Primary Prayers

Today is the South Carolina primary, which might be a make or break primary for some candidates, if we can believe the pundits and commentators.  Or the way forward may continue to seem muddled.  After all, Super Tuesday is just days away, and I heard one newscaster say that 30% of the delegates will be assigned after Super Tuesday.  Fourteen states vote on Super Tuesday.

Even after Super Tuesday, the way forward may continue to seem muddled.  Maybe the way forward is never as clear as we would prefer--that situation has certainly seemed more the norm than the exception to me.

I can see pluses and minuses with each Democratic candidate.  I'm still not sure who I would vote for.  I know that I would vote for one of the two female candidates if I voted in the South Carolina primary today.

South Carolina has open primaries, which means there might be crossover voting.  People might cast votes in hopes of wreaking havoc.  That's not a new thing--when I voted in my first South Carolina primary in 1988, people talked about that idea.

In 1988, I voted for Jesse Jackson.  I didn't think he had a chance of winning the nomination, although he did very well in the primaries that year.  I didn't think I would ever see an African American as a president in my lifetime.  I am so happy to have been wrong about that.

I have a memory of voting for a Native American woman (the Green party candidate maybe?) while I was a voter in South Carolina, but I think that vote was during a regular election day.  I knew that the state's electoral votes would go to the Republican, so I felt free to vote for people who weren't Democrats.  I knew that my vote wouldn't be counted the way I wanted.  Still, it felt thrilling to vote for a woman, even as I knew that she didn't have a chance of winning.

I took my duties as a voter in South Carolina much more seriously as a voter in the primaries, even back when the South Carolina primary came later in the season.  I wanted to help choose the best Democrat to run against the Republican that would win my state's electoral votes.

Today I live in Florida.  Once I thought that my vote was much more important as a Florida voter.  Now I can't even be sure my vote will be counted properly (see the 2000 election).  Of course, now that's the reality in which most of us find ourselves.

Let us hope that all goes well today in South Carolina.  Let us hope that South Carolinians have clarity of mind and that the poll workers don't face any challenges that they can't handle. 

Let us do more than that.  Let us say some prayers.

Let us see what happens.

Considering Centering Prayer

This week, I finished reading the second book for my certificate in spiritual direction:  Open Mind, Open Heart by Thomas Keating.  This book talks about centering prayer, which is a simple sounding process of sitting in silence for at least 20 minutes a day.  Not talking to God, but sitting in silence--and before starting, one chooses a sacred words so that when one notices stray thoughts, one can say the sacred word and call one's attention back.

The idea that prayer can be sitting in silence for 20 or more minutes was a challenge. I see this practice as meditation, not prayer. But I am willing to admit that I might be limited in my view of prayer. I am realizing how much I feel threatened by silence. I have always felt that silence meant someone was shutting me out and refusing to communicate. I’ve always known this about myself, but reading this book made me realize it again and again. How can we know each other if we’re silent together?

I am willing to admit that the ability to be silent can mean that we know each other more fully, without lots of language getting in the way and obscuring. But I am also realizing how much I rely on language to clarify—and I rely on this clarifying aspect, even as I’m willing to admit/realize how we can’t use language to clarify if we’re not in touch with our feelings—and I think that most of us aren’t deeply in touch with our feelings.

And when I use “we” above, I’m talking about me and anyone with whom I’m trying to be in relationship: God, friends, spouse, other communities. I do think that God is most deeply in touch with God’s own feelings, as well as the feelings of all of us. But I don’t think that each one of us really knows ourselves intimately or deeply. It’s just too hard to do that work, to face our shortcomings, to deal with all the negative stuff. And even if we’ve done that work periodically, it’s hard to stay tuned in to ourselves and each other.

And my other challenge—the despair I feel at trying to find the time to do this.  The book recommends 2 sessions of centering prayer a day, with each session lasting between 20 and 60 minutes.  At the same time, I know it’s because I don’t particularly want to sit in silence. If this book was recommending a collaging technique or a way of coming to know God by stitching fabric together, I’d be out today buying supplies. What does that say about me?

I realize, believe me I do, that finding 20 minutes twice a day should not be that big a deal. I find time to eat and to exercise and to do a bit of spiritual reading and other chunks of time here and there to do other practices that make me happy (like blogging on an almost daily basis and several sessions of sketching and other types of reading). Why am I feeling resistance to this time honored practice of centering prayer?

Is it about the time it takes or the silence aspect of it?

I thought about trying to do this practice for Lent, but I have travels planned--the AWP conference is next week.  But really, that's just an excuse.  There's something in me that just doesn't want to do this.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 1, 2020:

First Reading: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Psalm: Psalm 32

Second Reading: Romans 5:12-19

Gospel: Matthew 4:1-11


This week's Gospel tells us the story of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. Notice that Jesus is human in his temptations: he is tempted by the ideas of fame, power, and immortality.

In her book, Things Seen and Unseen, Nora Gallagher points out that Jesus will indeed accomplish these things that Satan asks him to do. Jesus will reverse these days in the desert: he will multiply bread, he will hurl himself from the cliff of his crucifixion and be caught by angels, he will be worshipped, but by humbling himself in service (page 85).

Gallagher says that we face the same kinds of temptations that Jesus did: “Magical powers, helplessness, rescue, fame and power—they beckon me every day of my life. Just around the corner lies happiness; a new lover will provide lasting bliss; if I had what she has then I would be . . . They are the fantasies, the illusions, that suck out my vitality, that keep me from discovering my own rich reality. To come to terms with illusion is one of the great jobs of our lives: to discern what is fantasy and what is reality, what is dead and what is alive, what is narcotic and what is food” (page 84).

We may want to tell ourselves that Jesus could resist temptations because of his Divine side. But I would posit that Jesus' special powers of resistance were less about his supernatural side, and more about his spiritual discipline. He's in the wilderness, making a retreat to pray, when he’s tempted. He resists. Throughout the life of Jesus, we see him hard at work honing his powers through his spiritual practices.

Here's the good news. These practices are available to all of us too. Great disciples are not born, they are created. How? We turn ourselves into great disciples the same way that a doughy person transforms himself or herself into a great athlete, the same way that a creative person becomes a great artist. We show up, day after day, logging the training miles, working on our art. And soon enough, we wake up to find out that we've transformed ourselves into a person with new powers.

The season of Lent begins, that season of penitence and discipline. Now is the time to attend to your spiritual life. What practices will you adopt to become a great spiritual athlete? You’ve got a wide variety to choose from. You could give something up: gossip, worry, sugar, alcohol, excessive Internet time, caffeine, chocolate, speeding, more money to your tithe. You could add something: additional Bible reading, more devotional time, prayer, a creative practice. Spend some time in discernment. What one practice could you choose that would bring you closer to God by the time that we get to Easter?

Ashes, Carbon, Cactus, and Prophetic Promises

Here we are, the day after Mardi Gras/Shrove Tuesday, the day that marks a particularly penitent time in the Christian calendar.  It's Ash Wednesday, the day that reminds us of our ultimate destiny:  we are dust and ash, the detritus of stars, but ultimately dust and ash, a bundle of carbon and other elements.

Last year, coming home from Ash Wednesday service, I had these thoughts on the brain, and I was stopped at a train crossing, with a particularly lengthy train.  I grabbed my camera and experimented with taking pictures of myself in a rearview mirror.  A cross of ash, a rearview mirror, a long train--I should think about a poem.

Earlier parts of last year's Ash Wednesday's service were more traditional. 

I had forgotten how many cactus elements were part of the sanctuary last year:

Later, one of these cactus pots would hold the baby Jesus as he waited out the Advent season, waiting for his debut on Christmas Eve:

Throughout the service, I worked on this sketch:

Let us remember the promise of the ancient prophets:  "Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt" (from the 58th chapter of Isaiah).  Let us dream about the best way to rebuild our ruins!

Mardi Gras Musings

Today will be my usual Mardi Gras, which is fairly blah: get up, go to work, come home, go to bed. No festive drinks, no parade, no interesting foods.

In some ways, I'm more of a Shrove Tuesday kind of gal--but I don't celebrate that holiday usually either. One year I did make pancakes all by myself, which led to a good poem, but a lonely meal.

Today is Mardi Gras, and it's also Shrove Tuesday, which may lead some of us to ponder if these holidays have anything in common or how we came to have them. It's the day before Ash Wednesday, the day before Lent begins. The holidays of Shrove Tuesday, Carnival, and Mardi Gras have their roots in the self-denial of the Lenten season. These holidays are rooted in the fasting traditions of Lent and the need to get rid of all the ingredients that you'd be giving up during Lent: alcohol, sugar, eggs, and in some traditions, even dairy foods.

Mardi Gras and Carnival, holidays that come to us out of predominantly Catholic countries, certainly have a more festive air than Shrove Tuesday, which comes to us from some of the more dour traditions of England. The word shrove, which is the past tense of the verb to shrive, which means to seek absolution for sins through confession and penance, is far less festive than the Catholic terms for this day.

In the churches of my childhood, we had pancake suppers on Shrove Tuesday. I wonder if churches still do that in other parts of the country.

I wish I could say that I went to an early morning Shrove Tuesday pancake breakfast.  I did not.  I did not make any sort of festive bread; if you want an easy festive bread recipe, see this blog post--it's even got pictures.

I have a balsamic-brown sugar-shiraz syrup reducing on the stove.  I've gotten a head start on dinner--broccoli cut up, brown rice begun, sweet potatoes baking in the oven.  I will look forward to this food all day because I am a grown up without an Instant Pot or Mardi Gras plans.

I realize this post might seem a bit sad, but I want to remember that I've had a good morning.  I've gotten some work done on some poems, and I've enjoyed getting a head start on dinner, and I had a good spin class.

Happy Mardi Gras, everyone. May you have a nourishing, creative day.

Transforming the Altar for Transfiguration Sunday

Yesterday was Transfiguration Sunday, a festival day where Christians celebrate Jesus going up a mountain with a selection of the disciples. While there, his clothes and face glow, and Moses and Elijah (dead prophets) appear.  We hadn't really talked about doing much to change the sanctuary for this day.

When I got to church, the altar was still set up the way that it has been since we changed it for the baptism of Jesus, back in early January:

I asked my pastor if I could transform the altar for Transfiguration Sunday.  He said, "Sure.  Have fun."  It's one of the things I love about my church--I am allowed to play and experiment.

I hadn't brought anything with me, but we had some elements on the altar, primarily the gold fabric.  I covered the various structural elements (the bowl, the blocks, the pitcher), added some shimmery yellow fabric and silver florists' wide ribbon, and a few more candles.  I'm really pleased with how it came out:

I did worry about some of the fabric parts catching fire, but I kept a close watch.  Here's a longer view:

Later, I created some haiku-like creations and did a sketch around them.  Here, too, I was pleased:

I love mornings like this at church that make me feel that I've had a creative encounter in a spiritual setting.  May we all be transformed and transfigured!

Poetry for Transfiguration Sunday

In many Protestant churches, the Sunday before Ash Wednesday is Transfiguration Sunday (other Christians celebrate Transfiguration Sunday on August 6).  Here's a great quote for Transfiguration Sunday. 

"The human journey is a continuous act of transfiguration." - John O'Donohue

It comes by way of a tweet by Diana Butler Bass.

If you want more poetry, here's a poem that I wrote years ago.  It was  published in The Healing Muse. It's part of my series of poems where I imagine Jesus moving through our modern lives (going to spin class, playing putt putt or softball, helping with hurricane clean up).


Transfiguration Sunday on the Cancer Ward


He waits with them because who knows
better how disconcerting
it is to discern one’s disjointed bones
dissolving into water. He remembers
how it feels to be forsaken.
He remembers feeling life flow out of him,
only a husk of his former humanity remaining.

Here, he can’t do much.
In a world of free will, cancer cells can multiply,
bright sons of the morning who would rather reign
in hell than serve in heaven.
Here on the cancer ward, he can’t do
much, but he does what he can.

He brings ice chips and water to those annoyed
by their drought desert mouths.
He offers consolation to the woman who complains
that she can see all her bones through her translucent skin.
He offers tales of transfiguration,
and holds out the hope of resurrection.
He reminisces with those who are too far
gone to remain on the earthly plane much longer.
They trade tales of what they’ll miss most:
crisp sheets on a fresh-made bed,
long lingering meals,
birdsong in the morning,
the change in light that signals a new season,
homemade bread,
the soft rains and gentle sunsets,
a perfect bottle of wine.