Once again, in the spirit of G.K. Chesteron who said, “the test of a good religion is whether you can joke about it,” here is some fodder for a good laugh (or being offended). My apologies if you’re in the latter category. This is stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan’s take on “I’d like to talk to you about Jesus,” confession, heaven, the Fall, Moses and other funny stories from Scripture:
“‘Destroy this Temple,’ replied Jesus, ‘and I’ll raise it up in three days.’
‘It’s taken forty-six years to build this Temple,’ responded the Judaeans, ‘and are you going to raise it up in three days?’
But Jesus was speaking about the ‘temple’ of his body.” – John 2:19-21
The biggest annoyance factor for this (mostly) stay-at-home mommy is not the occasional “give lip” sessions from her five-year-old. It’s not the daily excavation digs my two-year-old makes in every room of the house, which regularly lend a post-apocalyptic feel of unmitigated chaos to our living surroundings.
The real bane of my existence is this- that two kids and a husband generate a “s#%t load” of laundry.
The other day this expression took on literal significance. I opened the dryer, in what would be yet another Sisyphean task of extracting and folding clothes, to discover a very unflattering smell. No lavender scented, Walmart-brand laundry detergent here. No, the smell was more akin to what I would procure if I were to stick my face in my daughter’s dirty diaper dispenser.
It was a bit of a Sherlock Holmes moment. The mystery of the poop-smelling sheets and clothes was one this mommy had to solve, and quickly. As a mother and world traveler, I’ve set foot in many a hygienically dubious setting, but this was beyond even my limit.
And sure enough, I got to the bottom of the mystery pretty fast. Aha! There in the dryer, looking like a very large, dried-out, wrinkled pebble, was a generous-sized nugget of fecal matter, “poop,” in other words. By this point it looked so perfectly rounded that it could pass as a paper weight- or at least some precocious kid’s science experiment regarding what happens when poop spins around at high temperatures.
Sherlock Holmes’ next question? You guessed it. “How, my dear Watson, did this specimen of fecal matter make it into our dirty clothes hamper in the first place?”
In this case the principle of Ockham’s Razor proved its merit. The simplest explanation was indeed the right one. My five-year-old had had an accident in his pants and thrown both undies and their foul-smelling deposit into the dirty clothes hamper, unbeknownst to his mother…
In Jesus’ time you might say the temple was the arena for doing spiritual laundry: it was supposed to be that clean, set-aside, fresh-scented place where God had come to rest and dwell among His people and to renew in them clean hearts and right spirits. People healed from leprosy and other ailments that had separated them from Israelite society would go there to show themselves to the priest and be officially declared cleansed. Only those with the “cleanest” hands, (in Israel’s time, these were to be the priests themselves), could enter the temple’s most “holy of holies” to offer sacrifices to God. The temple, as a kind of sanitation site for sick, broken bodies and a laundering place for impure souls and spirits, was intended to be a physical reminder of a God who is not only with us in the messiness of life, but like a dutiful mother, takes all our dirty laundry.
But on the day Jesus visits he finds instead a boatload of dirty laundry that His people are pretending they can do all by themselves. The place is stinking to high heaven with all of the ways that God’s people have used the temple for their own devices, making holy ground look a bit like the Mall of America. You might say they’ve gone and left a very large, foul-smelling deposit right in the middle of the temple.
And I would venture to say that not a lot has really changed since then. You’d think we religious types might have learned our lesson by now, but of course, we really haven’t. We’re slow learners.
Instead, we make our churches into altars for celebrity pastor worship. We do our best to brand ourselves as “cool,” or to market our “programs” for the widest segment of consumerist believers. We reduce the challenge and costliness of God’s love in Jesus Christ to little more than a hip label or enjoyable Sunday worship experience. We make our dysfunctionality and, in turn, the depth of God’s love- in the light of which even our best works look like “dirty rags,” to quote the Psalmist- we make these things a big secret, by glossing over the hard, messy, cross-shaped reality of a life with God. Instead, in the quintessentially American, capitalist way, “church” has to be “big;” church has to be “successful;” church has to be about pleasing the consumer and making our own selves look good, relevant or worthy.
Funny thing is that this Jesus who intrigues many of us, this Jesus whom some of us try and fail to follow every day…this Jesus chose just twelve committed followers, none of them especially noteworthy for anything in particular. Then this Jesus told these twelve to keep his whole identity as Messiah secret. The disciples’ dysfunctionality? That, on the other hand, was as plain as day.
But back to the scene at the temple. Because much like God came walking through the garden looking for Adam and Eve after they had sinned and gone into hiding, God in Jesus took a stroll through the local church (the one with the biggest parking lot and prettiest building at least), again looking for His people to see where they had gone. And what He discovered this time is that His people had managed to get worlds away from Him without having even left the building. They were at the spiritual “laundromat,” so to speak, and they may even have been kidding themselves that they were actually doing the laundry, but no matter. Because it was all coming out stinky.
Ask yourself this: how many times have you hoped to find and be part of healing and restoration in a community of believers and the world, but have come out feeling like you’ve been trading in smelly, dried-out paper weights? Yuck, and no thank you.
This reality angered Jesus. I bet he even said some cuss words (albeit in Aramaic). (I bet these were probably edited out later.)
But in that moment Jesus also got it. He got that the s$%t load of laundry required something more than a new detergent. Or, the “perfect” church. Or, a better set of directions for pleasing God. Or a self-help manual for how to sound like we Christians have figured life out.
Jesus got that what His people most needed was not a building and rituals but God Himself. In the flesh. In intimate relationship. And Jesus had shown up like a dutiful mother who does the gathering, sorting, purifying and cleansing for her children right before their eyes, all the while calling, dressing and sending them out in a fresh set of clean-smelling clothes.
This God, who was with and for His people, is also a God who is with and for us. No more self-promoting, self-help answers. No more religious pretenses that we can “fix” our messes. No more big secrets about our dysfunction, as if by becoming Christians we stopped being human beings with struggles like every other human being God ever placed on this great, green earth.
Jesus in essence said “No more of that bull s$%t,” and, “Leave the dirty work to me.” And, He said this knowing full well that the job He had signed up for would get him killed.
Thank you, Jesus, for doing the job, anyway.
I think it is. In fact I would venture to say that the possibilities for new life for God’s people and the world are breathtaking.
With declining church membership and budgets, the older model- of a seminary-trained minister “professional” called and salaried to shepherd a flock- appears more and more clunky in places. The opportunity? We face a critical juncture when maybe for the first time in a long while the church as “the priesthood of all believers” will step into the gap.
I am grateful to friend and minister Jake Dell for introducing me to how his pocket of mainline Christianity, the Episcopal Church, is responding to this challenge. Through an online initiative called “Sermons That Work,” the Episcopal Church is equipping “lay ministers” to fill empty pulpits where professionally trained ministers once stood, by giving these lay ministers and others all that they need to deliver sermons. “Sermons That Work” shares real and relevant homilies for Sundays and other feast days and seasons throughout the liturgical year, with a view to making them available for use, teaching and inspiration.
You might even call it “sermon karaoke.” Any good sermon, like any good song, shouldn’t have to be shared just once. Consider, for example, how many times some jilted lover after a break-up sings and swoons to “I Will Survive” in the corner of some random karaoke bar lounge. You don’t have to be Gloria Gaynor to find strength in her lyrics or courage in her manifesto.
“Sermons That Work functions a bit similarly. Sure, it would probably be forced and artificial to transplant and reproduce exactly (word for word) an original sermon in a totally different context. But the refrains and the anecdotes might be very much the same.
By way of example, the sermon for this upcoming Sunday addresses the critical distinction between the church and just another “do-good” club or organization. It’s an age-old question, really, and I suspect it cuts to the heart of a common misconception about why we Christians believe what we believe and do what we do. The Rev. Danáe Ashley’s simple but profound answer, “following Jesus,” becomes the lead-in to a conversation about what it means to follow Jesus (apropos this season of Lent).
So I applaud “Sermons That Work” as a very helpful and ecumenically accessible response to the needs and opportunities facing the mainline church in our contemporary landscape. You can find Ashley’s sermon and others here: http://episcopaldigitalnetwork.com/stw/
The other day the blog, “Real People, Real Lives, Real Spirituality,” asked where I feel most “spiritually connected.” (You can find the interview and others of ordinary people trying to make sense of life at the intersection with God here: http://blog.spiritualbookclub.com/). I gave an answer that I realize was incomplete.
Because the truth is I feel most spiritually connected these days at my local coffee shop, Joe’s. The intoxicating aroma of coffee beans. The warm, reassuring tones of conversation and laughter. The ceiling fresco that, in the gilded, powdery blue style of a Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, records what really happened in Genesis- when God created coffee, saw that it was good and bequeathed it to Adam and Eve. There is something truly life-giving in the universal welcome and acceptance of a place where people come together around something as simple as a cup of joe: it signifies an eclectic communion of sorts in which no one is a stranger.
And maybe it is not a coincidence that I do most of my writing at Joe’s. The mantra, “know thy audience,” applies here: if my book, Grace Sticks: The Bumper Sticker Gospel for Restless Souls, is primarily for those who would describe themselves as “spiritual but not religious,” Joe’s is where these “spiritual but not religious” come to life, embodied as real people with real faces and real stories. Joe’s is their local watering hole, and not unlike the Samaritan woman at the well, they come, often regularly, to fill up their cups and be refreshed.
And much like Jesus came to the woman at the well, I believe Jesus meets us there, too.
Because this little coffee shop has become for so many of us a kind of “holy” or “set apart” space. A safe place in which to come as you are, and in the act of being known, to find acceptance and belonging; a sacred outlet for sharing questions about life and God without hiding, fear of judgment, or judgment itself. Entering Joe’s is a bit like inhabiting another world in which time bends and “grace,” as God’s unconditional acceptance, really happens.
It is rare to find this kind of free, grace-filled encounter in the church. (When it does happen, I like to celebrate it.) At Joe’s, it happens all the time. In fact, I suspect this kind of spiritual community happens at coffee shops all over the world.
This past Sunday in church someone shared about a time when he had hit rock bottom and his family and work life were in shambles. He said he showed up one day at a coffee shop to buy a cup of joe only to reach for his wallet and discover it was not in his pocket. In that moment, the barrista registered his despair. She told him not to worry about it- that the coffee was on the house. The man said it was in that simple exchange that he palpably sensed God’s presence.
These days when I’ve gone for days without a stop in at Joe’s, the folks behind the counter will notice. They’ll ask about me- how I’m doing, how the writing is coming, how the kids are. Usually they remember my name. If they forget it, they call me “Beautiful.”
The really great thing is that they do this sort of thing for everybody.
Yes, grace and the Good News that God loves us can be as simple as a cup of coffee and a room full of people sharing it with one another.
The following two resources for Lent come from FB friends Kara Root, pastor of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church, in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and Nadia Bolz-Weber, who pastors House for All Sinners and Saints, in Denver, Colorado. The first is a devotional guide, and the second contains suggestions for very doable daily activities. I commend them to you. (Thank you, ladies, for sharing them with me!)
Apparently conservative theologian and proponent of “masculine Christianity” John Piper is at it again. (Whatever happened to “Christian hedonism,” to borrow Piper’s own term, anyway? This Piper seemed like a guy I could have a beer with.) Today Piper tweeted this quote from Wolfhart Pannenberg: “The church that approves of homosexual relations has by that act ceased to be a true church.”
Piper has a lot of good company. Not long ago I was in a meeting in which a newly divorced man in church leadership took heated issue with my query about how the church might engage the largely un-churched gay population in my neighborhood with the love of Jesus. This person seemed incensed by my question.
It’s strange that so many of us spend so much time trying to distinguish the “true” church from the “false” church- as if this were our duty or privilege. Last time I checked, Jesus’ parable of the wheat and the tares makes no such claim on us as followers of Jesus (Matthew 13:24-30). This kind of judgment belongs to God.
A lot of talk has been made throughout centuries of church history and today about the “purity” of the church. People have even been executed as “heretics” in the name of protecting such purity- and I find this part of my tradition’s history deeply shameful. I would ask, to echo Wendy Farley in a recent lecture delivered to her women’s theology class, whether this expression of Christianity is one that we would wish to uphold as authentic Christianity.
It seems to me that the “purity” of the church consists in acknowledging those most basic tenets of our faith necessary to salvation and agreeing not to crucify one another over the more peripheral issues. Nothing could be more impure than lording over others our own interpretations of Scripture to the degree that we then declare our religious nemeses “tares.”
Lest there is question as to whether another’s lifestyle is in keeping with the claims of Christ, Jesus offers a helpful rule of thumb for how to treat them: we are to treat them as “pagans and tax collectors” (Matthew 18:15-18). (Matthew Kelly, a pastor in Nashville, Tennessee, has some helpful reflections on how to interpret this passage at the blog, “Ministry Matters.”) By Jesus’ own model, that would mean being in loving relationship with these “pagans and tax collectors”- not for the sake of simply telling them they’re wrong, or shunning them as sinners, but because they can teach us something about the depth of God’s forgiveness. In fact, Jesus spent most of his time with these kinds of “undesirables,” be they pagans and tax collectors or thieves and prostitutes, and instead reserved his harshest criticism for those of us who call ourselves “religious” or more spiritual.
It seems to me that whenever we identify ourselves as the wheat and point fingers at the tares, we are in most danger of falling into this second category.
The “uncertainty principle” in quantum mechanics is this: “increasing the accuracy of measurement of one observable quantity increases the uncertainty with which another conjugate quantity may be known.”
I suspect we see this principle play out not just at the particle level but all over the place. Case in point? The GOP presidential elections. The closer the media pundits zero in on any one candidate, measuring his mettle (or lack thereof), the more “foggy” and out of focus the other candidates and their records become.
The uncertainty principle refutes the notion that we live in a closed, pre-determined system of inevitable events and hard-wired conclusions. When we use cliches like, “it was meant to be,” I suppose we deny a fundamental truth about the universe- that our freedom to speak, move and act, and be spoken to, moved and acted upon by others, sets us and even the particles that make us up, in endless motion through a realm of almost endless possibilities.
There is no predetermined outcome.
This uncertainty is simultaneously scary and exhilarating. It disrupts my complacence even as it has the potential to free me from the bondage of past mistakes or residual expectations about who I should be or how I should act. Faith does not reject the uncertainty principle- it embraces it. It is not a looking back and saying “this was meant to be,” but rather a looking forward, all the while trusting God to speak to, move upon and act upon us no matter where we are. Insofar as we as Christians believe in God’s grace and appropriate it for ourselves, one another and our world, we choose to inhabit this world of endless possibility.
Still, in a world of unlimited options, I suppose the biggest challenge is not just to know what we as individuals are called to do- (from life’s day-to-day encounters to larger, existential questions about vocation)- but then to do it. This stepping out into action takes a leap of faith. It calls for something much more demanding than mere intellectual assent.
Soren Kierkegaard, in giving voice to his own grappling, once put it this way: “What I really lack is to be clear in my mind about what I am to do, not what I am to know…The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do; the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die.”
Most of us would rather avoid this hard work, wouldn’t we? How easy it is to go through life as “scheming swindlers.” Kierkegaard employs this term to describe Christians who distance themselves from the claims of God in Jesus Christ through all sorts of intellectual acrobatics. Instead of leaping forward in action emboldened by faith, we stand on the sidelines arguing about the meanings of things in Scripture, often through the most lofty, academic language- when often (not always, but often) the meaning is as plain as day and we would prefer just not to see it, insofar as seeing it means acting on it.
This hesitancy, I think, ultimately stems at least in part from our fear of uncertainty. I wonder what would happen if we could come to see uncertainty as a gift rather than a burden. What then?
When we remember our own brokenness and death and receive ashes on our foreheads, we should be doing so in the open air, not in the recesses of some church building.
That’s Lauren Winner’s latest wild and crazy idea, and I like it. (You can read Winner’s full article, “Why Ash Wednesday Belongs Out of the Church and Out on the Streets,” which appeared yesterday, on Sojourners Magazine’s “God’s Politics Blog”).
Winner is actually not the first to come up with this idea. An Episcopal church in Amesbury, New Hampshire recently began an “Ashes to Go” ministry, with a view to taking ashes out to busy commuters who can’t make it in for a church service.
Which has me thinking again. (The visual image is one of consternated wrinkles on the forehead.) Why is the intentionally public statement of ashes on the forehead marking the start of Lent such a one-time occurrence in the church calendar? Why, for instance, are Lenten disciplines so often restricted to private ascetical practice, like forgoing sweets or alcohol, or taking on a new discipline, like more devotional time? What would happen if Lenten habits, much like ashes on a forehead, became a way of making a very public statement about God’s love in Jesus Christ? What would this look like for us individually and as church communities?
I’m not sure wearing “What would Jesus do?” bracelets is the answer here. I’m pretty sure that showing up at gay pride festivals or funerals of fallen soldiers with a fire and brimstone message isn’t, either. I’m not even sure whether devoting a little extra time at the soup kitchen is the best expression of our neediness before God and God’s saving love for us.
Friend John Spalding quipped on Facebook that this Lent he “gave up giving up things for Lent.” I can sympathize with his sentiments. I’ve often set out with the best intentions of cultivating a Lenten practice, such as practicing patience (which involved wearing a bracelet that read “patience” one year) or giving up sugar, only to find that, in the same vein as New Year’s resolutions, my aspirations sputtered out somewhere in the middle of that long wilderness of forty days. I guess in the end I’m really not that spiritual.
But what if there were more of an intentionally public dimension to Lent? What if there were, for that matter, an “open-air” quality to how we as Christians describe human beings’ brokenness and proclaim God’s redemption not just in Lent but throughout the year? Getting outside our church buildings would be a start.
Got ideas? Leave them here. I want to hear your thoughts!
“No one has ever seen God; the only begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, has declared him.” John 1:18
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him might have eternal life.” John 3:16
Yesterday NPR interviewed Jeremy Lin. The Harvard graduate crossed paths with the basketball player in school, but this Lin, instead of playing on the courts of New York’s Madison Square Garden, is studying linguistics at New York University. At 5’2″ Jeremy Lin described the comedy of often being mistaken by name over the Internet for the much taller Knicks super star: he tries to break it to people politely that he is not their guy.
When John’s Gospel describes Jesus as “the only begotten God,” the Gospel writer is saying that there can be no mistaking who Jesus is, because Jesus is the only one of His kind. Jesus can’t be duplicated to the degree that Jesus is God Himself in the flesh. The Jesus who has the power to forgive and straighten out all of the rough and bumpy patches in our lives is God alone. If nobody else can reproduce the “Linsanity” of a basket in the last minutes of a nail-bitingly suspenseful game, no other god can truly embody the inbreaking of God’s reign of love on earth. Only Jesus- the One whom Scripture tells us we find it easy to crucify and mock for His foolhardy message about a Love that has the power to save and redeem all creation, including ourselves- can reveal in His very Self who God is and pour His life into us. As Henry Ward Beecher put it, “Take from the Bible the Godship of Christ and it would be but a heap of dust.”
Maybe this is an especially fitting reminder on a day like today. Today is Ash Wednesday, after all. It is a day when Christians all over the world will remind themselves that it is “from dust” that they have come and “to dust” shall go. Because for as much as we every day can go about pretending to be kings and queens of our own little fiefdoms, convincing ourselves that we are in control, have all the answers, and have it together, and living in self-absorption as if we have no end, the sobering truth of the matter is that we will all die, and the “stuff” of our lives will pass away with us. We won’t save the world, nor can we. We aren’t God. The reality is that when we die, even our best and brightest expressions of God’s work in us will be like “straw,” to quote Thomas Aquinas in his twilight years, when he surveyed his own prodigious body of theological work in the scheme of God’s eternity and couldn’t help but come up short.
These days Marguerite Porete’s The Mirror of the Simple Soul has become a staple of my bedtime reading, and Porete a newfound spiritual heroine. Porete was executed in 1310 for scandalously daring to believe that God really was Love and that God’s Love didn’t have to be mediated by a corrupt church hierarchy wedded to money and power. Porete’s book, as an effort to impart this Love to spiritually hungry souls, is striking in a number of ways. Maybe most striking is Porete’s treatment of the human will. For Porete, only when we totally annihilate our will to be god and choose to view ourselves as nothing-a process that takes place within the crucible of the Holy Spirit’s work in us- can we truly experience the freedom of living, moving and breathing in the love of God.
In other words, our “nothingness” (our “dust”) is the pathway to God’s Somethingness- which is the very thing in which we have our being in the first place. What does this mean for us? It means that we only experience God’s unmediated love for us to the degree that we lay aside our claims on reality, be they in the form of what our mind, will and emotions would tell us “reality” is, or even what our finest dogmas and theological doctrines would say (because these, too, are like “straw” in the light of God’s very Self). If Jesus is “the only begotten Son,” it means that Jesus is the Ultimate Reality. All other realities must pass away.
It is hard to be honest as a minister about the fact that I am not very good at praying.
Sure, I do it. Most mornings these days I sidle up next to Jesus with a cup of coffee and a passage from Scripture. Some days there is a long laundry list of intercessions: “Please bless Kay and Dan and their upcoming marriage;” “please help the family with the child who has leukemia;” “please help Cam listen to his teacher today;” “please help me figure out what I’m going to do when I grow up.”
Other days, the inclination to sit in the silence of a centering prayer soon devolves into a long, painfully protracted reminder of my mind’s ability to focus on anything but Jesus. There is the laundry waiting to be folded, the next chapter of the book to be written, and the parent-teacher meeting to attend, after all. Jesus is somewhere in the midst of it all, albeit hard to find.
So I’m not a very good prayer. Contrary to frequent misconceptions of pastors by parishioners, I am not a “professional” prayer, either. But these days I have been thinking about the nature of prayer as spiritual formation.
My daughter, Sam, was diagnosed last year with something called “low muscle tone,” which our family soon discovered is a “catch-all” term for a condition that doctors don’t really understand. Sam underwent a number of tests with the referral of a pediatric neurologist. The neurologist told me that if the tests came back “negative,” meaning no other underlying condition was present, she would diagnose Sam with “cerebral palsy.”
The tests came back negative.
If you’re still processing the “cerebral palsy” part, then you can imagine a bit of this mother’s reaction when she first heard the words, “cerebral palsy.” The jaw dropped. The eyes widened then blinked. Time seemed to stand still for a few minutes before I responded.
The doctor then assured me that “cerebral palsy” can be as minor as a scar on the brain that heals over time with lots of therapeutic intervention at an early age. That helped a bit.
On my darker days, when Sam’s condition causes me to wonder where she’ll be not one year but five or ten years from now, I am reminded of the story of the blind man in John’s Gospel (John 9). “Who sinned, this man or his parents?,” the disciples ask Jesus. Jesus answers that the man was born blind, “so that God might be glorified.” (If truth be told, I sometimes secretly wish that God wouldn’t have to “glorify” God’s Self so much.)
But “low muscle tone,” in addition to giving God the glory, has meant frequent and regular trips to the physical therapist and now the speech therapist.
Which brings me back to the whole idea of prayer as spiritual formation. Because these days helping Sam to speak involves refusing to speak for her and letting her do the hard work of pronouncing the words. This is challenging to do as a mother. Often Sam becomes impatient. She wants me to understand her without having to do the tough work of asking. If she is having trouble forming the syllables, or pronouncing them in a way that is remotely comprehensible, Sam is quick to cry.
In some cases, I really do know exactly what Sam wants, but I have to keep encouraging her to say it for herself. Because ultimately Sam needs to learn how to voice what she wants if she is going to grow into the person she was meant to become. Depending on me to do it for her before she asks it of me will only keep her stuck in the same rut.
The dialogue might look like the following:
“You want what?”
“I want that!”
“You want that?” What’s that?” (“That” is the chocolate milk on the counter.)
“I want that!” (Sam is now getting impatient with herself and me and begins to cry.)
“Do you want the milk?” Can you say, ‘milk’ please?”
“I want the milk, please.”
I wonder if prayer is similar. Sure, our requests might be a bit more complex than simply, “I want chocolate milk.” But they are there all the same, and they are often uniquely ours and nobody else’s. “I want your peace, God.” “I need your courage, Jesus.”
And prayer can often seem like a struggle to articulate these needs and desires that our uniquely our own. Sometimes it’s hard to find the right words for what we most fear or long for. Our words can seem empty or fall flat or we may find ourselves speechless. Yet the Spirit helps us in our weakness, Romans 8:26 instructs: “we do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.”
C.S. Lewis said this of prayer: “I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time- waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God- it changes me.”
Prayer changes us. Something happens when we choose to voice our deepest needs and desires to God for ourselves and let God shape and transform our words and thoughts. God does some of God’s best work on us, making us into people formed and made for Love.
What does this process of spiritual formation require of us? Patience, courage and a little self-discipline, I suspect. Maybe, too, the recognition that we are all like little children with speech impediments.