Incarnation Place Blog

“Welcoming everything that comes to us is the challenge. This is the secret to being fully alive.” (Francis Weller, The Wild Edge of Sorrow, page 8)

Connection is like the air we need to breathe. Humans need connection — with others and with our own selves. When we lose connection, our natural response is grief. 

Loss of connection comes in different forms: the physical death of a loved one, or our own impending death. Loss may come from illness that forces us to give up activities that once sustained us. We may go through the loss of a relationship, a dream, a home, a community. 

Connection and the grief from loss of connection is a cycle that threads through every human life. We cannot escape it. Yet society urges us to “move on”, “let it go”, “get moving.” We have little room for grief. This is especially true with the death of a parent or long-time partner.

Truthfully, we may prefer to “move on”. Grief hurts! It’s one of the most painful experiences that humans have. Why not ignore it? Eventually, we discover we can push grief away, but it remains inside us, awaiting our attention. It will re-surface, often when we least expect. 

Grief is a process, not an event. It follows its own schedule and comes in waves, which may come over weeks, months, or years. Each loss triggers its own grief, which may re-surface earlier experiences of loss. Unfortunately, we receive little guidance on what to expect or how to handle grief. It’s easier to ignore it. 

Francis Weller is a psychotherapist focusing specially on grief. His book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow, is a wise refection on grief. Weller never shies away from the pain of grief but urges us to consider that grief can be a tremendous teacher, leading us to a deeper appreciation of love. Grief spotlights what we most value in our relationships and guides us toward how we want to live beyond the loss. Weller identifies grief as “a basic human need… a deep encounter with an essential experience of being human.” (Francis Weller, The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief, North Atlantic Books, Berkeley, California, 2015, page xviii) 

The early loss of my mother shaped my childhood. For years, I cried myself to sleep, pleading with God and the Universe that she would return. She never did. I grew up thinking no loss would be this hard. Over the years, I experienced other losses which were painful, but losing Mom was the most challenging. 

In my 40s, I got a rude awakening. Between 1996 and 1998, three of my closest companions died. Grief overwhelmed me.  

In 1996, my father died after a long battle with cancer. Dad was my first God, against whom I compared all others. He was my hero, teacher, parent, guide, and best friend. He was also my drinking buddy. We spent many long hours, fueled with gin, lost in conversation about books and great ideas. As the evening wore on, the drinks increased, and our conversation shifted to making up stories about the people sitting next to us in the restaurant. When Dad died, a piece of me died with him. Grief overwhelmed me, yet I could not feel much of anything.  

That same year, my dear friend and mentor Judy died. Judy was an Episcopal priest. She was on her way to celebrate the Sunday service when she collapsed from a sudden heart attack. Judy died at the entrance to the church doors. This loss, so sudden and unexpected — I had just been with Judy a few days before — felt unbearable. Everything in me wanted to scream, “NO!”

Two years later, another close friend died. Denver was also an Episcopal priest. But while Judy had been very much a mentor, and surrogate mother figure, Denver, who was close to my age, was like a brother. I sat at Denver’s bedside with a few close friends, as he took his final breaths. He died after a long battle with AIDS. Now the battle was over. I was glad that his suffering was over. But the power of his loss grabbed me. I felt as though the floor of my insides opened and my guts would fall out.

One of the exceptional gifts I received leading up to and through these powerful losses was prayer. Judy, Denver, and a small group of friends taught me the power of prayer. The church community we were a part of had a serious commitment to prayer. Through the ups and downs in our personal and professional lives, we supported each other with prayer. We met weekly and prayed for peace and healing in our community and the world. We experienced profound intimacy and companionship from these years of shared prayer. 

As painful as the losses were, learning to pray through grief opened me up. Grief became life giving through shared prayer. These words from Weller are true: “Grief work (is) an ongoing practice of deepening, attending and listening. It is an act of devotion, rooted in love and compassion.” (Weller, p. 5)

Energy poured out of me to offer this power of praying through grief to others who were suffering loss. I created a weekly prayer group for anyone who was suffering through loss. The group expanded over several years, and I taught others how to facilitate it. I wrote essays about grief and prayer, which were published and distributed among several parishes.  

Unfortunately, grief is all but ignored in many church communities. The great irony is that death is a big deal in Christianity. What could be worse than the brutal execution of God’s Son, not to mention the betrayal by some of his closest companions? And with death comes grief.

Yet too often the message of the church is, Christians are welcome to cry on Good Friday. But by Easter Sunday, you better be overflowing with joy. 

Some pastors are skilled at sitting with those who are dying. Many clergy are terrific at leading funerals. But after the funeral, it’s time to move on. Forget the loved ones who remain. One problem is that little training is available to lay people. Many people (lay and clergy) view praying with others as an activity reserved only for the ordained.

The history of Christian art does not shy away from the suffering. Paintings through the centuries depict Mary and the Christ Child, Mary at the Cross, a Pregnant Woman with no place to give birth, the crucifixion, the betrayal, and the body of Jesus, lying lifeless in his mother’s arms, and so on. Artists have penetrated the heart of suffering woven through the Christian story better than many well-meaning church-goers. This is the encounter that Weller names:

 “… (G)rief is not a problem to be solved, not a condition to be medicated, but a deep encounter with an essential experience of being human… The lack of courtesy and compassion surround grief is astonishing, reflecting an underlying fear and mistrust of this basic human experience. We must restore the healing ground of grief. We must find the courage, once again, to walk its wild edge.” (Weller, pages xviii-xix)

QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION

• Of the losses in your life, which were the most challenging? Why? What did you learn?

• Consider these three quotes from Weller. How do you respond? Do any of these resonate with your experience of grief and loss? 

1. “It is the bittersweet embrace of love and loss that sharpens our appreciation for those we love.” (Weller, page 26)

2. “…. (W)e are burdened by undigested sorrows… Far too many of us suffer from broken hearts that remain unattended.” (Weller, p 23)

3. “(G)rief is necessary to the vitality of the soil. Contrary to our fears, grief is suffused with life force. It is riddled with energy… It is truly an emotion that rises from the soul.” (Weller, pages 9-10)

In closing, here are words from St. Teresa:

“May today there be peace within.

May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content knowing that you are a child of God.

Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. 

It is there for each and everyone of you.” 

― Teresa of Ávila

Feel free to post your reflections on this essay in the comments section. Thank you.

“Our brokenness is the wound through which the full power of God can penetrate our being and transfigure us in God. Loneliness is not something from which we must flee but the place from where we can cry out to God, where God will find us and we can find God. Yes, through our wounds the power of God can penetrate us and become like rivers of living water to irrigate the arid earth within us. Thus we may irrigate the arid earth of others, so that hope and love are reborn.” (Jean Vanier, The Broken Body, Paulist Press, 1988)

Readers of this blog know I am a lifelong Christian who reaps significant benefit from Buddhist teachings and practices. It is said that the power of communal prayer, regardless of religion, seeps into the earth. I believe that was true of Kenyon College, my alma mater, an Episcopal school that at one time had been a seminary for men. It was at Kenyon that I first heard the voice of the Compassionate Buddha.

I arrived at Kenyon with deep cynicism about Christianity. In my freshman year, I took Professor Rogan’s Survey of World Religions. As we began the section on Buddhism, the readings referred to Buddha as the “Compassionate One”. The word “compassion” grabbed me, and I sat up straight. I knew beyond my understanding that I needed to pay attention. In my mind, I asked: “How is ‘Buddha, the Compassionate One’ related to Jesus Christ?”

That question began a journey that continues today, over fifty years later. I can say with assurance: Buddha, known as the “Compassionate One” does indeed have something to do with the “Love” that Christians talk about in church. It may be one of, if not the, defining quality of each figure. And I suggest that nurturing compassion may be the single most important thread in the spiritual journey. 

Consider this reflection from Catholic priest, writer and theologian Henri Nouwen: 

“We are all the Beloved. We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children and friends loved or wounded us… That’s the truth I want you to claim for yourself. That’s the truth spoken by the voice that says, ‘You are my Beloved.… I have called you by name, from the very beginning. You are mine and I am yours… I have molded you in the depths of the earth and knitted you together in your mother’s womb. I have carved you in the palms of my hands and hidden you in the shadow of my embrace. I look at you with infinite tenderness and care for you with a care more intimate than that of a mother for her child. I have counted every hair on your head and guided you at every step… Nothing will ever separate us.’ ”  (Henri Nouwen, Life of the Beloved, The Crossroad Publishing Company, 1997, pages 30-31)

Nouwen’s language is specifically Christian, drawn from phrases of New and Old Testament scripture. These images convey a quality of compassion between God and the people that is as powerful today as it was among the ancient writers. Buddhism does not proclaim a “God,” nor is it, strictly, a religion. Rather, Buddhism emphasizes teaching and practices that help us clarify how our minds work. Buddhism aims to develop compassion and inner presence, inspired by the Buddha, to explore our own minds. Buddhist practice cuts across boundaries of religion, territory, and culture. 

As I write, the war in the Middle East is escalating. Perhaps, like many of you, I listen to the daily news, feeling a mix of sadness, anger, frustration, and confusion in our complex global politics. Calls for peace run parallel to the images of fear, desperation, and violence. Pockets of violence erupt around the world as people feel panic about what the future may bring.

No peaceful resolution is in sight, against the background of centuries of war, trauma, and suffering. The anguish of civilians on all sides is heart-breaking. The ongoing war tears families apart, as it leaves innocent civilians homeless. Too many are killed. It feels that no place is safe. 

Last month Tara Brach, a well known Buddhist teacher and author, interviewed Stephen Fulder. Mr. Fulder is a Buddhist peace activist who lives in Israel. He is the founder of the Israel Insight Society, a Buddhist meditation center. (https://www.tarabrach.com/conversation-tara-brach-stephen-fulder/) In his work, Mr. Fulder and his team run programs that bring together Israelis and Palestinians. They guide participants to listen to one another and share their individual stories. Slowly, over a few days, anger gives way to finding common ground as suffering human beings. A sense of genuine peace emerges as people name their deep suffering and longing for peace.

Mr. Fulder and his family live in Galilee, at the northern tip of Israel. He says that, for the moment, they have been safe and but some days he feels incapacitated the weight of fear and suffering. On these days, he puts himself on pause, gets quiet, and allows himself to feel. Buddhist teachings often guide us to “welcome our feelings.” However, Mr. Fulder (a longtime Buddhist practitioner) observes that, in this situation, the predominant feeling is “too much” — “too much pain, too much suffering, too many people in crisis…” Opening to these feelings can become re-traumatizing. He learns to move very slowly during this period.

This experience of “too much” is especially poignant during times of large-scale crisis. I lived in New York City during the 9/11 crisis. After the attack, the streets were unusually quiet. People on walked around in a state of shock; their eyes strangely blank. Similarly, in the early years of covid, we felt that sense of “too much”, as the virus quickly spread globally and the death rate skyrocketed.

Today, the events happening in the Middle East affect us, though we may live physically far from the battlefield. The sounds and images from the battlefields are deeply disturbing. Increasingly, outbreaks of angry protests erupt throughout our cities, including on college campuses. Our impulse may be to dismiss how overwhelmed we feel. Or we may collapse in despair, feeling helpless and weighed down with a sense, “This will never change.”

Mr. Fulder offers four helpful ways to deal more effectively when we feel so distressed. First, affirm (rather than deny) feeling overwhelmed. We can say to ourselves, or others, “This is too much. You feel deluged because the experience is overwhelming.” For most of us, the pain and suffering is beyond our experience. We may feel enveloped in frozen despair, with no way out. We cannot process what is happening. To honestly admit these feelings with an attitude of warm acceptance toward ourselves (and others) for having the feelings is the first step.

Second, focus on the small reminders that no matter how challenging the situation, generative life goes on. Put your hand on your heart and feel the rhythm of your heartbeat. Notice a tree standing tall, growing ever so slightly as you watch it. Take a breath and notice the temperature and smell of the air. Take a walk. Hug a close friend. Have a cup of tea. These are small but important reminders that life supports us in each moment. We have the power to tune into this generative reality.

Third, know that whatever is going on in the moment, things will change. The situation will change because change is happening all the time. Things may get worse before they get better, but the situation will not remain the same. Political voices get the most attention, but many more work behind the scenes to offer aid. We can choose to remain hopeful that this unseen work will help foster a positive outcome.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, to listen with kindness. In these fractured times, we may be easily tempted to argue rather than listen. But arguing only increases division and heightens emotions. Listening with kindness fosters a dynamic that can lead to healing. People across the political and ideological spectrum are suffering, far away and close to home. Most of us cannot change these situations directly. What you and I can do is listen to each other’s stories. We can also learn to listen with kindness to our own stories. According to Mr. Fulder’s suggestion, we learn to listen attentively with “kind eyes.” 

My husband and I have very different political perspectives. More than once we’ve each wondered, “How will I be able to go on with a person who thinks like this!” Learning to listen “with kind eyes” has saved our marriage. Beyond our disagreements, we affirm the values we hold dear for ourselves, our family, and for all; values like the freedom to live, work, and practice faith, availability of education, justice, and peace. Above all, we want for ourselves and others to enjoy the richness and beauty of life.

The stakes are higher now. Global situations are more complex. The reality of war is upon us and the threat of growing conflict is in the air. Let us never miss an opportunity to be kind.

QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION

How did you react to communal stress in the past, like war, health crises, climate emergencies, gun violence, or other challenging times? 

Today, how do you respond to the news at home and abroad? What helps you in this period of upheaval?

Are the suggestions offered in this post useful to you? Why or why not? 

If you like, post your responses in the comments section.

“Keep me safe, O God, for in you I take refuge…” (Psalm 16:1)

I am a lifelong Christian. Finding refuge in God was a familiar phrase, threading through scripture. For instance, “… God is my rock, in whom I take refuge…” (Psalm 18:2); “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble”; (Psalm 46:1); “Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of Your wings…” (Psalm 36:7) These beautiful words convey a sense of safety and comfort, of God shielding us from danger. 

But hearing the words differs from experiencing refuge in God. For me, and perhaps like many of you, finding refuge in God did not come easily. The experience of refuge requires trust, and, for much of my life, trust was in short supply. Growing up, my family life was chaotic, dominated by my mother’s mental illness, and my father’s desperate attempts to support her, care for me, and pay the rent. Behind the scenes lay the traumatic experiences of my Russian and Irish grandparents, who fled from violence, seeking safety in America. 

I was born in the 1954. News reports of one assassination after another filled the nightly news. Television brought funerals of public figures, like John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, into my living room. I felt part of the thousands of people who lined the streets. Images from the Vietnam War dominated the airwaves, along with heated debates about American involvement, and fears of nuclear war.

Without trust, I excelled at being “self-reliant.” This is code for trying to control life, figure things out for myself and avoid asking for help. Self-reliance is not refuge. Rather, self-reliance is a way of living in fear — of the world, others, and God. Refuge means stepping beyond our own boundaries to reach out for shelter and guidance. It is the opposite of control. 

I came into adulthood riddled with fear. I feared God, other people, and Life itself. I carried distorted beliefs formed in childhood, feeling responsible for the problems in my family. I concluded that my family’s suffering was God’s way of punishing me and assumed that I was not good enough for God’s love. 

I was also full of idealism, believing in a future world of peace and love. This was the world that poured through the music of Peter Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, and Judy Collins. I desperately wanted to believe in the God who “…will wipe every tear from their eyes….” (Revelation, 21:4) But that God seemed very distant. The God that I knew was a punishing, vindictive God. 

So what happened? How did I learn to trust God, to experience finding refuge in God? And to know finding refuge as a precious gem of faith?

In my early 30’s, I discovered Buddhist meditation as a doorway to the transformative power of Christ. The language of “taking refuge” is a central theme in Buddhism. Buddhist teaching emphasizes that, as human beings, we all need “refuge”. Life confronts each one of us with situations and challenges that overwhelm and push us beyond our limits. We need help beyond our ordinary sense of self to face these challenges.

Buddhist teaching refers to three forms of refuge, including taking refuge in “the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha”. These are called “the three jewels.” For Christians, the meaning of these three forms of refuge maps easily to familiar Christian concepts. Refuge in the Buddha is akin to having faith in Jesus Christ; refuge in the Dharma (teachings) is akin to trusting the truth of Holy Scripture; and refuge in the Sangha is much like depending on the local parish community.  

I began attending Buddhist meditation retreats. These retreats offered long stretches of silent meditation. To my surprise, familiar memories of Christian experience floated through my mind. There were references to scripture, including specific phrases and images, like:

At first, I tried to get rid of these, as if they were “enemies” from the past. With the meditation teacher’s guidance, I learned to accept that these memories are a normal part of meditation. They were a familiar part of my history in church life and naturally arose during meditation. I experienced a new depth of meaning in this familiar language. Outside the retreat setting, I took refuge in these words, phrases and images. They became like golden nuggets lighting my path. 

Over the years, my fears about myself and God transformed. Distorted beliefs that my family problems were my fault faded. I accepted those beliefs were merely a child trying to make sense of a confusing world. My trust in God’s love for me grew and my faith in God deepened. 

I explored Christian methods of meditation and came to Centering Prayer. Centering Prayer is a method of offering a contemplative meditation practice to lay people, created by Thomas Keating. Keating was a Catholic priest, theologian and Trappist monk, as well as a prolific writer. Many of Keating’s books have become modern classics. He supports readers in building a loving relationship with the Divine and helps them identify barriers to that relationship.

Keating’s words perfectly described my experience: 

“The Christian spiritual path is based on a deepening trust in God. It is trust that first allows us to take that initial leap in the dark, to encounter God at deeper levels of ourselves. And it is trust that guides the intimate refashioning of our being, the transformation of our pain, roundedness, and unconscious motivation into the person that God intended us to be… Because trust is so important, our spiritual journey may be blocked if we carry negative attitudes toward God from early childhood. If we are afraid of God or see God as an angry father-figure, a suspicious policeman, or a harsh judge, it will be hard to develop enthusiasm, or even an interest, in the journey.” (Thomas Keating, Intimacy with God, p. 1)

Slowly, I began to trust God, to surrender my distorted beliefs, attachments to control, fear and resentment. This surrender is life-giving. It allows me to trust, and to find refuge. Today I find refuge in God, like feeling a safe port in the storm. Finding refuge in God is like an arrow of faith. Some days the arrow is more a bolt of lightning; other days the arrow is more of a gentle breeze. However it shows up, finding refuge in God anchors me. I receive comfort, strength, and guidance that help me move through daily life. Finding refuge in God allows me to trust God, no matter what Life may bring.

We live in complex times, in our country, communities, and the world. Much of our political and social discourse is steeped in division. We don’t take time to listen to each other, especially those who hold opinions different from ours. Others, especially those who hold opinions different from ours, become “enemies”. Our words become weapons to silence others. Alas, religious language can create further division, to cause harm rather than heal. May the ancient words of the prophet Isaiah offer a more creative vision of finding refuge in God:

QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION

What does “finding refuge in God” mean to you? Does it come easily to you? Or, do you struggle to find refuge in God? What hinders you from finding refuge in God? What helps you find refuge in God? 

If you like, post your responses to these questions in the comments section.

My dad was an angry guy. His anger wreaked havoc at home and ruined many of his close relationships. A deeply broken heart lay behind the anger. Dad’s father died a premature death from alcoholism. Dad drank a lot, and was frightened that he, too, might die an early death.Dad’s deepest wound, though, was losing the love of his life, his wife (my mother) to mental illness.

Dad retired in 1990 from a fulfilling career. He looked forward to an active life in retirement traveling and enjoying his grandchildren. He was more at peace than I’d known him. The following year, however, a diagnosis of lymphoma changed everything. His peace and excitement about new life was gone. He endured months of painful and debilitating treatments which did not slow the progression of the disease. He felt betrayed by his body and life itself and again erupted in anger.

In 1992, he made a life-changing decision: to re-read the works of the philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, a deeply inspirational figure in Dad’s life. He went into seclusion to do this work, and re-emerged in 1993. To the surprise of those who knew him, he was at peace. The lifelong anger was gone, and he overflowed with a joyful, loving spirit. He was kind, curious, and funny. Dad’s physical demeanor changed dramatically — his eyes twinkled, his energy was strong despite failing health, and his mind was clear. 

This was nothing less than transfiguration.

Transfiguration is a process of deep interior change so profound that the physical form visibly changes. In Christianity, transfiguration refers to something extraordinary that happens to Jesus. In my last post, I wrote about the “Transfiguration of Christ.”  (https://incarnation-place.com/2023/08/11/transfiguration-of-christ/)  Here, I explore our essential human capacity to transfigure. 

Human capacity for transfiguration is written into our cells. For example, suppose I’m in the kitchen chopping vegetables and accidentally cut myself. What happens? The skin is broken and blood flows from the cut. Almost immediately the healing process begins. The flow of blood eases, then stops. A scab forms and in a few days falls off, leaving a scar which fades. 

From minor injuries to major surgeries and illnesses, the healing process is the same. Healing begins immediately after a wound occurs. We are programmed to heal. Healing written in our cells, bones, and organs, quietly moving with each breath. 

This built-in program for healing includes our minds and emotions, as well as our physical bodies. This is true no matter how old we are, regardless of culture, race, gender, or religion. We are programmed to heal! 

Our capacity to heal mind and emotions is especially important when there is a history of trauma.   Trauma is an injury to the mind. A plethora of current research shows that traumatic experience can change the actual physiology of the brain. These changes negatively affect cognitive brain function and normal emotional processing. 

Trauma triggers powerful emotions which can overwhelm the psyche. Working through the nervous system, the brain sends signals to shut down the experience of overwhelming experiences. This is a built-in process for our psyche to maintain safety. The power of the experience remains housed in the mind but outside of conscious awareness.

Carl Jung, one of the great founders of modern psychology, called experience that remains outside of awareness the “shadow.” The shadow is a repository of thoughts, feelings, and behaviors that we unconsciously hide from ourselves and others. However, this unconscious material can strongly influence our behavior, like a hidden computer program. When we are ready, the buried experience, including emotions like rage, fear, sadness, grief, confusion, and shame, come into our awareness to be healed. 

As unconscious material comes into our awareness, we may be surprised that an inner critical voice erupts. This voice tries to “beat back” these long held feelings which disrupt our inner experience. Cultivating an inner compassionate voice is especially helpful here. Compassion facilitates the healing process. How do we develop this inner compassionate voice? 

Buddhism offers pointed teaching about the power of compassionate presence in the healing of challenging emotions. Tara Brach is a Buddhist and a wise, eloquent teacher who is especially skilled at reaching an American audience. She grew up in the Unitarian Church, then later turned to Buddhism. She writes: “Through the decades, my relationship with prayer has emerged and deepened during encounters with grief, shame, fear, and despair. As I learned to sustain a real presence with those feelings, the pain of separation they revealed would unfold into deep sadness and longing. Over time, my yearning became increasingly clear: it was to belong to and be held by a larger source of love and presence.” (Trusting the Gold: Uncovering Your Natural Goodness, by Tara Brach, p.92). 

This was the process my dad went through, quietly, silently, in his own way, in his own time. One of the great lessons that I learned from witnessing my father’s process is that we are never too old or frail to heal. Though he was not a religious man, my dad healed spiritually and emotionally. As his inner wounds healed, the force of his loving spirit shone through his physical demeanor, while his cancer-ridden body neared death. His eyes sparkled, he joked easily, and was more relaxed than I’d ever known him.

There is an ancient Japanese technique of restoring broken pieces of pottery. Kintsugi puts the broken pieces together, using a liquid form of gold or silver as glue. The result is a vase that highlights the broken patterns, making the brokenness beautiful.  “With this technique it’s possible to create true and always different works of art, each with its own story and beauty, thanks to the unique cracks formed when the object breaks, as if they were wounds that leave different marks on each of us.” https://www.lifegate.com/kintsugi

For Christians, the hallmark of Jesus is his compassionate presence. The stories of the early followers capture the transformational effect of being in the presence of His Love. I remain captivated by the vision of Divine Love at the center of Christianity. Divine Love woven in the fabric of creation, Love that includes all. This Love holds us tenderly, through all the trauma and suffering that Life may bring, much like a divine unfolding of a kintsugi process of restoration and healing.

Christianity proclaims that Jesus Christ is the embodiment, the full expression of this Divine Love. “(Jesus) came to unite and ‘to reconcile all things in himself, everything in heaven and everything on earth’ (Colossians 1:19) Rohr p 7). Jesus teaches: “Love God with all your heart, mind and soul; and love your neighbor as you are loved.” The early followers surrendered their lives to follow Jesus. Their path was called The Way, the way of Love shown by Jesus Christ. This is the path of transfiguration.

We may think of Christianity as a finished thing. But it is not. St. Paul called the church, “the body of Christ.” This body of Christ” — like all bodies —  is in process of evolving. Christianity is being recreated, transfigured by the larger spiritual force that birthed Christianity more than two thousand years ago. God is still shaping Christianity, as He/She continues to shape us. 

This blog, Incarnation Place, is my attempt to name and participate in an enlivened Christianity that celebrates God’s creation of the human body throughout all cultures, across time and space.  The Love manifested in Jesus Christ is a doorway into the process of transfiguration that our human bodies are uniquely equipped for. 

Tell your own story of transfiguration. How have you experienced healing? How have you journeyed into your own inner being? Our flesh and bones carry these stories. They are the raw material that shapes our lives. We need to share our stories. Our stories need to be heard. In the telling, we discover our stories echo through the lives of others.

Luke 9:28-36

 Sermon delivered by Amy Russell

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Hood River, OR

August 6, 2023

This is a sermon I offered recently. May you find something useful here.

***************************************

Prayer: Loving God, open our hearts and mind to hear your Truth, to know Your love, to walk Your Way.

It’s a joy to be with you, on this very special day, the Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ. This scriptural story is very near to my heart and I’m especially grateful to Kelly for his invitation for me to speak with you. 

I want to begin with the word “transfiguration” — not a word we use every day. Transfiguration is related to the word “metamorphosis”, meaning a process of deep interior change so profound that the physical form visibly changes. Transfiguration refers to something emerging that is of great beauty; an essential aspect of what or who is undergoing this change. Think of transfiguration like the caterpillar turning into a beautiful butterfly. The caterpillar has within its DNA the potential to become a butterfly. So too with human beings. In our religious context, transfiguration is a process of change that is of God.

Throughout the Gospel of Luke, we see Jesus in his element, doing what he does — teaching and preaching, healing the sick and feeding the hungry. Jesus knows the suffering that awaits him in Jerusalem, and has prepared his disciples. He gives them power so they will carry on his ministry. He also assures them that his painful death will not be the end, that he will be resurrected in a new form.

Then, in chapter 9, we come to the Transfiguration story. Jesus brings Peter, James, and John up to the mountain to pray. “And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.” In another version of this story, the language is a little different: “…His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became white as the light.” (Matthew 17:2) Transfiguration. An inner change in Jesus is expressed through a visible change in his outer appearance. Here, this change comes as Jesus comes closer to God in prayer.

Suddenly, cutting across time and space, Moses and Elijah appear in conversation with Jesus about what is coming. The presence of these ancient figures is key: Moses carries the wisdom of the Law, known in the 10 Commandments; Elijah represents the long line of prophets who speak God’s truth. Their presence affirms that Jesus is not contradicting the Law and prophetic wisdom. Nor is Jesus a reincarnation of Moses or Elijah, as some suspected. Rather, He is the Son of God, the fulfillment of ancient wisdom.

As if out of the whirlwind, an enormous cloud forms. The disciples are terrified. God’s booming voice pours forth, “This is my Son, my Chosen one; listen to him.” In Matthew’s version, the language is a little different: “This is my Son, whom I love… with him I am well pleased… Listen to him!” Matthew 17:5

What are we to make of this story? I suggest that the Transfiguration story points to one of the most powerful themes in Christian spirituality. In this one scene, we behold the mystery of God: Jesus the Christ, human and divine, existing in time and beyond time. Jesus the Christ, who came not to abolish the law and the prophets, but to fulfill them. And Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, whose life is deeply intertwined with ours. 

God said to the disciples as He says to us, “Listen to Him!” And what did Jesus tell us is our life calling: “Love God with all your heart, mind and soul…. And love your neighbor as I have loved you….. (John 13:34)

I suggest that transfiguration is the essence of our journey with Christ. We are transfigured through our closeness with Him. The force of Love that He emanates changes us. That Love opens our heart, heals inner wounds, and we reach out to others in love. 

What does Transfiguration in our human journey with Christ look like? Here are two examples:

First, transfiguration happens every day, around the world in the rooms of 12 Step recovery. If you have struggled with addiction or watched another struggle, you know the heavy burden of addiction. This is true is any form of addiction, alcohol, other drugs, food, sex, gambling, or other forms. People arrive at the doors of recovery beaten down, often near physical death. 

Transfiguration happens in those who receive the gift of sobriety (or abstinence). The rooms of recovery are full of those who bear witness to this dramatic change. The facial skin brightens, eyes light up, spontaneous laughter happens. Hope is restored. 

People in recovery learn quickly that recovery is not an event, it’s a journey. Recovery takes time, commitment, and work. We need to show up, examine the truth of who we are, the good and the bad, taking responsibility for our actions. But recovery is ultimately a spiritual process. We learn to put our lives on a spiritual foundation, meaning that we surrender to a power greater than ourselves. For those who are Christian, this is a familiar language. But it takes on new meaning in the process of confronting addiction. This is transfiguration.

Another example of transfiguration is in the process of grief. Here, transfiguration may appear quietly, slowly, almost imperceptibly. 

I suspect everyone in this room has experienced deep loss, if not several losses in life. Loss may come through the death of a loved one, or an illness. Loss may come in divorce, or loss of a job or home or a dream. 

Deep loss and the inevitable grief that follows is a universal human experience. It goes to the very core of who we are. Typically, moving through grief is a slow journey. We may get stuck in grief for a while — weeks, months, or even years. 

But grief is a healing process, a time when the pain of loss becomes the teacher of love, including how we care for ourselves. Prayer, community support balanced with time alone to feel may be especially helpful in healing through grief. Sometimes, psychotherapy may be useful. Over time, the grip of grief releases. 

The vulnerability of grief re-forms us. The light returns in our eyes. We stand a little straighter. Hope is restored. Healing through grief is not flashy or dramatic. Scars remain. Over time, we are called into new life. We are transfigured.

Transfiguration is the work of the Holy Spirit. It is an actual manifestation of the Spirit moving within us, shaping us, guiding us, bringing us closer to God, and into new Life. It is a journey of inner transformation that brings forward who we truly are. 

I encourage you to find your own examples of Transfiguration, in your life and in the lives of others. These examples are all around. Sometimes dramatic, sometimes quiet, always unique. 

This is our journey with Christ, a journey of love, a journey for a lifetime…

 AMEN.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

As a child, I enjoyed going to church. Something in the air, the stained glass windows, collective prayers, participating in the rituals. I went to Sunday School hopeful, curious, wanting to know more. I went to services and did what I was told. Stand here, sit there. Say these words, hold your hands like this, and so on. 

But I kept missing this “love” thing. I just didn’t get it. How do I know God loves me? How am I supposed to recognize Jesus? I felt like an outsider, standing at the door of the church, wanting to come in, but never able to open the door. As I stood on the outside looking in, I was also afraid of what might happen on the other side of that door. Did God love me no matter what? What if I wasn’t “good enough”? Was I doomed to eternal hell for my sins? It sounded like this happened, at least to some.  

I hung in with church until my teenage years. But my frustration was building. People in church talked about God’s love and spend a lot of time proclaiming beliefs. “I believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God” “I believe Jesus died for our sins and resurrected on the 3rd day.” “I believe Jesus will return.” 

What do all these words mean? The words hung in the air, repeated over and over. My sharp-edged, teenage scent of hypocrisy heightened. But if it’s possible that I (or anyone else!) will end up in eternal hell, why should we care Jesus is the Son of God? Where is God’s love in this version of “truth”? This was too much for my teenage brain. Exasperated, I threw up my hands and yelled at God: “God, if you want me, you’ll need to come find me through something other than the church. I’m outta here!” I was 16.

Years later, when my husband, Bret, asked me to marry him, I was thrilled. Enthusiastically, I said, “Yes!” Quickly I followed with, “Just don’t ask me to marry you in a church!” My plea startled Bret, but he agreed. Instead of a church wedding, we had a lovely ceremony at the New York Botanical Garden. I was sure that wherever God was, He was present in that nature filled space. That happy day was in June, 1985.

Two years later, I was working near Wall Street, a block from the buildings known as the “Twin Towers.” I knew the streets well, including the local subway stations. And yet, I never noticed that almost daily I walked past a building that stood at the head of Wall Street. That building was Trinity Church, a large Episcopal church. One day in the spring of 1987, I walked by and for no particular reason, I walked in. I wasn’t aware that I was looking for anything related to God or church.

As I entered through an enormous doorway, I remember feeling peculiar, aware that it made no sense that I would enter a church. I felt my feet on the stone floor, as if the stone had been there since the beginning of time. The stone was solid, yet I feared it might crumble beneath my feet at any moment. 

Slowly, I walked into the sanctuary. My eyes gazed up from the floor, and immediately focused on an enormous figure of Jesus, etched in a stained glass window that hung above the altar. The figure of Jesus filled the window. His eyes were open but gazed down, His hand extended outward, palm turned up as if He were waiting just for me, inviting me to come close. Everything and everyone else in the church seemed to disappear. I stood, transfixed, unable to move, my eyes locked on the figure of Jesus that seemed to vibrate with loving power.  

I’m not sure how long I stood there. Then I heard the words, “You are forgiven.” Surely the words were in my mind, but they seemed to come from Jesus, speaking through the stained glass figure. Suddenly, tears poured out of my eyes, down my cheeks. Slowly, my feet moved, inching my body to a nearby pew. I sat down and surrendered to weeping, not knowing why I was crying or what was happening to me.  

I didn’t make the connection consciously, but my body knew. Something magnetically drew me, reminiscent of the Presence that I felt as a young child sitting in a quiet church. I felt safe there, as if sheltered by the walls that held a communal presence of prayer. I didn’t know it then, but this was (and is) the Loving Presence of Jesus Christ that stands at the center of Christian faith.

“You are forgiven” meant that no matter what I had done, God’s love holds me tenderly. In this moment that seemed to touch eternity, my lifelong fear that I would spend eternity in hell vanished. The fear melted away, like evaporated steam. I knew in my bones that this love was supremely trustworthy. 

While this was a uniquely personal message, intuitively I sensed that this is the message for all: the outpouring of Divine Love is available to all. This experience was no longer about “belief in God” but a heartfelt experience of connection “with God”. I stepped into the vision of God that Christianity holds, and it would radically change my life. A different consciousness emerged. I sensed God’s presence  — the reality of Love — in my life, the lives of others, and in the world. 

In this Trinity Church experience, I had a powerful transformation: sensing that God held me in love. This was an experience “of God”, a God in whom I could easily trust; much different from believing “in God,” a God who triggered more fear than love. I felt drawn toward Him, into a path of Love. In the weeks and months that followed, I attuned to Love that lives within and surrounds us. I came to a new level of consciousness. This was a deep feeling of “coming home”.

In the weeks and months that followed, I returned to Trinity Church. Some days I just sat in the quiet, other days I attended services. I was falling in love with the prayers and liturgy of the Episcopal Church. I learned to use the Book of Common Prayer (the prayerbook of the Episcopal Church), and the Hymnal (the book of hymns used in worship services). I learned the rituals: when to stand, sit, and kneel; how to receive communion. Most of all, I came through the door that had always eluded me, into a different dimension of experience, feeling loved and accepted by God. My fear of eternal hell no longer held my faith captive.

A few years after my Trinity Church experience, my husband and I joined a large church community in New York City. The architecture of the church building invited us in. This was a large Byzantine structure in midtown Manhattan. The building seemed to proclaim a spiritual power in contrast to the towering city skyscrapers that surrounded it. The rounded dome of the church building conveyed Divine maternal arms embracing all, and offering a refuge from the daily stresses of life. 

From our first experience, the Rector’s sermon captivated us, and we returned week after week. Each Sunday, we heard story after story of people transformed by God’s love. The message was, “God loves you, no matter what. This is the most essential wisdom you need. And here are actual stories of how God’s love transforms ordinary lives.”These stories were riveting. Our hearts opened, and we witnessed this vision of God’s love moved through the people and life of the parish. Within a few years, my husband and I became active members, taking on various leadership roles. These experiences continue to shape our faith today.

However, divine love notwithstanding, even the best church communities may face real financial challenges. In this community, long standing financial woes brought the community to the brink of bankruptcy. In time, leadership changed, bringing a sense of new vision and possibility. 

But like many large organizations, power struggles emerged and dominated decision-making. The “old guard” wasn’t happy with the “new guard”. Battle lines were drawn, heated arguments ensued, conversations got ugly. There was plenty of blame to go around. We became disheartened. Something of my old frustrations with church hypocrisy re-ignited.

And then came September 11, 2001. Suddenly this parish, like many churches, filled with people. They poured in, day after day, during the week and on Sundays. Why? Not because of special programs or exalted preaching. People came because they were frightened and desperate. Overnight the world had changed. Now we lived in a world where people used airplanes as to blow up office buildings. The new world was terrifying. People came to church looking for a larger reality than what we were seeing; a reality that offered hope in the essential goodness of Life.

9/11 was a potent reminder that, in our darkest hours, we yearn to touch the presence of  divine Love; a transcendence that holds all the darkness, yet not be consumed by it. In spite of all the failings of the church, 9/11 reminded me that a power within Christianity remains, as if buried deep in the basement of the tradition, that offers unwavering Love in times of great suffering. 

The challenge for church leadership is how to respond, how to bring the message forward and keep it alive, despite all the forces that might undermine it. The months following 9/11 were especially difficult for clergy. How to help? Many well-meaning clergy and leaders offered sermons, classes, and images to make sense of what happened. Panels of speakers interpreting the new reality popped up everywhere. 

These were noble efforts. However, the church offered another kind of power, the power of silence. In that silence is the unseen reality, the promise of hope that amid suffering, the encounter of Presence of God. This power has inspired two thousand years of Christian faith and discipleship, conveyed in transformed human lives, and witnessed in Christian art, architecture, music, and icons. In the words of Psalm 46: “Be still and know that I am God.”

The vision that inspires Christianity is full of mystery and promise. It’s an all-encompassing vision, capturing the totality of human life, including great suffering and joy. Perhaps you too have had powerful transformational experiences with God, within or outside the Church. Your experiences may look like mine or not. However, perhaps you know as I do that the reality of Christian community life often falls dreadfully short of its exalted vision. Perhaps, like many, you have concluded, “I believe in God, but I can’t go to church anymore…” Or, you may continue to attend church, yet feel vaguely dissatisfied. 

Wherever you are in your faith journey, consider these questions:

• How do you experience God’s presence in your life?
• How do you experience the absence of God?
• What support do you yearn for in your journey of faith? 
• What support are you able to offer others?  

For all the failings of Christianity as an institution, I remain captivated by the vision of God’s love. I am humbled by the power and beauty of the truths that She holds. These truths are worth fighting for.