God at the margins

I confess, I always put off going because I know it's not a quick drop off or visit. But Wednesday morning for some reason, Spirit let me know to go.

Ostensibly, I was dropping off donated clothes (thanks to a wonderful and thoughtful friend), but needed to speak to Jasmine. Her partner answered the door, grateful for the sporty clothing with tangling tags. "What would we do without you, Miss Cathy?" he said. "Hey, they're not from me; I'm just delivering them."

"Jasmine's awake if you want to see her." I did. He hustled off to get her an iced mocha from McDonald's, her favorite

Curled in her bed, as I often find her, her spirit brightened and lightened the more we talked. Her eyes beamed, her skin glistened, her hair shone and her once-limp arms wildly gestured. This is Jasmine's refuge I have come to learn. At the foot of her bed, at one point, I felt shivers up and down my body, signaling sacred Truth in what she was telling me.

On the surface she looks the farthest place from sacred you could imagine: a mother of five who's battled leukemia since she was 8, had plates installed in her head, was violently attacked at 15, never worked and lives on minimal assistance. She's easy to write off.

Probably the reason I didn't was because I met her kids first. The oldest is a sweetheart, gentle, well-mannered and a straight-A student. Next in line is a dashing, also smart, clone of his father packaged with some learning issues. Third down is a charmer. Next, the only girl, rightly a bit spoiled, and, lastly, the most sensitive, according to Jasmine. Beautiful, intelligent kids whom their mother loves fiercely. Their dad works hard as chief caregiver and acknowledged he has no familial role models, which caused him to leave home at 15.

The first time I met Jasmine was because her oldest was enrolled in Artsy Fartsy Saturdays, the non-profit arts exploration for at-risk local kids I founded in my neighborhood. I was getting something signed and we had our first long talk. I saw that same streak that gave me a shiver this week. As if God were speaking directly through her. She was saying her kids really needed a computer. It took me a year, but with substantial help from my faith community and neighbors, we got them one and all of the accouterments.

She reminds me of where wise theologian and writer Henri Nouwen says he found God: at the margins.

Jasmine is grieving at the death of two sisters to cancer this summer. She reached over and grabbed the lockbox she keeps by her bed, opened it with her extraordinary lanyard of multiple keys and handed me the two obituaries. "I really wanted you to be there. I sent my kids down a few times, but they couldn't get anyone to answer." How could I tell her we were enjoying Europe for two weeks?

I would have gone in a heartbeat had I been home. Feeling as if I missed an important opportunity with her, I managed to deliver news of the real reason I'd stopped by: that a plethora of generous Facebook friends was sending checks to cover another year of Internet.

"I tell you, you really are my angel," she responded. How could I be her angel, I thought, I wasn't even here when her sisters died.

"My grandma knows that you are," she confessed, then told me how psychic her almost 100-year old grandmother is. "I have those abilities, too," she said. "I am very open to things." That's when I got the chills because I recognized it as fact.

"You're not open to everything are you?" I asked. "Oh no, not to evil or dark things. Though I have sure felt some of that in this house."

"Have you ever done a blessing or cleansing?" I wondered. "Yes with oils my grandmother recommended." Clearly this women knows what she is doing.

Many people don't agree. She takes countless drugs for her illnesses, with is primarily why she keeps a locked box. "Don't want my kids getting into them," she says in a very motherly tone.

Many would discount her statement that one of her sister hasn't crossed over yet because she's guarding the very-premature granddaughter born just after her visitation, which sent the mother into very early labor. Somehow I know that she knows.

She rolls up her pants leg and exposes the neat line of a long cut on her shin. "Got another when I fell in the bathtub," Jasmine confesses. "Maybe you should't take that walk I recommended earlier for clearing your head." We both laugh. I wonder aloud if some of her meds cause muscle weakness. "No, I was just born a klutz," she says.

I am profoundly grateful that this visit she doesn't tell me how ignorant she is. Instead and, much to my delight, she delves back into her metal sanctum and produces a paper with her psychiatrist's signature. "He thinks I am ready to take care of my own financial affairs."

Throughout our hour visit, I run through all of the things that I can't do for her. It overwhelms me, an inkling of how she must feel. Then I recognize I am doing exactly as Spirit wishes. Listening to Jasmine and Spirit.

• Where have I found God in the margins?

• What have these experiences been like?

• What persons struggling inspire me?

• How am I inspired to action?

• How do I obey Spirit?

tucked into fetal

position

I was afraid

of disturbing her

truthful, more so that

she would disturb me

with her illnesses,

struggles and BIG

problems that

overwhelm me

I can't possibly

fix them all

then I get a

flash

that's not my

job

why do I

feel I have to

play God?

all God asks

is that I listen

when I do,

I see a very bright

spirit uncurl from

her bed and she

teaches me

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Gathering the pieces

Yesterday, we took our teen daughters to the county clerk of courts to begin the process of applying for their passports; we're traveling as a family this summer. I was caught off guard when the clerk asked us all to raise our hands and swear the photos we were handing over were actually our daughters.

Quakers don't take oaths or swear, I wanted to announce.

But there wasn't time and I'd already been admonished by my husband to behave and get this over quickly. He knew the clerk piqued my ire when she questioned the paper the photos were printed on and, with a scowl, asked if we'd taken our own. "I thought so," dripped out of the side of her mouth. She had no clue what a wonderful photographer had taken them AND paid full attention to all of the rules and regulations.

I merely raised my hand and said nothing, which seemed enough for her. Quakers believe in integrity and always telling the truth, so there's no need for an oath.

There are other things Quakers don't do and I missed growing up Methodist that I am just learning. Take the practice of Lent, for example. All I remember as a child were the candles (and I could be mixing up Lent and Advent; I can't recall any explanations), a new-color cloth on the cross and many sermons building up to Easter, when everyone dressed to the nines. The words seemed so ancient and removed from me and the dressing-up business, well, a giant mismatch to what I, even as a child, learned as the teaching of Jesus.

Because Quakers value every day as sacred, Easter is often not put on a pedestal, nor is it neglected. Ever since a Quaker mystics gathering last summer, I have been fixated on the cross and what it truly means to me and my life. I want to personalize its symbolism, not merely dismiss it as part of a rote story.

Interesting that Catholic priests and an Episcopal minister have gently nudged me in my exploration and search for truth. I regularly read Catholics Henri Nouwen and Richard Rohr's daily meditations. And Pastor Mary launched me on a New Year's retreat that has bled into Easter. She's the one who gave me the word "purification" as my mantra for this year, which seems like the ideal Lenten focus. Rohr brings the idea of the false self and being separated from God to life through Jesus' pre-Resurrection journey. And, Nouwen has helped me identify the mystical Jesus, or Christ energy as I call it, in myself. I feel as if I am on a similar journey of stripping away what is not of God with the exclusive purpose of becoming closer to union. There are also elements of absorbing the world's pain as Jesus soaked in universal sin and letting that action be transformational; surrendering to Spirit.

In an e-mail, I recently thanked Mary for her guidance and even my word. She responded that she was glad it was blessing me. Blessing me? I thought. I wrote backing saying, some days, it felt like work. Her wise response: "Yes, healing often feels like work, which is one of the very few reasons this kind of work can sometimes also be a blessing."

Not the answer I wanted to hear, but truthful, I understood.

Somewhere in all of this, I had a flash that instead of looking at my body separately (this health issue and that), I needed to consider it as a whole, much like the body of Christ.

But God has put the body together ...  so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it. [I Corinthians: 24-6]

I understand that metaphorically, so why not physically, in my own body. Unity in my body, wow, what a concept! No fighting or battling, competing or quarreling. Just peace. 

Could this be a path to healing?

• What did my childhood faith neglect to teach me?
• What truths did I retain?
• Where do I find truth these days?
• How do I view the concept of resurrection?
• How is it applicable in my own life?


the division
IS false

this or that,
it says

until it drives
you into
submission

breaks you
up, spits you
out, helps you
believe you
are nothing

sometimes
only then,
can you
surrender

the pieces
to be picked
up and made
whole

by Spirit

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Beyond the cross

Watching my feet clip at a fast pace toward my yoga class at the gym, I whisper my new prayer, the one that began my last post:

Dear Spirit, I lay my burdens at the feet of Christ and give the rest of myself unto You.

I find these morning walks meditative and prayerful; a great way to clear my head and heart before I stretch my stiff-from-sleep body. Being outside is spiritually conducive to prayer, for me.

I look up only to cross the street, when I notice the sky – rather the striking design of a multitude of vapor trails forming multiple crosses (interesting as I am "crossing" the street). Such an affirmation that this is the right prayer for me right now. I can hardly take my eyes off of the sky and it's clear message.

After a refreshing yoga class, I saunter by the local thrift store on my way home and something says "Go in." As if I need a prompt, I'm always on the lookout for a treasure. I quickly survey what I write off as a junky day and head toward the door when a lone book catches my attention. For 50 cents I purchased the Rev. Francis MacNutt's 1974 book simply titled "Healing."

I have not been able to put it down. I am riveted at his insistence that the New Testament is all about healing: Jesus' healings, the Apostles' healings and the idea that ordinary people can become tools of healing, when as he says "The extraordinary has become ordinary." He writes about wholeness and healing as God's way of being with us. But what reaches me most out of this almost-40-year-old tome is the wrong idea that illness is a cross to bear, "yet nowhere in the gospel do we see Christ encouraging the sick to live with their illness." He mentions how our feelings of unworthiness prevent us from praying for our own healing or that of others. "Healing is not on the periphery of Christianity; it is central," he writes.

MacNutt is edging me closer to understanding the resurrection and salvation message(s). These are not words I am very comfortable with, especially the latter. They are terms that I felt beat over the head with, words that became worse than rote and meaningless; they signaled a human judgment of me. I have never, ever experienced that in my Quaker faith community, which is one big reason I am there and have stayed 15 years. We so rarely use that language.

But I am ready to ... on my terms, from my personal experience and with God's guidance.

MacNutt suggests that Jesus's life and work were based on two objectives:
• "To give us a new life, a loving relationship of union with the Holy Father and with himself, through the Holy Spirit.
• "... to heal and free us from all those sick elements in the human personality that need to be transformed so that the new life may freely enter in."

He includes weakness of purpose, disoriented emotions and physical sickness. I understand these prevent me from becoming whole, my true self, the one God means for me to be. And, that what I also desire – deeply.

This – traveling toward wholeness, health and Divine union – is my path whatever you call it. One of last week's online Henri Nouwen meditations described it as the narrow door of Christ, which reminded me of a dialogue in a recent episode of Breaking Bad (yes, I have my dark habits, too) about the idiocy, according to one character, of Georgia O'Keefe repeatedly painting to same door. The other person suggested it was something she loved and she wanted to paint it perfectly.

Sunday as I sat in silent worship, I chose a spot in the sun's path and noticed shadows of the window panes clearly made a cross. And then I doodled and got to thinking about that space, where the two beams actually cross. Perhaps that is the narrow door of Christ. What's in that intersection? I asked myself.

What's at the crux? An invitation to go beyond the cross, into it and through it ... away from the symbol and idea of bearing a cross to freedom. The cross was man's constraint, meant for death. God uses it as a metaphor for new life. As I ponder these thoughts in worship, a young woman gets up to speak and mentions times we "cross the line." I wonder, have I? And hope that I have.

• What was I taught the cross meant?
• What does it symbolize for me now?
• What's at the crux of the cross for me at this point in my spiritual life?
• Who is Jesus to me?
• Do I agree that in healing the extraordinary can become ordinary?


avoiding it
for years

the idea of the
cross, the
bloody cross

used to instill
fear, and that
if I didn't
get saved, well
all bets and
protections
were off

now I see it
everywhere

in the sky,
on the carpet
out my studio
window

and I smile
because, now
I can claim
it as my own

personal
invitation
emanating
from pure love

to enter
and be
free

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