Who is your audience?

I'm still reading Thomas Merton. His idea that jumped into my heart this week was

"If you write for God you will bring joy to many... if you write for yourself you will hate it and want to die."

Is this statement even true? Is our favorite contemplative monk showing histrionics or does he have a point? I think his statement relates to some of the ideas I wrote about earlier. Whenever we follow a calling to share love, we are not doing it for self aggrandizement because if we are, then we aren't sharing love, we are serving ourselves. Matthew 6:24 says we can't serve two masters, we either love God, or we love money (or ourselves, or the world and its stuff).

If we do everything to show our love for God, why do we bother to share our thoughts and words with others? If we are writing (or speaking or singing etc) for God, why does it need to be in public? Why can't we just make it a part of our prayer life?

It just so happens I have a story about that:

I was sitting in silent worship at my Quaker meeting about 20  years ago.  I suddenly got an idea that made my throat want to explode. I knew that I was either going to stand up and talk or I was going to throw up. Literally the thought was in my heart so quickly and ferociously that I really wasn't sure what words I was going to say. I stood up and said something about forgiveness and how it related to both the message given that day by our pastor and my situation in life at that time. I sat down, and I felt completely normal again, like nothing had ever happened. After the service was over, folks thanked me for sharing, but I honestly couldn't remember what all I had said. I think this is an instance when God meant for me to share a thought with othersf. This instance, and the several others that have come after it, are examples of doing something for God's glory, for God's people, and not for personal gain. If I hadn't gotten up, whether it be from shyness or lack of faith, then I wouldn't have been following God's lead. If I had gotten up with a message about my own interests, I wouldn't have been serving God either.

One of my favorite hymns says that we are God's hands and feet, and though it can mean that we are  part of the body of Christ that is mentioned in Romans 12:5, I also think that we are here to work for God, and working for God means sharing love.

I Have This Feeling Inside Me

When I was five years old, I accepted Jesus as my personal savior. I attended my grandparents' fundamentalist church and began an anxious mental routine through weekly altar calls. Every time we sang Just as I Am and the pastor raised his hands invitingly, I resisted the urge to run down the aisle to him.

During this time, my cousin had a figurine of Jesus on a shelf in her bedroom. Jesus, dressed in drab clothes, was knocking on a door looking very sad. My cousin said he was knocking on the door of my heart. He was sad because I hadn't let him in. I told her I had let him in, and her answer was, "you sure about that?" I lay awake in her room during sleepover visits, anxiously staring at the tiny statue while she slept soundly.

For years I worried every Sunday during the altar call. What if I hadn't gotten saved right? What if my salvation wore off? What if the abuse I had received from a "trusted adult" had somehow negated my salvation, and I really was as bad as I felt? What if I sinned right before the rapture and hadn't cleaned my soul in time to make it to Heaven? 

We moved away when I was starting sixth grade. At my new church in the south, I wasn't a sinner in the hand of an angry God as much as I was a wellmeaning kid who made dumb mistakes. My anxious prayers for salvation subsided. I slept a little better. I didn't clutch the pew in front of me during altar calls. I attended youth group and wrote notes to my friends in church. I graduated from high school and attended a Quaker college.

As a graduate student, I befriended my internship boss, a lifelong Quaker who first acquainted me with the idea of that of God in every person. Many Quakers believe that every person has a measure of the Holy Spirit present in them from birth. That "inner light" needs to be recognized and nurtured and listened to, but it is always there.

What if I had been raised Quaker, assured that the light of Christ was in my heart, ready to teach and guide me? Instead of worrying about whether I had been saved right, I could have been listening to the still small voice of God, who had taken up residence in my heart long ago.

What does God's presence in my heart feel like? I know it is there now, like I know my liver is there; but I can't feel it with my fingers. I can't pinpoint the exact physical location of God in my body. It isn't like that. If I take the time to pay attention, I have a big part of what I need for spiritual fulfillment. I feel the need to listen for God's directions -- not the Bible (though that is part of it), but rather the still small voice that I can feel rather than hear. 

Listening for God takes practice and patience. It takes daring and making mistakes and putting yourself in a position where you may not be comfortable. It puts you in a position to grow, and growth can be painful.

Thinking back on that sculpture in my cousin's room, I wonder if instead of thinking of Jesus as outside my heart asking to come in, if maybe Jesus is actually on the inside of my heart, knocking on the door and saying, "Hey, Jennie, are you up? I have a great idea for you."

Good for Good Friday

Rarely do we allow each other to be sad. We are distracted, redirected, and cheered up way beyond our good.
We want smiles, and laughter, anything besides sadness, anger, fear, or anxiety. Cue the internet cats -- we need to smile. When we have a friend who is sad, we do our best to cheer.

Why?

Because we can't stand it.

Then came Good Friday...

Our meeting has a Good Friday service, and it is sad. The songs are sad, the guided meditation is sad, and the hugs that come afterwards (we are Southerners -- we hug) seem more fit for a funeral than for after meeting. I know this is typical across denominations -- Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services are sad, and I am grateful. I wonder if anyone else sees this as a bonding experience with their fellow congregants.

When Molly was about 8, she sat with me during Good Friday, listening. There had been a thunderstorm that night, and Easter was a little early, so it was already getting dark. She leans over during the guided meditation.

"What does crucifixion mean?" She was just getting control over her "we are whispering in public" whisper.

"Putting someone on a wooden cross and setting them up to hang there and die." I couldn't take the time to be more delicate. I probably should have told her we would talk about it on the way home, but I wanted to seize the teachable moment while I had it.

"How do you hang up someone up on a cross?" She looked like she already knew the answer, but needed clarification just in case it really wasn't as awful as she imagined. I know the people behind us could hear our conversation, but I figured they could either deal with the noise or find some dying congregation that didn't like children.

I explained it to her as gently as I could. I used her hands and showed here where the nails would have gone and said that they probably just used one big spike for both feet in the same place. She began to sob and put her head on my shoulder.

"Who could do that to someone else?" Tears fell. I took her to the ladies' room to calm down and clean up. I tried to explain to her that we have learned a lot about the world in the last 2,000 years, and that we aren't accustomed to such methods anymore, but that back then crucifixion was pretty common. In fact, that Good Friday saw three crosses there, not just one. She only cried harder.

Sadness had oozed in the meeting room, and into our minds, At the end of the service, adults sitting around us hugged me and kissed Molly's head. They sat with us in sadness, and they shared. They didn't try to cheer her up, they were just present with her and for her.

That Sunday, we put Molly in an adorable dress, and she wore her special "just for fun" glasses, and we had an Easter Egg hunt in the churchyard. It was almost as if Friday hadn't happened.

Almost. But not quite. Without Friday, there would be no Sunday.

I want to remember this moment. Of course I remember it now, during the time we commemorate Christ's resurrection, but I want to remember it throughout the year, when someone is sad. When I am sad, I don't always want someone to cheer me up, but I always want someone with me to sit and be present with me. When the time passes, I want someone to rejoice with me, not distract me.

We talk about keeping the Christmas spirit alive throughout the year, but I think I will keep the Good Friday spirit alive also, being present with people as they progress to Easter, no matter what time of year it is.