the end, he grew. What am I willing to chance for spiritual growth?

The role of failure

As we celebrate Easter, I cannot help but think of one topic we all avoid: failure. We dread this word almost as much as we dread the word death.

I am thinking of this as I watch an individual try to navigate life without admitting to weakness. And it brings to mind that Easter is not just about events and celebrations, but also about failure and weakness, about human suffering and defeat. And how hard it is for us, for me, to admit or accept either.

Perhaps this is because I tend to think of failure as an end result. If I am a failure, then life is over. If I am weak, then I have nothing to brag about, and I am not worth anyone's attention.

Jesus took on both labels. He let himself feel the despair of suffering, failure, and weakness. He let himself be defeated. Why? Perhaps Jesus wanted us to remember, failure and weakness are not the end. I have the ability to rise again, and to go beyond those events.

Because I am not defined by one action. I am effort, determination, and faith. I am a mixture of failure and success, strength and weakness. I am a composite, complicated, and amazingly resilient person.

Perhaps this is the message we should take from the Easter mystery.