Friday, March 15, 2024

Nightlight

 And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself. (John 12:32)

Perhaps it was the setting, a hospital room when I couldn’t rest, sleep or find any comfort. Maybe at another time the image, the juxtaposition, would not have struck me, but lonely hours staring at the ceiling affects your vision … and opens your heart.

Three parents stared from a silent television screen, receiving hugs from supporters who visited them in solidarity with their grief and calls for justice. They will never get it, however. Justice would mean getting their children back, alive and well. But they are gone, slaughtered in an elementary school room in Uvalde, Texas, two years ago.

Justice, for them, lies far beyond human reach, in a realm more gracious than anything we might imagine let alone provide.

For the time being, there is grief, the consolation of tender hearts and the faint hope that public authorities will hear them and respond like it was their children who were cut off from their precious lives by a shooter and his soulless killing machine.

Who knows what beauty and joy would have graced their families and community through the irreplaceable lives of these children? For this, we should all grieve. The Holy One gave those lives not just to their parents, their families and to one Texas town …. but to every one of us.

But it was more than this, more than my frustration of another night tethered to heart monitors in a hospital bed that moved my tears. There was an image. Behind the faces on the TV screen, a crucifix hung on the wall over their shoulders.

My bleary eyes could not make out much detail on the cross. It looked to be plaster with little color that I could see in the darkness.

But it was just right, in exactly the right place … as if forces beyond us curated the scene, a juxtaposition of shattered hearts standing there as the Crucified, arms spread wide by the ugly brutality of this world, his arms, above and around them … and me in that cursed bed, all of us in need of healing.

And there he was … and is … and always will be, arms open, Love giving itself away, refusing to hate, lost in love for a world that hates far too much and all-too-often.

That’s who Jesus is, the crucified and risen one, Incarnation of the Love who embraces all that we are, all that we have suffered and celebrated, all that makes us laugh and cry, enfolding the worst and best of us in an overflowing triune Love that has neither beginning nor end.

I cannot explain it and am certain I will never have such wisdom, but I know there is healing in those arms. More than once or twice I have tasted it, many more. And I know … that plaster crucifix, on a wall somewhere in Uvalde, Texas, speaks to places in our hearts that only Love can reach, transforming sorrow into hope and death into life.

In the darkness of night, only a crucified savior will do. Nowhere is God any greater … than on that cross.

David L Miller

 

 

 

Monday, March 04, 2024

 A clean and open space

 Making a whip of cords, he (Jesus) drove all of them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables. He told those who were selling the doves, ‘Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a market-place!’ (John 2:15-16)

All in all, it’s not a very ‘sweet Jesus’ sort of thing to do. But I understand the impulse.

Walking into the temple precincts, Jesus twists together a whip of cords, upends the tables of the money changers; their coins ching and clatter across the pavement.

Swinging the whip above his head, he drives off the merchants with their birds and lambs and cattle and who knows what else, clearing out an empty space until all that remains is him, standing alone in the courtyard, catching his breath, looking around for who or what he has yet to chase off.

He wants the temple—the ‘Father’s house’—to be a meeting place where human hearts might know and feel the Great Heart who loves and longs for them, a space to pour out their loves and hurts that they might meet and enter the Love who is their home, their hearts enfolded in the divine heart.

I felt something of the same yesterday while visiting a church that was new to me. The choir stood at the director’s command, a flute from a hidden corner intoned an exquisite passage, inviting the heart to rest, wait and listen for the voices to breathe their harmonies over the gathered people.

A spiritual, deep and soulful washed over us, the congregation rapt, moved but unmoving in the pews around me, until it was over. The final note hung in the air a nanosecond as a moment of sweet, mystic communion was about to gather every heart into one love for the Holy God who inspires such beauty and devotion.

But it was not to be, the congregation broke into simultaneous applause, unable to leave a tender moment alone, as they did every time someone sang or played or spoke, shattering any opportunity for silent communion with each other in the Great Love who woke us from sleep and called us together.

There was no open space for the heart to breathe and pray and be.

I was not tempted to make a whip of cords and drive these good people out, but I certainly wanted to tie their hands that they might let Beauty’s presence wash over them and grace their hearts with whatever the Holy One might give them.

Just so, I think I understand Jesus as he stands out of breath in the middle of the courtyard.

He cleared an open space where the clamor of buying and selling, of work and worry is stilled, a space where human hearts are relieved of the compulsion to fill every single moment with sound and motion—all the things we do in our vain attempts to fill our life with meaning or to drown out the nagging doubt that our lives and all we do to fill them has any meaning at all, that the emptiness we sometimes (often?) feel has no cure.

But the heart does not lie. Our hearts know we are made for love, to be filled with affection and warmth, to find ourselves amid the mutuality of giving and receiving that makes us truly human and truly glad to be graced with the privilege of drawing breath on this wonderous little corner of the cosmos.

We need a clean, open space to feel what we feel and to speak our fears and needs and hopes from the hidden silence of our hearts. And there, exactly there, in that open space, we meet the one who is the face of the hunger within us.

He is not only the fire of our hunger but also the food and drink that satisfies the heart’s ancient longing, standing in the open space, ready to hear, ready to heal, ready to receive, ready to welcome us that we may be taken into the Heart he is. Heart-to-heart, we meet and know the Love who made us, the Love who ever awaits us, the Love who lies waiting to live and breathe through our holy and precious lives.

David L. Miller

 

 

Sunday, February 25, 2024

If dreams there be …

You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven (Matthew 5:43-45a)

Songs and dreams tell us who we are, who we are meant to be, the soul who longs to live through the one precious life we are given. They alone unlock the hearts secret room, releasing desires over which reason has neither control nor arms to reach.

So it is, that on a single day, two moments come that have absolutely nothing to do with each other, except for the voice of soul speaking through both.

The song came first, a movie theme, Il Postino, decades old, but what does age matter? Beauty, love and wonder know no age. It began with the soft trill of a single flute, then a violin, a love theme, its melody gentle and flowing, filled with an insatiable ache to touch and know and be absorbed, lost in love’s embrace.

The heart is much quicker than the mind, and in an instant my heart prays silently then with words to be one, lost in the song, not to hear it with the ear but to be inside the ache of its melody, wounded and wanting, flowing in the stream of love and longing.

And for a moment, prayer has its answer; thought is dispersed, the mind falls silent as death and the heart is carried away in the wonder of beauty. I am in the song and the song is in me, and we are one. Lost in love’s melody, once more I know I am Love’s blessed image, beloved from all eternity, enclosed in the heart of the One who sings love songs in my soul.

Feeling this, there is neither need nor want for anything more than Love’s constant return that, however unlikely, I might become the Love who dwells in the inner mansion of this heart, instead of the imposter who so often wears my face.

Is this but a romantic dream? Well, there was a dream this same day. It left a lingering image, a memory, as sleep slipped away. A golden-haired girl, age 3, in a soft-green and white checkered dress. She wandered up the aisle of a crowded chapel, packed for a graduation ceremony. 

Slowly looking around, she passed the president of the seminary who was speaking at the lectern. Climbing a couple of steps, she walked among and around the knees of faculty in academic robes and full regalia seated there—looking for me. But she cannot find me because I am sitting far to the side, several rows deep among the graduates, barely able to see what was happening.

This wasn’t just a dream. It happened. And the moment lives in my heart, which is why, I suppose, it appeared in my dream. But in my dream, something happens that didn’t happen. I rise, scoop her up, enfold her in my arms, enclosing her in my heart so that the moment might live forever, shining with love’s beauty, revealing once and for all what human beings are made of and made for.

Savoring that image, I know that the love in which I hold her … is the Love who holds and encloses me in the divine heart, living still in this precious life with which I have been graced.

If dreams there be, and if dreams come true, may this one forever haunt my days and nights … until the Love who inspires them expands my heart to love all that God loves. Perhaps then, I shall truly sing the song that God never ceases to sing, lost in love’s melody.

David L. Miller

 

 

Saturday, February 17, 2024

Only for the sick

 After this Jesus went out and saw a tax-collector named Levi, sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up, left everything, and followed him. (Luke 5:27-28)

Who doesn’t want a second chance? Or a third or fourth … or, Lord knows, how many is enough before we get it right? Life, that is.

But then we never do get it quite right … or even close.

And if I needed a reminder, the ash-smudged foreheads that greeted me along grocery store aisles came as an irksome spur, once again, to take a close look at my life—my patterns of living and speaking and acting through seven decades—and recognize, once again, that I have received a lot more in this life than I have given.

I have not become the soul of life and love and grace I might have, could have, should have (and wanted to) become. But strangely, I am still haunted by an unmistakable beauty that hungers to live … in and through … the one life I have been given. It won’t let me go.

Amid this comes the darkness of the wee hours when sleep slips away and you stare into the abyss of knowing it is later than you think: There are not nearly enough years left for you to live the fullness of the beauty that lies hidden in your heart.

If only, one thinks …. If only I could do it all over again, I would have been smarter, better, braver, bolder, kinder and more faithful. I would not have indulged my vanity or wounded anger or lust or greed or fear … or whatever bedevils your heart, striving as we all do to fill the emptiness and soothe wounds we may have carried for decades.

It is then, in the middle of the mess, amid the quagmire of could’ves, would’ves and should’ves, that Mercy comes to call. ‘Follow me. I want you.’

Such was Jesus’ invitation to Levi, a member of the most reviled occupation of the time, tax collectors. In Caravaggio’s painting of this scene, an astonished Levi, leaning over the day’s ill-gotten proceeds, points at himself as if to say, ‘Who, me?’

Yes, you … Levi, and we, too. For, Mercy comes to those who live amid the quagmire of unresolved feelings and regrets, sins of which we are ashamed and memories that make us wince. I do not come for those who have no need of a physician, Jesus says, but those who are sick.

So yes, I want you.

Rising from his chair, Levi followed, and in my mind, this day, I, too, rise and fall at Mercy’s feet, Jesus lifting me to his side, for a moment his arm around me before I disappear into him—and realize the truth.

I am, this life, with all the messes I have made, the hurts I have caused and, yes, the good and graces I have tried to share, all of it is enveloped in him, taken into the Love he is, Mercy enfolding all that I am so that all that I am (however haltingly) might become mercy and grace, love and beauty, no longer lost or alone but human and whole, at home in the Love who heals.

David L. Miller

Sunday, February 11, 2024

As you see so shall you be

A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’ Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’ (Mark 1:40-41)

I have reached the point in recent years where (on good days) I realize that getting the point is not the point.

Hard as it is to let go of wringing an idea or some takeaway from my morning meditation, it is refreshing, if a bit unsettling, to settle into a moment of awareness, realizing that what I seek is already in me … and I am in it.

The unsettling part is letting go of the need to make something of the time, to walk away with an idea I can share or write about, which, ironically, is exactly what I am doing.

But to write about what happened today, last night and several days running seems impossible because it is so nebulous—tangible, yes, and assuredly real, but elusive as the air of love I was breathing, or better, that was breathing through me.

The story is simple, a leper, an outcast in the grip of gross disfiguration physically, emotionally and socially. And then, an outstretched hand and Jesus’ voice: I choose. I choose you. I choose this moment to touch and heal and love and give you back your life.

The words are barely necessary. The hand is enough. If all I ever knew of Jesus was this moment, this outstretched hand, it would be enough for me to love him and want to be with him, just to feel him near.

But there’s more. For the superlative gift is not seeing him and knowing he is compassion, divine and real, human and present right there before my eyes. The greater gift is finding that same love alive and breathing from some secret source hidden in the depth of your being.

And greater still is silently knowing that the Love breathing in him and in you surrounds and envelopes us and everything we can imagine in an invisible ocean of Presence, Love’s boundless sea.

The non-point of all this is that we pray and meditate not (or surely less) to get something, find answers or reach an insight. We come and look at Jesus to savor Love’s truth until it awakens within us the Love we truly are, and in whom we live, though we knew it not.

We come to see and savor Love’s own soul, for as we see so shall we be.

David L. Miller

 

 

 

 

Monday, February 05, 2024

Faces at the door

And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many …. In the morning, when it was still dark, [Jesus] got up and went out to a deserted place …. When they found him, they said to him, ‘Everyone is searching for you.’ (Mark 1:33-37)

Faces. Just look at the faces. Forget your theology, your ideology, your politics and everything else that blinds or obscures or restricts your field of vision.

Just look and see, and you will know.

A black-haired girl with earnest eyes raises a crooked stick on which someone attached a ragged white flag ripped from a bed sheet. Around her lies the rubble of her life, a Gazan city of crumpled gray concrete broken in the bombardment, her punishment for having the bad judgment of being born at this time and place.

Miles away, in Jerusalem streets, weary faces walk in the torchlight wearing love’s worry for faces they fear they will never again see, hoping their shouts will bring their beloved home from captivity, while neighbors well-known to them mourn the slaughtered.

I don’t have to wonder at the expression of those who gathered at the Capernaum door of the house where Jesus was staying. I just watch the news and feel the ache of hearts longing for restoration, hoping to feel whole and safe, wrapped in love’s warmth, free from the fears that nag every moment of their waking existence and haunt their dreams so that there is no escape.

Nor need I wonder why Jesus’ friends panicked when they woke and didn’t see him sleeping across the room, his breathing keeping time with their own, reassuring them that the one essential soul in their life was not lost to them.

Faces, all of them, longing to feel seen and safe, whole and hopeful, hoping that the hidden soul within them might rest in the peace of Love’s presence.

‘Everyone is looking for you,’ Jesus’ friends breathed in anxious voice, upon finding him alone on a hillside.

Of course, we all are. The girl with the flag, the protestors in the street, the faces at Jesus’ door, you, me, the next guy who passes us on the street—all of us looking for a great love that can make us whole.

All of us, in one way or another, whether with flags or shouts, silent prayers or hidden longings we barely recognize within ourselves: We pray.

We pray because we are human and mortal and so very incomplete, yet still alive with the hope that there is One who can make us whole, One who completes us, One who is the longing of every human heart—One who is that very longing … living in the soul’s hidden depth.

And that One … begs to be seen in the eyes of that girl in Gaza, to be heard in the voices of those longing for their lost ones, and to be welcomed in the hidden corners of our hearts longing for Love’s healing touch.

We stand at the door, all of us, one great prayer, secretly bearing the Love who awakens our hope for Love’s completion.

David L. Miller

 

 

 

Wednesday, January 31, 2024

With Lo in the flow

Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?’ And they took offence at [Jesus]. (Mark 6:3)

I have no idea who Lo is, his background or how he came to work at a suburban Cosco. But he made my day.

He saw me, and for a moment I truly felt seen, welcome and received as we shared a moment. And laughter.

The laughter was directed at my head of white hair, revealing my age and releasing me from the idiocy of having to fumble through my wallet to produce my driver’s license or AARP card in order to purchase the bottle of wine amid the milk and butter, coffee and assorted items on this day’s grocery run.

I saw his name tag as we left the checkout, while trying, without success, to identify the origin of his accent. But it didn’t matter because something utterly ordinary and wonderfully transcendent passed between us in an instant.

What to call it? Flow, maybe?

The flow of kindness, mutual humanity, basic respect, gentle humor, yes, all this, but more, because it made us—or at least me—happier, more alive and hopeful, open and kind, whatever the day might bring.

There was one more thing: It also made me feel less alone.

Our aloneness in this increasingly anxious and impersonal age is killing us, literally, or so a growing number of medical studies tell us. Their bottom line: Loneliness has the same health effect as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.

But loneliness kills us spiritually well before we are ready for the undertaker. It makes us feel cut off from the flow of human kindness that would pull us into its stream, bathing our hearts in the awareness that we are seen and recognized, known and valued, respected and worthy of care.

There are sacraments of this kindness and care. Today, one of them was named Lo, and for a moment, an instant, I knew myself with Lo in the flow of goodness and gentle grace.

As a Christian, I have a name for this flow.

‘I am the bread of life,’ Jesus says, in the Gospel of John. ‘I am the Good Shepherd.’ ‘I am living water.’ The list goes on, and today I will add a couple more predicates to Jesus’ sentence.

I am the flow of life and love that illumines your heart. I am the joy that fills you when you feel seen and treasured. I am the kindness that lifts your heart and restores your joy. I am the elation that comes when Love’s living flow washes through your heart.

And I am also the sadness, the longing ache of feeling cut off, rejected and invisible. For, the Love that I am longs to flow through all that is, every moment, every conversation, every day.

The divine life and love that filled Jesus frustrated him thoroughly when the gift he offered was refused and denied, when he was dismissed as the boy from down the street, nothing special.

But the flow goes on—within, beneath, around and through all that is—finding its way despite the rocks and walls, hard heads and calcified hearts that would hold it back.

And sometimes, Lo and behold, we find ourselves right in the middle of it.

David L. Miller