Faith: A Bad Rap

It seems to me faith is something that is mistreated. Faith is mocked, scorned, and ridiculed. One who has a firm, unshakable faith can also be referred to as someone with "a blind faith". It is a funny misnomer in my opinion, because the one with this kind of faith, in fact sees plenty. They see the world of the unseen and acknowledge its truth and its power. They see more, not less. The Bible says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed" (John 20:29). Why? What exactly is faith and why are we called to it? It is interesting that those most critical of faith act in faith all the time. We act in faith when we go to bed at night and set our alarm clock. We act in faith when we buy groceries for the week, and we act in faith when we start a college fund. We don't mock these behaviors as childish or superstitious. On the contrary, we exalt these acts as being good and responsible, preparing for that which is ahead—sacrificing in the now in order to assure at least in part, comfort, and stability in the unknown.

There is a world that may not be linear, but it is real and reveals truth—a world that informs us in ways we know, but perhaps cannot yet dance or articulate. We know this to be true when we have an awkward exchange with someone, when we perceive something "off color". Sometimes we just can't quite put our finger on it, but we know with a fullness of our being that it is real. We may try to recite the account to another, telling what the person said, the words that were used, the intonation, their body language, but even all that information might not hold the ultimate key. "I don't know, I can't explain exactly what, but it was off". It is real, it was perceived, yet unexplainable.

There is also the other kind of perception that can be created, maybe not grounded in truth, and yet is real. For example, the woman who is convicted in her own mind that a certain dress is unflattering to her bloated tummy, she is self-conscious and perhaps overly concerned. Perhaps an observer knowing nothing of her personal issue and dissatisfaction, looks at her dress and finds it very pretty. In noticing a lingering glance, she immediately is reaffirmed in her own convictions that the dress is unflattering and that the person who is in actuality admiring, is looking on critically. This is that strange reality, that is not based in truth but yet very real to the person experiencing it. Even if their own perception of the reality or event is false, there is a reality that exists and is real. It is real to that person experiencing it, and therefore it exists.

Faith is a belief and a commitment to a reality that exists, that is perhaps unseen but grounded in truth. Ultimate Truth. It is the objective reality that whether you believe in it or not, it exists, and stands steady. It is a vibrant living reality unchanging in its nature. Whether you perceive it or not, it is there. It is not subjective perception, but ultimate truth, and remaining faithful and convicted in faith is not Pollyanna, it is no easy task. It is not something to be mocked and scorned but rather it is something to be admired. It demands courage and strength. It would be easy to say nothing means anything, there really is no such thing as right and wrong, good and evil, and live life with no responsibility or commitment to something higher than our own selfish desires. That does not mean it will be a joyous, fulfilled life. Most likely it will not be. When God calls us to observe his commandments. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt 11:28). It is ultimately for our own good, although sometimes in our darkened state we do not see it or feel it that way.

We all have a sense of right and wrong, good and evil. Sure, the perimeters around what that means, and what those lines are differ greatly, but the basic intuitive understanding exists, and it is real. Our whole being shouts out at gross injustice and says it is wrong, our soul cries for the wrong to be made right. It does not matter what social mores or governmental pressure is in place, killing millions of Jews for the mere sake of their Jewishness is wrong. It is not a question of what works best for a flourishing society or getting along. Something in us says, wrong. Not because I think it is wrong or because I just don't like it, but because there is an objective truth that is operating and dictating this wrong. It is larger than me or you, it exists and speaks and we know.

Conversely on a beautiful spring day, a clear blue sky, pink flowers blooming, birds chirping, a child laughing and joyfully drinking up the essence of all this beauty, our souls smile and something says this is good, this is right. We know fully there is something good here, not a thought or an opinion, but pure unadulterated good. “God saw that it was good” (Gen. 1:10). Sometimes the voice of truth is clear as a bell, and other times it is subtle and yearning. It is like a sound in the far-off distance that beckons. You cannot fully make out the story, but it is there waiting to unfold. I choose to believe that that deepest part of our being is being informed by something great, something true and ultimately good.

Faith is not just the belief though, it is ultimately the relationship. It is a long-term commitment, and like most long-term commitments requires a lot of nurturing. Spending time, coming back to, having patience, hope, trust, and ultimately love. A love of that which is good, right and true. A love of that which is love itself: “God is love” (I John 4:8). It is the Agape love relationship, walking together day to day, coming back to, drifting slightly. We are the tide to his ocean. Faith is beautiful but not for the faint of heart. It is not blind, but rather all seeing. When nurtured accordingly the garden of faith will bear the most beautiful fruit, and you will be full.

Absence and Being

I have missed writing. At first, we returned from summer vacation, hectic with life's many demands. Getting readjusted to life at home, and prepared for another school year to begin. Then when I went to write my keyboard went crazy, it had a mind of its own. Adding spaces, capitals at will, changing letters for other letters randomly. There was the trial period, new chargers, different iPad, which would work for a moment and then back to its own double personality. I gave up. It took a short while to purchase another and then it was holiday season. Christmas shopping, travels, family...the clock kept ticking and the time quickly passed.

I started to do a post in January but got cut off. Then more time passed, I was ready to write—dead battery. Sometimes it is our will that drives our actions, and sometimes we become painfully aware of a greater will that has a direction and a purpose, and nothing in our power or will, will change that. Finally, I am back. I have had thoughts come and go. At times they almost made it to paper, and alas the moment was gone. It seems in life there are these precipices, tight ropes, that we need to seize and take action on just at the right moment, find our balance and act. Too much forcing and the joy and spontaneity is gone, too much resting and the impetus vanishes and is lost, like a cloud that forms and passes and is no more.

I thought last summer about the funny incident in our neighborhood to install a little library. How the neighborhood became an uproarious flurry of emails. Did we need it, or not? Was it worth the money? Where to put it? It was strange how this little glorified birdhouse for books became such a contentious issue. It seemed to tie into people’s deepest selves and attachments. It became about education, home, property and money. One woman even likened it to the recent Trump/Clinton election when some decisions were made without a fair vote, but rather a few emails back and forth. Really? The election? People became exasperated, and one particular email that was accidentally sent ended up being my favorite, it said "I have the $250. I am a hero, stop the F%@#@ing! "

It was quickly met with an offense at the offense, and then a response from the original sender explaining a joke. It was a mishap gone wrong—his wife grabbing the phone to stop him from sending did just that. He in fact, never intended on actually sending it. All of this to say, it revealed for me again the complexity of human beings. How something so trite is connected to such deep areas for so many people and created a whole chain of events.

I have been listening to Dr. Jordan Peterson lately, and I like him a lot. He is a professor in Canada who recently became very controversial. I am enjoying a lecture series on the stories of the Bible and their psychological significance. It is fascinating and inspiring. One girl wrote to him and said she did an ayahuasca ceremony, and he came into her vision. When she asked the plants what his purpose was, the response she received was that he was here to share the Divine Masculine with the world, for which there was a need at this time. Interesting. He speaks a lot about this balance between order and chaos, and this resonates with me a lot.

There seems to be this interwoven theme in existence of creativity and unordered consciousness, calling for order and structure in order to become creatively free, but truly free because now it is being sustained by the ordered structure. Christ says: Truly, I say unto you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdome of heaven” (Matt. 18:3). And yet Christ did not come to abolish the law, but rather to fulfill the law (Matt. 5:17). As he came into the world without sin, he was indeed the fulfillment of the law already and from there he turns the status quo upside down and goes beyond the law. However never does he just abolish the law or disregard its necessity. There are times when he shows clear authority of the law. He goes among the sinners and calls them to repentance. He does not just say, “keep doing what you are doing, none of it matters”.

In his call for us to become like children, I think about what this means. There is a difference between childlike—which is rather endearing—and childish which is mostly annoying. But why? Why is a child's innocence and charm grating and frustrating when a certain age is passed and perhaps expectation is not met? Why is an older person who can look at life with a child's joy and curiosity endearing and infectious? It seems there is a subtle and not so subtle distinction at play. It seems to be something like the difference between joy and happiness. A child who gets candy becomes very happy, or a puppy who greets you demonstrates bouncing-off-the-wall happiness. Yet that same child shortly will throw a tantrum at the crash, and the puppy will destroy your newest leather shoes. Joy is different. Joy is more profound. It entails more within it and perhaps more importantly has an enduring quality, not a mercurial spontaneity. Mercurial spontaneity may not lack in charm, but the rollercoaster ride is unlivable, untenable. There seems to be an inevitable price to pay. When I think of an analogy for joy, I think of Bach. Somehow he seems to capture all of life in his pieces. Even the most joyful piece has an element of melancholy, there is a sense of the mundane turning of the day-to-day, and a penetrating unexplainable simultaneous complexity and simplicity. It is essence captured in sound. It is full, and it is Joy.

What is this process that calls us to dive into chaos, pure creativity, the dream, the vision. Then to come out and carefully and meticulously order it, only to set it free, like a kite tethered to our hand yet freely flying in the wind. These small deaths and rebirths creating something new, something of depth, and something enduring. Christ dies the ultimate death on the cross and calls for us to do the same time and time again, the sacrifice, the death, the rebirth to something more—the giving up and away of our lives in order to actually have a life worth living—“Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 10:39).

I think about beautiful glass work, how even a child could form a melted shape with color that would have allure, but the expert will come, take that charming trinket, rekindle the fire, melt a bit here, reshape a bit there, and out will come the masterpiece. The changes are subtle and yet not so subtle, something of charm becomes something of glory. The light reflects now in just the right places, its brilliance penetrates something unexplainable in words and logic, yet perhaps more real than that which can be explained. It is felt in our being and no explanations are needed.

There seems to be these two planes in life at times, one where nothing matters because it is all futile in a sense. What the material world offers will fade and perish. Our own physical bodies will become dust. The flip side, or other plane is this idea that it all matters and not just a little bit, but greatly. Our actions, our words and down to our very thoughts matters (Matt. 5: 21 ff.). He knows the number of hairs on our heads (Matt. 10:30) and we are here for a purpose.

I am back to the tightrope walking that line between order and chaos. It matters greatly, and not at all. It is out of our hands, yet we are partners with that which is greater, the cosmic dance. I am on a precipice on pointe, yet my toe through the rocks is tethered to the mountain. My hair flies in the wind reaching to the sky. My being is rocked by the breeze and cradled in his wisdom. There is a moment of freedom and bliss, until the chaos and order call, for the next death and rebirth.

Mother Love

A mother's love is so deep and complex....not all mothers, perhaps. But I could guess a great many. There are those too young mothers who feel the burden of their young one weighing down their days. They feel the pressure of not enough money or education. Their youthful fun is being robbed by a hungry, needy being. They dream about the would-have, could-have, should-haves that are no more, all the while their sweet precious one transforms before their blind eyes. There are those who perhaps rush through too many lost moments, trying to be and accomplish before the clock runs out, missing what is that will never again be. I believe though that most mothers are amazed and grateful for the gifts bestowed upon them, the wonder and awe that these tiny, too little, then not so little, ever-changing beings bring to one’s life.

I look at my boys, and I am that mother. There are those aspects that we name away by biology and genetics. It is aunty so and so's smile or papa's strong will. Sure. we can name some traits, good and bad and dismiss their true belonging to ones who came before, but when I gaze deeply into the sparkle in my boys’ eyes, I see not another but truly them. The sparkle informs me of a gift from a star, formed by the maker in perfection. They are wonderfully complex and unique beyond measure.

There are nooks and crannies I do not know, although he does. He knows the dreams in their hearts and the hairs on their heads. Of this I am sure. There is a wonderful solidity in some of this, the aspects that I know to be unchanging, his goodness, his omnipotence, his sovereignty.

There is also something terribly scary. It is that knowledge which passeth all understanding, a mighty plan destined always for good....even through the darkest most unexpected tragedies. I look at my boys and I tremble. I tremble for all the reasons no one seems to talk about before motherhood. We certainly can't imagine the depth of love and sacrifice we might be willing to give, and that is ok. What we don't imagine is that aspect of ourselves that is so tied into our little ones, that we feel, feel so very much. We feel our butterflies when we hear them call or cry out from a skinned knee. We feel the anticipation of that day when first love will surely break a heart, and we feel the fear and helplessness of the unknown.

It comes is odd ways too. I look at Pierson and he is my P. I look at Soren and he is our Thor. One is a snowflake, the other a viking. P alternates between exuberant energy and being a scared kitty. Sometimes he withers like a violet and cries a bit too easily, his artistic personality makes him both beautifully and overly sensitive. Sometimes I play the role of a drill sergeant. I tell him boldly, "sit up straight, stop your crying and try it again". He pleads and cries in a whiny voice, I insist. He buckles up, quivering lip and all and does the task at hand. Inside I have a small chuckle: it is only a game. I play the tough one, to push him through, so that through me he can know that he too is strong. When he completes the task, he has surprised himself, and love pours forth. He says, " I love you mommy", I know the game is well played and each time he will begin tear drop by tear drop, to fill his bucket of strength.

The other is so different, a mountain of strength. He pushes me around in a chair at two, he wholeheartedly body-slams, with his big generous heart leading the way. He has no fear, he does not whine or cry when he does not get his way, he screams and stomps the floor in defiance. He is a force to be reckoned with, and yet, and yet it is he that I fear for more. Maybe it is because he is the young one and a mother naturally feels the need to protect the little one, but I don't think so. It is the strange irony of life, that makes me fear the worst. That it is the strong one that would surprise us most, the most unlikely, and so it holds the power of the unexplainable.

P has a simple wisdom at times, so beyond his years. Sometimes these little gems pop out of his delicate pink lips and his big brown eyes sparkle. I am always taken aback.

Soren (Thor) is a little monster, my sweet little monster man. He tests and he tries, all the while playing the game, he has a half smirk and devious look in his perfect bright light eyes. He glances at me sideways waiting to see what mommy will do. "No Soren, bad boy" I say in my firmest voice, trying not to laugh at his coy sweetness. “Fine,” he says, “I will take charge here.” He frowns and begins to slap is plump pink cheeks. "No, no, no, angel—do not hit yourself". He begins to cry, he feels guilty, he looks at me and in his most begging kindest tone, says "bisou, or nursies". Of course, my little love, I will always, always forgive you, even the most egregious act. I am your maman, and my heart knows no other way. P chimes in, "He wants to make sure he has not broken the connection"! Yes, dear P, yes he does.

In the end, P's fear, his sensitivity is a kind of prudence too. He thinks..... a lot. Sure, he is an eight year-old boy and sometimes seems oblivious. The other side though is always pondering, questioning, analyzing, and in the end I feel it will protect him, to an extent.

The other is the mystery. I fear that things will come maybe a little too easy for him. He is our little Nordic Viking. And yet, he always, since the day he was born, seems to have one little chest cold, or sinus type infection.

I look out at the huge beautiful trees in the back yard, the sun shimmers on their leaves, I feel God's presence and perfection in his perfect creation. I think about the young mama who recently passed leaving three unfinished girls to a heavy-hearted father when skin cancer claimed her time. I think about the singer who was married a year and her husband was lost to an accident one morning on his way to work.

It is the mystery that is troubling, I want to leave that to Job. Alas, a mother's heart is never the same—mostly it is sweet, but there is in it a little bit of bitter too.

He is Risen, and We Have Fallen

Over Thanksgiving we had a wonderful trip. We were invited to Charleston, SC to visit Calvin's oldest brother and family. We were also joined by Calvin's parents, his youngest sister, and my mom and one of her boyfriends. It was one of those trips where everything seemed to go just about as close to perfect as possible. Smooth rides both ways with kids, a lovely balance of seeing family, and some private couple time at our hotel. No drama, good food—at times relaxing, at times stimulating. A pleasant change from the daily routine, and just the right amount of time that when it was over we felt ready to return home and get back to our own surroundings. When asked about the trip, I raved about what a lovely vacation it was.

For spring break this year we decided to go to my mom's and spend a couple of days there, then head to South Carolina to visit Calvin's family. This trip, it turns out, was not like the first. In fact, at times it felt like the complete opposite. It is funny how sometimes it seems that God gives us these little clues when things are going to try us and test us just a little bit more than usual. We look back—and as they say hind sight is 20/20—and see the little clues along the way that say take heed.

We started out with thinking my mom would be happy to see her grandkids, a welcome visit. The first email that discussed our potential itinerary was met with less than enthusiasm. It seems that it might not even be possible to come visit my mom. She currently has Victoria, a homeless woman living in "Pierson's" room, and also had her godson who was waiting for his apartment to be finished living upstairs. It appeared it might have been a bit too much for a family of four and two dogs, understandably so. So then Calvin and I discussed going perhaps just to South Carolina. After the first conversation with his brother we found out they had plans to possibly go to DC the exact time we proposed to come down. So we went back to the drawing board. Maybe since DC is just a couple hours away—and aside from visiting the history museum, we still as a family have not properly visited the city—this would be a good opportunity.

As it turned out, the godson decided to get a hotel for a week and the brother's DC trip was cancelled, so we ended up going back to plan A. but it seems already there were signs that this was not one of those times where everything would just seamlessly fall into place. For some reason upon arrival in Raleigh we all seemed to be particularly tired and grumpy. I found myself struggling with Victoria's presence. Her strong and not-so-subtle personality was really working my nerves. I was battling inside my mind. "Let it go, this is all she has. So what if I sense she really does not want us here and can't wait for us to leave. Her problem not mine. She does realize this is not actually her house, right? No, really Victoria, it has never occurred to us, when we have been blue in the face telling Pierson to chew with his mouth closed for the millionth time, certainly you are the first person to notice it...." And on and on they went the endless commentaries, knowing I needed to find peace, and finding myself at war.

My mom had planned for our first day there to go to the Lebanese festival that afternoon and then a French Alliance gathering that night. She mentioned haphazardly the location in a sort of convoluted way. Mentioning it was where the fete de la musique had been, close to the convention center, she may have said Fayetteville Street, but it was in usual fashion mixed in with many other pieces of information, and it all began to seem a bit fuzzy. Somehow Calvin assumed it was at the convention center where the International Festival is held. To be honest, I was not that excited about doing anything that day.

I felt tired and stressed about the large amount of music I needed to learn and concerts I needed to finish organizing. I thought we would get to my mom's and completely relax, have a little less of children to take care of, and a comfortable easy going surrounding. Now we found ourselves with a busy day, a restless presence invading our cozy space and to amp it up just a little, Soren screamed the entire twenty-minute ride to the convention center, where the festival.....was not. Still screaming and trying to gain clarity as to exactly where we were going tensions rose. I was starving, and moody. For some reason (to be clarified shortly) Soren seemed like he had resorted back to infancy the past few nights and days and was wanting to nurse all the time. Eventually after a few heated exchanges we made it to the festival. We had some nice food and a decent enough time, but by the end, after a day in the hot sun, I was spent.

We decided to decline for the alliance event and take it easy. The next day we decided to go to a park for a run with the baby while Mimi and Pierson fished. My mom wanted us to go a way we were not familiar with. Once again, the directions were kind of half-mumbled as if we already knew where it was. We had no idea. Calvin and I are trying to figure out what and where she meant, with no help from the back seat. Then we hear that we passed it. Oh well. I lost it, not just a little, I mean completely lost it. I think 40 some years of feeling frustrated about poor communication skills came raging to the surface like a volcano. I think everyone in the car could not understand why I was so enraged. But my being exploded, "If you want something, just be clear, no one can understand what you want, or mean. It is beyond frustrating", and on it went.

The pain of wanting to understand, wanting to help, and feeling trapped in a cobweb of confusion and mixed half-messages and thoughts, never fully formed or expressed. Getting one aspect of the puzzle, while the voice trails off to another vague thought and then you can't hear at all. "Just a little clarity please, help us get directly from point a to point b." She says: "Well, I don't like to give orders". I say: "It's not about orders, you obviously do want us to go a certain way, to understand something, yet it is near impossible to figure out with the way it is expressed." It is the pain of wanting to understand, to help, to do, to give, and feeling trapped, not being able, not being helped. Willingness met with shut-down. Reaching out met with not being understood. Why is it so difficult? I am frustrated at the frustration, it should not be this complicated. Alas it is, and I reject this difficulty and herein lies the core of the pain.

My voice teacher once was talking to me about some problem, maybe tension in the jaw or tongue, or some other pesky inhibitor of beauty and freedom in sound. She said, "We can take twenty years analyzing to decide it's all your mother's fault, or we can just say relax the jaw. " So funny, yet so true.

Just as we finished up our first lap around the park, the baby began to vomit all over himself. That little voice inside felt just a little skeptical that he was being so relaxed in his little stroller, not complaining at all to get out as we leisurely made our way around. Ahh, yes, now it all makes sense. His stomach flu with fevers and severe diarrhea lasted a few days, then Calvin's started, and then Pierson's.

We called the brother as we were halfway through our vacation now, and planning to head to SC. We wanted to say, we are still willing to come, but things are not so hot, and we seem to have a highly contagious stomach flu on our hands. The response was “please come if you are able, we were so looking forward to the visit.” So, we did.

We arrived at our "stay to hotel" whenever we are in Charleston. We love it because they have a wonderful breakfast buffet where you can sit leisurely and have anything you could imagine. We got to the hotel that evening and noticed the breakfast area all boarded up, plywood covered. The hotel was in total make-over mode. No breakfast buffet, but there would be one little truck out back after you walk through the war zone, I mean construction zone, where you have the choice of an egg sandwich, bacon and sausage and eggs, or a yogurt parfait. The portions are minuscule and the quality lame. Calvin logs on to his computer to start work the next AM just as the drilling starts next door. For once Soren slept past 6, but Pierson wakes up screaming with stomach pains at 6:30. "Shhhh, you will wake up the baby". "It hurts AHHHHH!" "SHHHH, waaaaa, never mind baby is up.”

I need to get out, maybe I will go to the pool, it's a beautiful, sunny day. I set up my towel and books on the table next to me just as the construction truck pulls up to the dumpster beside the pool—Beep, Beep, Beep. Crashing boards, and fake marble bathroom fall to the bottom of the giant metal dumpster. I am done. Again, more done, though I thought it not possible. I go to a nearby trail, I put my iPod on and begin to run. The sun is shining on me, warming my being. The nature is beautiful, the air is fresh. I feel good, calm, happy for the first time in a few days. Then it hits me again. "Learning to not dislike the suffering". I have been fighting the suffering, I have been a warrior in battle, and I am losing. God is speaking to me. The beauty of his creation and endorphins are illuminating the truth. I feel rejuvenated, ok, with it all. I head back to the hotel. I look down as I enter the construction zone, my iPod is dead. I laugh, of course. It is dead, of course. “The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.” (Job 1:21)

Sometimes when examining the deep questions of life, spirit, existence we come to a point of clarity, the ever-famous ah ha moment in psychotherapy. We think we have got it. In a way, we have, our mind has opened a new portal, and a beam of light can shine through and illuminate that nook of darkness. But then there is a second aspect to those moments, or so I have found. Where God speaks to us and says, "OK, now you get it, time to be it." Time not only to understand in that nook but exercise that understanding through the fullness of your being.

You have analyzed and understood how to swim, you even swam a few laps in the pool, time to move to the ocean. I am now more fully and consciously embracing the idea of not disliking the suffering. This Easter our family photo was not one of bonnets and ties, spring colors and flowers, but rather four tuckered out tired people in my mom's cozy and welcoming bed. It's funny how now I think back on that picture with a certain fondness. It represents so much more than just how ill we all had felt. It represents spirit in action.

It represents cherishing even more all the in between moments on that trip. Those moments that despite all the hardships, there was still beauty, kindness, sharing and communion. Somehow, those moments feel just a little bit sweeter than usual.

Upon return to Raleigh we found out Victoria has caught the stomach bug too. I feel compassion, it feels good to feel compassion. That compassion that felt so hidden and lost just a few days prior. The good and the truth seem to be amplified now, the hardships have done their good work. He is risen indeed!

Removing the Block

So it seems I have had an experience of writer’s block. OK, maybe that is an exaggeration, since I am not really a writer per se. I have no formal training; it is not my career. I do not have a hovering boss demanding my latest piece or deadlines looming that have to be met. But I do enjoy this blog writing as an outlet for the many thoughts swarming around in my mind. Somewhere I must feel I have something to say and want it to be heard, even if it is only me hearing my own thoughts or maybe more precisely, sorting them out and lining them up. Taking the thoughts beyond my inner world and into the outer world of pen and paper, or keyboard and blog. It is satisfying when there is feedback and ensuing conversation—the joy of diving deeper into an issue, or discovering other subtle shades, the beauty of the other that can inspire, or broaden, one's own limited perspective. It is also satisfying just to write for no other reason than that. A cathartic activity, creating not because you have to, just because you want to. Creating out of love, as our Creator's very nature does.

All that being said, yes, I felt blocked. I had a post, almost finished, but it just was not right. It went off on too many tangents and was not making the point. I erased half and started again. Then a new thought came in. “That is it”, I thought, but then the next step of bringing it forward out of thought into writing just did not seem to want to take place. I gave up, then let it go. I wanted to write, it just didn't feel right, or right enough. Life got busy, stuff happens. I felt myself falling into some negatives. Places I thought were healed and gone resurfaced like an angry bear. The wounds felt more wide open than ever. “How can this be?”, I thought, but there I was.

I just returned from a weekend away at the Himalayan Institute. I took a long weekend seminar, Thursday through Sunday. The topic was " The Healing Art of Yoga and Meditation." It was as the saying goes, “just what the doctor ordered”. A little time away from the daily grind, no meals to cook, a healing uplifting environment, being with and supported by my family and lessons of deep knowledge and wisdom daily. No emails to send, just taking it all in.

The topic of the blog post that was, which never came to be, was about perfect justice. The main idea was that the only true currency for perfect justice is forgiveness, essentially a letting go. A loosening of the grip, the grip of pain, of the initial injustice that caused the pain. An unraveling of every subsequent righteous thought attached to that initial spur, and all its ensuing pricks. It occurred to me, if the scales of justice have tipped too far to one side, then tipping them farther over to the opposite side may feel satisfying to the wounded party, but ultimately creates a continuum of imbalance and further damage. By truly forgiving and letting go, the scales can come back to neutral and start afresh. I write this, which now seems to come out much clearer than before, because during this seminar, some of these same ideas really came to light for me.

In the end, perhaps there really is no such thing as complete healing, but rather restoring balance. Those places of pain, of suffering may always exist. We may always look at certain situations and feel a sense of loss or sadness, but when we regain balance, it is ok. We can embrace these wounds, not reject them. These very same situations no longer take a role of negatives but rather are part and parcel with the path of healing and enlightenment. They are not only needed, but are good and right.

When we are anchored in imbalance they hurt, make us mad, seem unfair, and we have become disempowered. We talked about Turku Thondup's idea from his book "The Healing power or Mind", that we must reverse the thought of the dislike of suffering. It such a simple thought in a way, and yet a truly powerful approach. Accepting and rejoicing in our suffering not only leads to healing and enlightenment but it is the same path.

We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. (Romans 5: 3-5).

When we reject these feelings, we are in a battle with them, and they will bring us down, or at least have negative consequences. I think one of the reasons I actually felt upset about some of these recent negative emotions was not just that I was experiencing them, but almost more strongly feeling like somehow I had been tricked. I thought these things were healed and gone. How can it be that here they are? That seemed almost worse than the actual initial feeling of what it was.

Funny how we continue to add to our own suffering even by our very ideas about that suffering and how it should or should not be. I am thinking now it is more like a person with very fair skin. This person has a beautiful, creamy complexion admired by many, it is a part of who they are. When they are a little negligent and forget a hat and sunscreen, they will pay with the pain of a bad burn and perhaps some embarrassment at how their once pristine complexion is now an angry tomato. Time will pass and they will return to their pristine complexion. They will be restored to their unique natural make-up, and all will be well. However, a basic knowledge of their condition and vigilant care to what that make-up requires is necessary to avoid the imbalance of becoming a red tomato head.

A daily spiritual practice can be our sunscreen and hat, not necessarily to change our natural composition, but rather to embrace that composition, knowing it is part and parcel of the path we are on. We can rejoice when it lies dormant and is "healed", and we can rejoice equally when it rears its ugly head as a sweet reminder that something is a little out of alignment and might need some tender loving care, to be gently guided back into balance.

Jesus is God

Oftentimes I have been asked about this topic, or I hear people say something like this. Yes, Jesus is great. I consider him a teacher, a prophet, a healer, maybe even revolutionary. BUT, and that is the big word, I do not consider him the son of God. Others say, are not we all children of God? So I thought I would address it.

Christ is considered fully human and fully God. Fully human, flesh and bones, he ate and drank, felt joy and sorrow, the human experience. Fully God, I will explain.

Yes, we are all children of God, made in his image. “God created man in his own image.” (Gen. 1: 27) However, we are all sinful. Don't cringe, all that means as I have written about before is that none of us are perfect, we all "miss the mark of perfection."

So why does it even matter if we are following Jesus, whether he is actually the son of God, or fully God? We can all agree he is a great role model, right? And maybe more importantly what does that even mean the son of God? Well let me explain.

I think there are many important facets. One is the idea that we are all, yes, children of God made in his image. We are all here with a purpose and a reason for being. “Even the hairs of your head are all numbered.” (Matt. 10:30) So Christ also is a child of God and came to earth with a purpose and mission. The big difference and one aspect that makes Christ THE "son of God" is the fact that he came to earth already perfect, he was without sin. He did not, and would not ever miss the mark of perfection. This is one of the reasons why we say, he was of one substance with the Father.

That one substance has qualities (transcendent, eternal, incorporeal, perfect by nature). He was perfect in understanding, intention and actions. God had a plan for him and he walked that plan perfectly. He spent three years as a young man preaching and some two thousand years later still has billions of people who worship him. Clearly the guy did something right, and that right thing was to walk God's perfection mission. To demonstrate with his own life what we are to do in our lives in order to have communion with God.

So while we daily live with our actions having consequences – “Whatever one sows, that will he also reap.” Gal. 6:7) – sometimes good, sometimes not so good, Christ's actions were already aligned from his birth with perfect intention, or God's will. Unlike us, who sometimes think we have good intentions, but perhaps a misguided motivation leads us to a lot of trouble. Or as grandpa Joe used to say: "The road to hell is paved with good intentions!"

So in some ways Christ IS exactly like us, a child of God, a human being, here with a God-given purpose. Yet in other ways he is not like us, mainly, he is already perfect, without sin. Herein lies the clincher of why we do not just follow Christ like a guide or teacher and why he must remain THE "son of God" (of one substance with the father).

Yes, we do follow his commandments like one would with a teacher or guide. But we also embrace the idea of literally taking him into our being, his likeness; or his one-and-same substance as God, is invited into our innermost being. Then through this communing with that one substance we are transformed. “I will give them a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 11:19). To become like him, not only on the outside by our choices in life, and exterior actions, but on the inside by a transformation of the inner being.

We make an agreement to die initially and continue daily to our own sin so that we may with faith and hope, grow in his likeness. We acknowledge our sin and repent of it as is commanded, so that we can receive his grace. “Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins may be blotted out.” (Acts 3:19) He does not want to punish us for our sin, he wants to love and forgive us, but we need to give it up, or perhaps more appropriately at least be willing to. (Thy will be done).

Really all that willingness means is to recognize that we are sinful, and say it's ok it's here, but I don't want it. I am sorry it is here, I want to hand it to you, let it go and become like you. “Go and sin no more.” (John 8:11). This is where the mystical transformation manifests. When the will is there, the transformation begins. When we allow him to be there, by our willingness and relinquishing, then there he resides. When we ask, we receive. When we truly want to follow his will, then he will show us the way. However, we need to be willing to die, as he did on the cross, which is not easy, and was not easy for Christ either. “Father, remove this cup from me.” (Mark 14:36).

We are called to release false sense of self, or our own self-righteousness, willingly. Once we give up our own life, we are reborn. “Whoever loses his life for my sake shall find it.” (Matt. 16:25) We are "reborn". “You must be born again.” (John 3:7) into his perfect self, or born into his one substance with the father. So you can see why this distinguishing factor must exist. The question could be why would we die, to be born in him, if he is just another human being?

There must be something in him that is higher, better, or even perfect for us to want to become like him in our most sacred inner self. “Be ye therefore perfect even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.” (Matt. 5:48) This is why it is not only important but essential that Christ not only be a great guy, etc., etc., but truly be "the son of God", that one substance with the father.

It is God's grace that gives us peace and forgiveness, inner peace. It is perfect, transcendent, consciousness, God, that one substance that we seek in our deepest interior and invite in willingly in order to rest and find comfort.