Posts Tagged: the incarnation

“God’s Got This”

One of the nice things about this retreat has been finding a notebook from other retreatants in the lap drawer of the desk.  It was good to read what other pilgrims have written.

So, I decided to add my own words.  Here they are, even though you are not in room 201 at Gethsemani.  What is true in room 201 is also true wherever you are right now.

“So, you have come to Gethsemani seeking God, seeking direction.  Me too.

It is not in finding God that we find Him.  Rather, it is in the seeking itself.  Those who seek are already blessed (Psalm 119:2).

And of course, God is seeking you and me, isn’t He?  The incarnation and the cross both say that pretty clearly.

My frantic seeking is, however, not always helpful.  Focusing on the God who is seeking me involves relaxing into God’s love, grace, and my true identity in Christ.

So relax!  God’s got this—no matter what your “this” is!”

“The Perpetual Discomfort of Love”

“God is love.” “John, in 1 John 4:16)

“Love one another.” (Jesus, in John 13:34)

“Love your enemy.”  (Jesus, in Matthew 5:44)

“Love as I have loved you.” (Jesus, in John 13:34)

“In all their afflictions, he [i.e., God] was afflicted.” (Isaiah 63:9)

“. . . the perpetual discomfort of what love requires.” (Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation,

From the Center for Action and Contemplation

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/FMfcgxwChSHbTfsDLWjVHvdPRmchKQSH).

The last quote above is from a guest meditation from Richard Rohr’s website.  Rohr asked a mom and dad to share their thoughts about parenting.  Mom got to go first, which is as it should be.  She spoke of “ . . . the perpetual discomfort of what love requires.”

Yes!

We tend to think that love is a wonderful, pleasurable, joyous thing.  Sometimes, it is.  More often, it is not.

Don’t get me wrong: Love is an adventure.  However, as Bilbo Baggins said, “Adventures are nasty things that will make you late for dinner.”  And who wants to be late for dinner?

Still, we need adventure in our lives—even if we don’t want them.  Especially then.

In Isaiah 63:9, the prophet Isaiah says to people in exile, “God has gone through all the troubles that our ancestors went through.”  The implication is that God is with the exiles, too.  Apparently we have a God who is also willing to endure the perpetual discomfort of what love requires.  Some theologians (of a certain philosophical bent) refer to God as “the unmoved Mover.”  Perhaps they are right in a sense.

But in an even more profound sense, God is precisely the very moved Mover.  It would seem that we have a God who has sought out the adventure of love, no matter how much perpetual discomfort there is for Him in that adventure.

It is the same for us.  Love is an adventure, no matter the perpetual discomfort.  However, if we go on the adventure, we will eventually discover that we have a Great Companion—the God who accompanied Israel in its painful quest, the same God who became flesh and dwelt among us.

“BARN BABY!”

I was about eleven years old, and it was Christmas morning.  I woke up ready to inhale breakfast and open presents.

Unfortunately, there was a very large glitch in my plan—my dad.

Like many young children, I had always believed that parents never got sick.  My mom disabused me of this childish fantasy in a hurry.  “Your dad has come down with some kind of virus.  Could you do the feeding of the cattle this morning?”

I don’t remember saying anything to my mom.  Maybe I did.  If so, Mom, even though you’re long gone, could you please forgive me?

Whether I said anything to Mom or not, I had plenty to say on the hundred-or-so yards between the house and the barn.  They may have been questions in form, but in content, they were accusations.  “How could Dad get sick on Christmas Day!  I think it was deliberate!  And why did cows have to eat and drink on Christmas Day?  Let them wait ‘til tomorrow!”  I seem to remember even calling God to account for this tragic matter of me having to do the feeding on this particular morning.  I was determined to do the feeding, and draw water from the well for the cattle in record time.

Our barn was a ramshackle affair with a small door which was opened and closed with a two-by-four dropped into a notch on the door.  I lay my hand on the latch to the door, still fuming, and had an immediate encounter with The Divine Mystery of the Incarnation.  I had never been spoken to by God before, and have only rarely been spoken to so directly since.  (Or, perhaps, I just don’t listen very well.)  Certainly, I was in no particularly spiritual frame of mind.

But as I grabbed that latch, I heard—as clearly as I have ever heard anything—God saying, “It was in a place like this that My Son was born.”

That, and nothing more.

My hand was frozen to the latch, but not from the cold.  I couldn’t move for what seemed a very long time.

Finally, I slowly lifted the latch, as if I were lifting a chalice.  I reverently opened the door, and eased the latch down beside it.  I slowly scooped the cattle’s feed out of the barrels and into their mangers.  I gave each of them some extra feed.  I patted them on their muzzles as they ate.  I very slowly broke apart several bales of hay, carefully spreading it in another part of the manger.

I went outside and drew water from the well.  Cattle can drink a lot of water, especially right after they’ve eaten.  I made trip after trip from the well to their water tank, and considered it an honor to do so.  Before I left the barn, I wished the cows a Merry Christmas.

My heart and mind and behavior are often more like our ramshackle barn, than they are like a Currier and Ives print.  Barns are not sanitary places.

And yet . . .

And yet . . .

And yet, it was a stable in which Jesus was born.  Perhaps that wasn’t an accident.  Perhaps God was making a point.  No one, no one, is too unsanitary to be saved.  No one is too messed up for God.

No one!

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