From lupa at kos.net Sat Feb 2 15:56:22 2008 From: lupa at kos.net (Molly Wolf) Date: Sat, 02 Feb 2008 10:56:22 -0500 Subject: [SB] Sabbath Blessing Message-ID: <20080202155635.9029B1E377A@justus2c.anglican.org> Calvin Calvin missed me while I was gone. So did Hobbes and Maggie, of course, and they were lonely and scared, especially when Ken and Stefen came in to demolish the bathroom: two large and noisy guys invading their space. By the time I got back, the bathroom was down to lath and dusty emptiness; Maggie was clearly traumatized, and Calvin and Hobbes were invisible, having fled to the basement and safety. Since then, the bathroom's been drywalled, taped, mudded, and primed and the cats are -- well, not quite back to normal, but at least reassured. They take turns demanding attention; Maggie sticks close to me, and Calvin appears only when the guys leave. But it's the weekend, and the guys aren't here, so Calvin emerges and lays a delicate black paw on my lap and chirps: "mummy pick up?" I pick him up, folding his long legs and tail in until he's a compact bundle, surprisingly heavy for his slenderness (that's the Siamese in him) and he purrs and proodles richly as I stroke him. He reciprocates by washing my hand. Cats have the reputation of being aloof, and some are, but not mine. They are all loving in their separate ways. Hobbes has the golden retriever personality of the orange tabby, laid back and mildly neurotic; everyone is his friend. Maggie, as a tortoiseshell, is more demanding and particular; she requires to be held only on her own terms and only when she asks -- but she nestles up against my feet every night, as a matter of inherent rights, and when she's scared, as when the guys are working on the bathroom, she hovers close. But Calvin is mine and I am Calvin's, and no other human being will do for him. He knows and likes my sons, and he's been known to appear (if rarely) for other people, after they've been around for a while, but I am his person. If I'm away, he cries with an ear-piercing howl. He doesn't spend a lot of time on my lap, but lap-time is crucial to him. I think animals and babies model love in ways that the rest of us just can't seem to manage. There's a purity and simplicity to Calvin's love for me (and mine for him). It has no complications, no expectations (well, food, water, and a tended cat box!), no equivocation. It's very simple. It isn't clever or pretentious. It isn't self-admiring. It doesn't speak of art or intellect. It's very embodied, very physical. It's just plain love, for no other reason than I'm his person and he's my cat. It's founded on the deepest sort of trust. I've had this cat since he was two months old and the size of a medium squirrel, who, when he folded himself up, would fit into the palm of one hand. We snuggled through his gangly bat-eared adolescence. I have, so far as he knows, always been here for him; I can be reliably counted upon to top up the kibble and to let him out or in upon request. (Mind you, Calvin's requests are put in a piercing NOW!!! howl that could cut glass.) I am reliably there for him, except when I've gone away -- and then I always come back. This is the sort of love that I should be modelling in my dealings with God: that utter trust that God is there and looking after me, and even if he feels far away at times, I can count on him to come back. I can howl to him and he will come rescue me. I can trust that he will provide what I need. I can trust him to be as steadfast towards me as I am towards Calvin, as loving, as reliable. In fact, I don't do this very well. I'm more skittish with God, not quite trusting, uncertain whether his love can withstand my doubts and fears. This is such a screwed-up world; how can God be in charge? I've done enough suffering and watched enough suffering to know that if God is preplanning all this stuff, that's not a god I could worship. We blame God for the ill in this world, conveniently forgetting how much of it is our own doing. We expect God to save us from all harm, ignoring our own vulnerability and mortality. God doesn't mind. God knows where we're coming from. But it's not God's problem; it's ours. Calvin teaches me again. He has a will of his own, that cat; he alone knows why he tried to get up the chimney and had to be rescued. He can be loudly ambivalent. He insists on charging out into the winter landscape and needs to charge right back in again. Despite his lifelong security, he is a skitty kitty, apt to panic easily. There are times when I want to fuss him and he doesn't want to be fussed, and he jumps off my lap and stalks off, long tail twitching, independent and offended. And I still love him. And I know that he still loves me, as best he can. After all, I am human. He is a cat. I have to remember what Paul said about the love of God, and remember that the words fit me as well as Calvin: "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." Off you go, little one. You're as safe in my love as we all are in the love of God. From lupa at kos.net Sun Feb 10 19:45:33 2008 From: lupa at kos.net (Molly Wolf) Date: Sun, 10 Feb 2008 14:45:33 -0500 Subject: [SB] Sabbath Blessing Message-ID: <20080210194540.AD8AB1E4591@justus2c.anglican.org> Gospel I stood with the others in church and listened to the day's Gospel: Christ's forty days in the desert and his temptation by Satan. Of course I hear this every Lent, but sometimes it clonks me harder than usual, or some new approach to it seizes hold of me. And that happened this morning. That stones-into-bread business. Of course Jesus needs food; he's human like us, and he's come out of a very, very long hunger and is famished. We all have legitimate needs; we need water, food, shelter, clothes (at least in this climate), love, a chance to flourish, a use for our gifts, companionship, meaning.... The list goes on. Nothing wrong with having needs; that's just human. But sometimes our needs become our chief focus; they become what other people are meant to fulfill, and we use others to fill our needs without regard for *their* needs -- even without regard for their humanity. We've all encountered someone so needy that the air seemed to get sucked out of the room. Live in a small town and you get adept at ducking down the side aisles of supermarkets when you see these people. Live in a city and you keep your head down lest you encounter another one. When our needs become our gods and we sacrifice others to them, we've succumbed to temptation -- a temptation heartily endorsed by the currect culture. But Jesus says "no", even though his need for food is overwhelming and immediate, even though he has the power to indulge it. "My needs," he's saying, "God will meet in God's good time. I'll hang in there until that happens." Jesus 1: temptation 0. So, citing Psalm 91, Satan presents the next temptation: let's show off how special you are, Jesus. Just jump down off the pinnacle of the great Temple in Jerusalem, the highest and holiest spot in all Judah, and you know that angels will snatch you out of thin air and set you gently down without so much as a bruised toe. Who among us is completely free of arrogance? Who's free of the temptation to show off how wise and intelligent we are? Who hasn't got God taped? Who doesn't know the truth? Who can't identify Those Evil Awful People Over There? Hey, look, I'm pointing at you, and three fingers are pointing back at me. We screwed up in the first place by trying to be as smart as God instead of trusting God to know what's best for us -- our first lesson this morning, the Garden of Eden. We slither into arrogance over and over again, in gnosticism, in exaggerated and distorted beliefs that we nickname "heresy", in scientific materialism (note: not the same as science), in our constant need to know better than anyone else. We look down from our pinnacle and those beneath us seem so small, so unimportant. But Jesus says "No," again. "I won't put God to the test. I won't pretend to be smarter than Creation." Jesus is God come down from God's own pinnacle and walking in love and intimacy with us, walking humbly. God doesn't need angels to bear God up. Instead, God has chosen to humble Godself with us, getting badly bruised in the process. A lesson we constantly miss. Jesus 2: temptation 0. And finally Satan offers Jesus control: "These are the nations of the earth, and I can make them yours to play with." And oh, how tempting that could be: to take power and straighten everybody out. No more wars. No more oppressing the weak and vulnerable. No more poverty, no more violence, no more suffering. I can do it *my* way -- which, coincidentally, is the way God wants it, because I happen to know what God wants. We, in our wisdom (see Temple pinnacle, above) figure out that if we just manage everything to perfection, it will all turn out the way we want -- sorry, I meant the way God wants. If we make all the decisions, get all the details right, make sure that everyone does what they're supposed to, then it will all turn out just the way we should. But look at what lies further down Jesus' road, on the other side of the acclamations and the palms and the potential to grab power: crucifixion. The ultimate in powerlessness, brokenness. Jesus, who could have all the power in the world, faces death naked and vulnerable and without raising a finger in his own defence. He could be in control. He chooses not to go there. This is what holiness is: to turn its back on all three of these things, our own neediness, our own arrogance, our desire for control. We turn blindly and trustingly into the hand of God, like newborns to the dam. We release body, mind, and spirit into God's care, letting go, moving on. The path we set out on during Lent isn't morbid or death-loving; it's a walk in surety and confidence through death and out the other side, in sure and certain hope of what lies beyond: serenity and the glowing love of God. In memory of Jane Margaret Wolf, December 13, 1950-February 8, 2008.