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Hello friends. At risk of sounding like a total narcissist, I invite you to come follow me at my new blog.... Like an over saturated coffee-shop, I won't be staying here anymore. You can find me at the new, hip place on the corner: www.walkingcontemplative.com

Benedictine Way

Every eight weeks I drive up to St. Joseph Minnesota to spend a couple of days at St. Bendedict's Monastery/St. John's Abbey. I still get the curious eyebrow glance when I tell people this, but I'm ok with that. I've been repeating this escapade since January and I am growing more familiar with the daily rhythms of the monastic life and in turn, I find that I want to live as they live.

4:15 a.m. comes awfully early, but that is the time I need to wake up if I want to make morning prayer at the monastery. This morning, just like all the other times I've come up here, I was met by Sisiter Ceceila in the Sacred Heart Chapel and together we walked into morning prayer. Something was a little different once we entered, the place was packed! Where did all the sisters come from? And they were as spunky, enthusiastic, and alert as women in their mid-70's to late 90's could be. It wasn't until later did I understand the cause of growth. Summer time is here! I joked with Sister Cecelia that the sisters come out of the woodwork with the summer sun; with a wink and a laugh she fully agreed.

Prayer time with the sisters, I think, is my favorite part. Everyday these faithful saints welcome the new day by singing with word of God. When I was younger I used to think that hymns were dry and lifeless, void of color and vibrancy. My grandparents attended a traditional Lutheran church that sung hymns and had all their prayers printed out. I would dissect the service, looking for any aspect that might carry the possibility of spontaneity. Every week I was disappointed. Same words, same structure, same robes, same prayer, same, same, same. Ugh. As a random, impulsive, and highly emotional woman, such deeply embedded structure is often the death of me; and was just as true when I was a kid as it is now. However, 20 years later, the structure of the monastic life is no longer the death of me, rather it is the very element that causes my heart to burn with desire. I want to echo their rhythms, their practices, their faithfulness.

There may have been 50 or 60 sisters in prayer this morning. In sweet unison we opened our lips to the Lord with prayer and praise. Morning, midday, evening prayer always begin with a cry to God to welcome His Spirit and position our hearts.

"O Lord, open my lips and my mouth will proclaim your praise. "

I thought to myself, how do I begin my days? When I'm at the Monastery it opens with prayer, praise, community, and the sharing of a meal. When I am at home however, that's a different story. The first thought that enters my mind is not a request for my lips to be opened so that my mouth can praise Christ. No. My first thought is to brush away morning mouth and then open my lips to drink in gallons of bold, dark coffee. And maybe then will I begin thinking about the Glory of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit... maybe.

This is why I come up here. The monastic way is not confined to those who have devoted their lives to an order, in this case, the Benedictine order. Rather the monastic way is a treasure to be sought after by all those who follow after Christ. How can the rest of the Church embrace the gorgeous rhythms found within the monastic community? The Benedictine community understands God's call to be hospitable, to live a life of prayer, to share in community, and to meet the needs of others through humble service. My desire is to learn from their ways and invite others into the journey.

"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit as it was in the beginning, is now, and every shall be, world without end, Amen."

One step, one day at a time.

God never reveals the entirety of his plan. Abraham was only told to go and sacrifice his son, no further information was disclosed. David was told that he was going to become a great king, but I'm sure he had no idea how long it would take to get there. Moses was called to lead the masses out of their slavery and into liberation - did he anticipate the whole freaking sea to part into dry ground? Saul loses his sight, I highly doubt he was thinking; "No problem! In a few days I'll get my sight back and then I'll become the greatest apostle!" If I am going to be completely honest, I loathe the fact that this is how God rolls. Throw me a bone, Padre.

So what are we to do in the midst of the uncomfortable unknown? I could offer you a platter of cheesy responses, and some may even be theologically sound, however when restless confusion eats away at your bones and steals away hours of slumber; the traditional Jeremiah 29:11 dollap of encouragement fails miserably to bring encouragement. Commercial break: And who ever decided this was a good verse to slap on as a band-aid to our modern day blues ? I'm fairly certain the context in which it was spoken was never intended to be used for the sadness we hold over our neighbor's dead kitty. Sorry friends, Jeremiah had a particular audience in mind - and his life was the most depressing of any prophet I've ever read! His own words, given from God, didn't even bring consolation to his weeping! And we're back... 3-2-1. The truth of the matter is this - I don't really know what we are to do, if anything at all, when we find ourselves stuck on the spinny'est (is that a word) cart on this tilt-a-whirl ride otherwise known as life.

But here is what I do know. The Holy Spirit is present, everywhere. When our heads are hung low and our souls are downcast within us, Jesus joins us on the lonely road and listens to our confusion, our lost hopes, our pain, and our excrutiating doubt. He calls us out when we need it and hesitates none at all to say - "Hey you buttheads! (or, "fools"I don't think Luke had it in him to use the term, "butthead"), why are you so faithless? Here, let me show you once again the long scroll of my faithfulness." And at the appointed time, when our hearts are ready and the burning of our hearts cannot be explained, Jesus reveals himself. We see a little bit more, but just enough to give us what we need to continue our walk of abiding obedience.

I know myself well enough to know that if God did decide to show me 27 steps into my future, I'd grap the control ropes of the delapitated buggy I ride in and take off all on my own, leaving the Omniscient one chewing on the dust of my impulsiveness. We may devise magnificent plans for our lives, plans to glorify the Lord, to serve the church, to great and wonderful things in the name of Christ; but ultimately God determines our steps. Our lives are not about us. This is not about me (ugh, owie....). I have no clue what I'm doing or where I'm going. Though in the midst of this awkward tension I beg for humility and the strength required to say 'yes' to Christ, even when I cannot see the ram in the thicket, the dry ground to walk on, or the arc to keep me afloat.

Meaningless thoughts....

Life can get pretty chaotic. Finals are creeping up on me, papers on theology, Pauline letters, and a ridiculously crazy man named Ezekiel are overwhelming my world; and finding time to pursue relationships take an undeserved back seat. However, in the midst of this funnel cloud of busyness I am ushered into the spacious world of artistic delights.

As I sit at Caribou Coffee literally sourrounded by 4 walls of books on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I smile at the sight of these musty smelling dust covers and unchain my concentration to flow freely to the tunes of Mumford and Sons. Without warning my toes tap me into a different world. This world is free from deadlines and filled with the souls of late, great theologians inviting me into the history of Christian thought. But it is an invitation not to receive a grade or a stamp of intellectual approval (thank God too, for I'm an artist - not an intellectual) rather it is to experience, to drink in, and to be transformed by the brave thoughts and endevours of our great cloud of witnesses. My life is pretty fantastic. I love that I get to study theology. I love that I am emotionally connected to radical lyrics. And I love that I'm an artist who enjoys the fruits of those with intellectual giftings!

I wish you Enough

I wish you enough. These are wise words my mom always sends me off with. For the longest time I never really grasped the significance behind her benediction, but as I grow in age, in my faith, in wisdom, and everything else that accrues with life experiences I see, vividly, the beauty of 'enough'.

My childhood was never extravagantly decorated with fancy clothes, the latest Schwinn, video games, or even cable tv. We weren't poor, at least not in comparison to the rest of the world - maybe in comparison to our neighbors; but we weren't rich either, far from it. My wardrobe was filled with hand-me-downs, Kmart blue light specials, and garage sale treasures. My hair styles were home perms and over-sized scrunchies. Forget Nike Air Jordan's, I wore $7 sneakers from Benjamin Franklin. Family vacations? Hardly. But we did take afternoon trips to Duluth every year or weekend get-a-ways at a family friend's cabin on Lake Milacs. Dinner time was usually goulash (how do you even spell that?!) toasty dogs, hamburger gravy, or Malt-O-Meal.

For the most part I was oblivious to our 'enough' lifestyle. In my rose-colored world we had it all; until middle school anyway - kids are mean in middle school and they spotlight everything ugly about you. My sisters and I were consumed with adventures of fort building, tree climbing, neighborhood bus stop games, bike rides to the local candy store, a garage that transformed into the raddest roller skating rink and a shed that wasn't just a shed full of gardening tools and wreaking of lawn mower gasoline. No it was our secret place, our fort of all forts. We were richer than everyone I knew.

Today, at 28 years old, I am a single woman living in the same world as when I was a kid. I am a woman with 'enough'. Every month I have no choice but to rely on God's provision. My wardrobe is still filled with hand-me-downs, thrift store goodies, and well used baseball t-shirts. Dinners are even less gourmet than when I was a kid (although I do wish I could spend loads of money on groceries... I absolutely love to cook!), now it is no more than grilled cheese, frozen veggies, or cereal. But my tummy is satisfied. I'm not a big name shopper, never have been and at the rate I'm going, I never will be. My humble apartment is donned with hand-made art, side of the road freebies, and gifts from my friends upstairs.

I do daydream at times, of what it would be like to have a million dollars. I wonder how liberating it would feel not to have to stress about the cost of school or if I can afford an oil change. Traveling to exotic places and seeing the world is an insatiable desire of mine, but I do not need to spend hundreds of dollars to enjoy beautiful places. The alley in my backyard is full of interesting people, I live in the center of a city that is adorned with gorgeous lakes, intoxicatingly beautiful parks, and unbelievable art. The truth is I have all that I need. Life is a matter of perspective, and mine is acutely familiar with that style of 'enough'.

April Poetry

The month of April offers a bouquet of delicious new life and winter fades to a memory. The endless frozen blues that steal the breath from your mouth, hold hostage the snot in your nose, and drop black pearls from the painted eyelashes of every maiden finally thaw away. Verde’s budding hope merrily springs forth ushering in the song of the morning dove, chickadee, and cardinal. If these feathery friends were a band they would be Dave Matthews, for no other artist can drop the jaws of enthusiasts by shredding the strings of their guitars. Heavy sweaters are folded into storage, revealing the handles of love resting on the waist of every Midwesterner. But these billowy physical effects of winter are no secret to the city of Lakes, it offers a remedy to the muffin top of cabin fever by paving miles of winding trails and organizing preventative action through running and biking communities.

10 extra pounds and smiling daffodils aren’t the only new guests at April’s banqueting table. Poets gather together and indulge their creativity by feasting upon their charming winter labors. It is, rightly so, National Poetry month and I am celebrating tonight by listening to the words of Minnesota’s finest poets at BirchBark Books in Minneapolis. I adore being read to. There is something disarming about releasing my agenda into the spacious pasture of literature

Summer plans in the making

David Gray and Ray Lamontagne touring together this summer. I'm fairly certain I will rearrange my entire life to see this show.

Maundy Thursday Reflections

Every Maundy Thursday I celebrate the Holy Day in quiet reflection. It is most generally a celebration of one, and that is the way I plan it. And for the past 8 years (excluding the two I lived in California) my choice service is at Bethlehem Baptist Church in downtown Minneapolis. This year it was no different.

The sanctuary was packed to the walls. People groups of every generation, ethnicity, class, and each carrying a story all their own were represented not as segregated clusters, but as one community. You could taste the sweetness of the Spirit in the room, and in the aroma of his presence I could not help but pause time and time again at the sight before me. I thought of the Apostle Paul while I sat in my quiet space at the end of the balcony pew... Parenthetical comment... I can always be found in the balcony when the introverted, introspective, and contemplative side of myself takes over. Paul passionately journeyed from church to church urging them to live as a unified body of Christ. In his culture it was common to find people, Christians included, dividing their pledges of devotion and splitting over the smallest of disagreements; which is not entirely unlike today, but I'll save that for another post. I wondered what Paul would have thought if he had been a part of tonight's worship service. Would he exhort his tender love for the Church of Minneapolis? My soul was overwhelmed within me to have a seat among Christ's chosen Beloved and I do not doubt for a moment that Paul would say to Bethlehem - "I have not stopped praying and giving thanks for you."

When the first song of worship ignited, my heart was gripped by the loving hands of the Holy God. There was a sacred presence in the place, a power infused in every note harmoniously shouted, and a disarming invitation wrapped in the holy contrition of the communion of saints. I thought my entire being was going to explode. I was utterly undone by the beauty of it all. Hundreds of saints under one roof, singing together with one voice - my cheeks were a slope of draining tears collecting in the pools of my smiling lips. This is what the heavenly hosts who cry "Holy Holy Holy" must sound like.

Even greater still was the institution of communion. I am one who adheres to the theology that this meal is more than mere symbolism. The Eucharist is sacred and filled with the grace of Christ. Since I can remember I've never not cried during communion. There is something distinctly tender about witnessing broken people coming to the table to receive the redeeming love of Christ through the Eucharist. I like to watch the old couples walk up together hand in hand. The dad bending over to help his young son take the broken bread is one of the most breathtaking sights to behold. And the teenagers filled with contagious vitality for life drinking of the cup, produce within a desire to embrace and encourage them to continue the journey of following after the love of Christ, no matter the cost. Tonight was yet another opportunity to consider the joy found in the meal of Thanksgiving and reflect on the body of Christ that was - just as the elements - first blessed, then broken, then given for all to receive.

As I sit here now, yearning to live the Maundy Thursday service all over again, I try to cling to the last fleeting minutes of this day. 50 more to go before we are ushered into Good Friday and I am filled with reverence as I replay the words of tonight's hymns and bow in humility in experiencing once again the story of what this day represents....

good news for the day

my heart still remains in mourning over the loss of nathan.... but today's sports headline certainly lifts me out - it's going to be a fantastic season, i can smell it!

Photo Essay

Schooled by the Liturgical Year

I thought I had a relatively clear understanding to the markings of the liturgical calendar, but that notion was demolished when I asked my dear sisters at St. Ben's to share with me the journey they follow each month

throughout the year. The converstaion began with my ignorant lips; "So you follow Advend, Lent..." and before I could get any further Sister Rita interrupted to fill in the blanks I had already missed. Thank goodness too, because after those two liturgical whoppers I'm not quite sure what comes next.

Sister Rita began the long stream of explanation while Sister Cecelia stepped towards the bookshelf to find something that could offer a visual picture to my pool of curiosities. Sister Rita informed me that in between the well known liturgical seasons there lies a fountain of other important dates. This is when Sister Cecelia opened up her choice book and shed light into the dark corners of misunderstanding. Before my eyes was a scroll of celebrations and Sunday's, ordinary times and feasts; which apparently can replace a Sunday. Each day, each Sunday is something worthy of intentional focus. I choked with amazement towards their disciplines.

What is it like to follow so intimately the journey's of Jesus through these seasons? Every week is embraced through prearranged and deliberate illuminations of scripture. It seems as though everything is carefully considered and lived out with a penetrating reverence. While Rita and Cecelia exposed the emotions and process of thought that run from their heart out their lips of praise, I ached with desire to walk out my days in a similar fashion to these faithful sisters. Truly there is something sacred embedded in a life that is structured according to the liturgical calendar and I have hardly broken the surface. In a few moments I will make my way from the Monastery to the Abbey at St. John's and I wonder how, if at all, the mobility of the Monks differs from that of the Sisters.

the not-so-vanilla spiritual director

There is a protruding facet of reason that poses the question, “What am I thinking?" Those who generally take on monastic practices; namely fasting, silence, solitude, prayer all seem to carry a common personality, and the colors of my dna makeup are without that thread. It’s like this; I went to visit a place outside Minneapolis that trains up Spiritual Directors. The purpose of my visit was to discern whether or not it could be the location to my life after undergrad. In no time at all I realized that it is not for me - and I became certain of that by a wave of nausea that nearly knocked me off my feet the moment I walked in the door. The center was lovely and the faithful employees were stunning. Truly it was a community of passionate followers of Christ who are eager to tap into the movement of the Holy Spirit. I have nothing of negativity to say about the place.

But my restlessness is born from a place similar to Pluto. Pluto has always been, in my opinion, the strange planet. Mars is like pop music, if Casey Kasem were to live on a planet it would be Mars; everyone knows the mainstream tune that flows off its craters. Does Mars even have craters? Then there is Venus. Venus is like the sexy planet. Only people like Heidi Klum or Jennifer Aniston can exist on Venus. Then there is Jupiter. This is the planet where all the ridiculously smart scientists hang out and talk about everything sciencey. The mere thought of it makes my brain hurt. I don’t even know what other planets float around in our solar system (thus I do not belong on Jupiter) but there still remains Pluto. I am convinced this would be the place for the people other people consider “different”. Artists, winos, poets, romantics, simplistics and loners – unite together under the Plutonic (not Platonic) zip code with our bare feet and tattoos and pass the doobie of eccentricities.

The place of Spiritual Formation that I had visited was for the beautiful souls that keep cuss words out of their vocabulary. It had a certain feeling to it, like the feeling you get when you walk into a super churchy person’s house with your clothes reeking of last night’s stogie and lips stained with alcohol from the microphone at Jack’s karaoke bar. I’m a karaoke junkie and I like to smoke cheap stogies, but I am intoxicated by the love of Christ more frequently than by a bottle of 3 buck Chuck. And so the question arises again; “What am I thinking? I’m not the usual softly fashioned, daintily formed Spiritual Director. I will not have Thomas Kinkade decorating my future office, nor will I have ruffly curtains and doilies. I will not use a mouse church voice that cowers when released. What I will have is who I am. My office will probably have gnarly photography with some raw honest Rembrandt, it will more than likely smell of sandalwood and lilac, and I will not (this is my promise to you) back down from saying, “I have no freaking clue what the Spirit’s doing, but dude let’s kick back and listen together.”

Silenced breakfast

I return once again to St. Benedict's Monastery. It has been eight weeks since my last visit and there is a fresh yet sober atmosphere welcoming my arrival. I say fresh because spring is just around the corner. The birds that decorate the grounds of the monastery are wild with song and vigor. Their music spreads through the campus and contribute sweet melodies to the strong, deep tolls of the chapel bells. The sober facet is tightly tethered to the Lenten season Throughout the liturgical year meal times are alive with conversation, during the Lenten season however meals are taken in silence. This is to encourage the sisters to pause from the chattering norm and instead reflect upon the journey to the Cross.

It was a bizarre experience I have to admit, sharing a meal in silence. I grew up in a family of 6 and the dinner table was not just a place to set your plate; but a stage to unleash your imagination. The walls would shake before our laughter and the engery soared when mom would pass the jar of her ridicoulously amazing chocolate chip cookies. It is no wonder why eating in silence this morning was uncomfortably unnatural.

This intentional silence is a gorgeous thing however. I continue to return to the monastery (and tomorrow I will be spending the day at St. John's Abbey) because I firmly believe that the rhythms by which the Monastics adhere to have significant wisdom and rich blessings to offer the Protestant community. My desire is to release myself from the piles of religious conditionings that confine the mystery of the Holy Spirit and in turn receive the gift of monastic cadance.

Overshadowing Cheap Grace

When I share with people the deep fondness I carry towards the Lenten season, it never fails that I am met with awkwardly curious expressions. Perplexed eyebrows are raised leading to a stream of rushing inquisitions. "Are you Catholic?" Nope. "Are you Lutheran?" Nope, not Lutheran either. "Why then do you like Lent so much?" Ah, sweet honey to my lips is such a question.

I suppose it may be rather odd that I choose to adhere the liturgical calendar when my church community does not. But we all have our peculiarities and this one of mine is an unexplainable love for a shredded veil. So what is it exactly? What sets these 40 days apart from the other 325? Simple, an invitation. The Lenten season is for us, a sweetly tender opportunity to examine our hearts. It is a beckoning to walk with Christ during his last 40 days on earth and to not just remember - but cry out in mercy and crumble in gratitude, humility, and reverence before the passion expressed on Calvary's tree.

It is easy for Christians (perhaps singling out American middle/upper class Christians???) to trample around in the over sized clowns shoes of cheap grace and promenade ourselves in the false bouffant assumption that the grace of God liberates us to live according to our desires. Whatever tastes good, smells good and feels good ought to be ours. And if it is a questionable desire don't worry about it; God's grace is sufficient enough so go ahead and indulge. Day in and day out we whore around like addicts of worldly pleasures without regard to the gnashing repercussions, because when we sit in our comfortable lazy-boy pews on Sunday mornings we are spoon fed cheap grace. Grace does not permit prostituted actions.

With each day of Lent I fall deeper into love with the penitential psalms. I think Psalm 51 might be my favorite of the 7. This poetic cry of David's is a vibrant expression of confession and repentance that is painted from a healthy understanding of his transgressions. What is so lovely about the psalmist is that he mourned over his sin. When do we ever take the time to cry over the chasm of sin we have dug? And really, should not crying out for mercy be our immediate reaction towards sin. Like gasping for air when the wind is knocked out of us, so too our plea for mercy when standing face to face with iniquity. I despise the way my sin separates me from the redeemer and so I cry. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.

What's the Point?

What's the point? Is anything that we do truly purposeful? Recently I've been walking around in the discomfort of vomiting cultural norms while panting for the ways of Jesus. I attend Bethel University. If it were not for grants and financial aid I would be dropping $30,000 a year to be learn about theology. Although I am intoxicated over the fact that I get to unfold what it means to trust Christ by way of paved paths from the brilliant minds of generations past; Calvin, Schleiermacher, Luther, Baur...I cannot help but counter such a blessing with deeper ponderings.

Why are we studying about the issues of injustice while comfortably confined to our upper-middle class cookie-cutter institution? Why am I wrestling with doctrines and the infallibility of scripture rather than putting legs to the words of God? Why is the main goal among Christians to find a good Christian partner, buy a fancy diamond ring, finance a fancier house and produce 2.4 perfect Christian babies? The Christian dream is the American dream. At the end of the day I truly believe that God is not going to ask me, "Brianna - what are the 5 points of Calvin?" How does my ability (or inability) to articulate TULIP feed the stomachs of the poor or wrap loving arms around the hurting?

I think often of my friends at El Refugio and in doing so I ache to return to them. El Refugio is, you guessed it, a refuge for the homeless elderly of Tijuana Mexico. During my time in

California I would frequently spend long days visiting the beautiful souls at El Refugio. We would cook breakfast together, laugh, try to communicate through our language barrier, and enjoy each other's presence. It was a community that had no choice but to rely on God.

I've witnessed miracles at El Refugio truly.

Rather than multiplying fish, God faithfully multiplied eggs, ham, bread, and oranges. No one ever went unfed and this

unexplainable truth can only be attributed to the blessing of Christ. My friends at this sacred place never asked questions of theology and I never felt the need to impress them with a lengthy string of paper doll vocabulary.

Afternoons were spent taking silly photographs (photography is the avenue God made for communication - it was lovely), playing hide and seek in the hanging laundry, dancing, and soaking in the warm Tijuana sunshine. This was all we needed and we were fully satisfied.

I hope I am not portraying cynicism. Because that is not my aim nor is it how I feel. It's just that I carry a lot of questions about complacent conditioning's and sometimes they keep me awake at night. How do our conditioning's meet the greatest commandments? What am I doing, right now to obey the command to love? I'm fairly certain blogging to an abysmal void ceases to fill the empty arms of the marginal dwellers. How can I live in the affluence of the states and simultaneously run the legs I hope to put on scripture?

Soiled diapers

Unconfessed sin is like a poopy diaper. Really, it is. A diaper is worn underneath a layer of clothing (generally speaking of course, unless your like my nieces and nephews who wildly prefer running around without any pants) you cannot see the diaper, it is hidden. When worn appropriately the diaper exists rather unobtrusively. But dude, once that giant cotton ball is polluted the poor kid wearing the soiled mess is miserable and everyone within a 50 mile radius is painfully effected by the sulfuric toxins. Similarily this is exactly how sin operates. We can keep it covered by a layer of decorative cleanlines but we can feel its slimy presence and, guess what? Everyone around you has to bear the detrament of your debris. Take heart dirty one! If you are brave enough to cry out and acknowledge you sinful diaper, the cleansing sweetness of wet wipes will come to your rescue. I digress...

The greatest reality of sin that we so often fail to understand is that our sinful nature affects others. I believe that is one of Satan's greatest successes. Along with his ruthless army he has deceived our minds in such a way that we think our sin is just that - ours. Paul refutes this horrific misconception in his letter to the church of Corinth.

"Don't you know that a little yeast works through the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old yeast that you may be a new batch withouth yeast-as you really are." - 1 Cor. 5:6-7

This admonition is evidence to the truth that we are not created to live individualistically. Although, is this not the very way of our generation? It is of little wonder why we walk around blindly deceived that we are our own and whatever choices we make or do not make fails to impress upon the lives of others. Oh friends how I pray that the scales fall from your eyes so that you may see your communal existence!

So what are we to do with our heavy diapers? Keeping in rhythm with the Lenten season may I draw your attention to the second penitential psalm? Check out the poetic words of Psalm 32 (I have referred to this psalm many times in previous posts, I'm partial to its beauty).

"When I kept silent my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer. Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, "I will confess my transgressions to the LORD..."

We acknowledge our sin, we tell those around us, "I know you smell me and I am so sorry for that. I reak of lust, greed, gossip, lying, pornography, false identites, worry, fear... I am a broken mess in need of grace." And in our courageous confession we can be confident of the forgiveness promised to us.

"... And you FORGAVE the guilt of my sin."

Lenten Breath Prayer

Garden State is one of my all time favorite films. I have watched it countless times and every time I plug it in I receive something new. Andrew Largeman is the main character and he delivers an epic performance; offering scenes that every viewer is able to resonate with. The movie opens with a dream where Largeman is sitting apathetically on a crashing plane. Everyone around him is frantic, crying and screaming, and clinging for salvation. All the while Largeman remains detached from the chaos. This scene poses the question; "How often do we play the role of the crazed passengers - sick with worry and driven by the fear of our surrounding circumstances? How long have we been walking around like detached zombies consumed with apathy?"

During the Lenten season I am practicing different prayer postures everyday. The first week of the season draws to a close today, ushering in the freshness of a new one and already I can see a theme weaving in and around my prayers. A tiny golden thread of rest is slowly going around my fragmented thoughts and quietly wrapping them in an aglet of trust. And this is the severe mercy of Christ, for you see, I am a woman with way too many interests. My role is more often the unraveled voyager opposed to the detached apathetic. Rarely do I pay attention to the destination, rather I intoxicate myself with the honey of possibilities embedded in each new day. What inevitably ends up happening in my drunken stooper of newness is that I quickly lose sight of my original focus and, like a wandering child distracted by a bouquet of colorful balloons, I begin running after the vibrant array of floating balloons; forgetting completely what I was initially pursuing. "Tra-la-la... Ooo pretty!" is my life motto. Very truly I need that aglet to bind me to the one thing that keeps my soul attuned.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - thing about such things." - Phillipians 4:8

I think that both Christ and Paul knew of our great need to practice the search for the sound of silence. Paul tells us to "Pray without ceasing." Take a look throughout his letters, you will see time and time again the command for us to pray, to give thanks, to intercede, to meditate on whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely and admirable. Do we take the time to do this? Jesus was found escaping the crowds to enter into a quiet place and be with his Father. He commands us to pray where the only person that can see and hear us is our Father in Heaven.

To be a Christian is to be Christ-like, to be a disciple is to follow in the same rhythms as our Rabbi. Why is it that we walk this reflected way only when it promises the spotlight? We love the large crowds, the excitement of dangerous missions, flapping our tongues on street corners and shredding the 6 string on stage. But what about the thing that does not promise large crowds? What about that which does not stamp our passport of missionary journeys? What about the position of listening? How come we can replicate the ways in which our Rabbi teaches on a mountain but we fail miserable to draw away to a quiet place?

It is of little wonder why we are frazzled and detached. So how then, do we turn and take the first step towards silence? Beautiful question. I think one of the best places to begin is with a prayer called "Breath Prayer". It can be hard, as addicts of speed and noise, to start with carving out 15 minutes of silence; that is why I think breath prayer is the greatest starting block. It is an intentionality you can take with you wherever you are and wherever you are going. Furthermore it is a way for us to live out Paul's encouragement for us to "Pray without ceasing". Bet you never thought it was possible to accomplish huh? Well, it is! Prayer, in its purest essence, is a position of heart.

Breath Prayer is an exercise that exists organically. When we breathe, we do not think about the art of the process, we do it naturally without thought. Inhale.... Exhale... Inhale... Exhale... It occurs on its own, we do not have to will ourselves to do it. Breath Prayer follows the naturality of our breaths and couples it with intentional truths. One of the greatest prayers to incorporate into the patterns breathing is the Jesus Prayer;

"Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me, a sinner."

Inhale and think on the words; "Jesus, son of David... "

Exhale the last part of the prayer; "Have mercy on me a sinner."

Another prayer of truth aids in the security of our identity.

Inhale - "Abba".

Exhale - "I belong to you".

Abba.... I belong to you.... whether you are a frantic, disheveled wanderer or a numb careless clinging to the identity of your belovedness will reignite and steady your soul. This is the journey of Lent. A voyage towards perfect unity with our Savior and it is only through the practice of prayer that our cold hearts can be melted by the voice of Love.

Lenten blurbs

Today marks the beginning of a 40 day journey to the cross. Ash Wednesday is personally one of my very favorite days of the Liturgical calendar, for it ignites the season of Lent that I am utterly enthralled by. I cannot articulate why exactly, the Lenten season carries with it a tenderly powerful force that melts my soul; but since I began walking with Jesus it has never failed to touch the deepest parts of my heart in a way that no other season can do. Perhaps it is the rawness of the 40 days that disarms me, perhaps it is the opportunity provided to think with deep intention of my great need for a Savior amidst the dripping crimson, or maybe it is the fact that as I enter the throne room of grace with a heart of repentance and contrition, the pathway for the Holy Spirit is made straight and I therefore become the unworthy receiver's of His insurmountable mercy. Yes, it is each of these things that draw forth an abyss of unfathomable delight as I meditate upon the redeeming journey to the Cross.

Every year I take great joy in highlighting a different posture of worship to guide the season. As I've matured in my faith, so too have my postions of praise - but every year I fast from sweets. This is the big cahouna for I have a ridiculous sweet tooth that, when unleashed, knows no boundaries. This year I will embrace in daily prayer practices; be it Lectio Divina, Confession, Centering Prayer, Meditation, Intecession or Liturgy of the hours. I am expectant and hopeful to meet with Christ through these ancient practices designed by our origianal desert fathers and mothers.

Additionally I will write brief insights about these practices that aimed to open our hearts and minds to the movement of the Holy Spirit and include highlighted posts centered around the 7 Penitential Psalms of the Lenten Season. It is my prayer that this season marks your life with a transformative recognition to the weight of the Cross bore for our sins. May God bless your journey and by his severe mercy draw you closer to his side.

Another curiosity...

Why not add to the inquisitions of my previous post, goodness knows there are so many more...

Here it is: Was Paul filled with a "different" Spirit than the Spirit we are filled with today? (I use the term "different" very loosely...)

"God did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick, and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them." - Acts 19:11-12

Later on in scripture I read that Paul commanded healing in a broken individual. Why do we not command such things? Rather we are more apt to pray that God would release a person from spiritual possession. Why is it that Paul commanded - unapologetically and confidently, and we cower away consumed by doubt?