Undone – a prayer, part 2

On May 11, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, life together, poetry, sacramental living, spiritual formation, worshipLeave a comment

Great One, retire my insistence upon

remembrances of ways and times and talk

that match not God-viewed reality.

Darken my bright skies if only

to ensconce my darkness,

shattering all illusions of self-projected greatness.

Pry open the coffins of dreams long forgotten,

commitments never kept, promises never made,

if only to unleash the surprise of grace.

Scatter my nice collections of mantelpiece spiritual kitsch

and replace them with broken glass, bits of string, yesterday’s ashes

if only to remind me of my own frailty.

Tear the gilded pages from my life’s journal

and use them like fish-wrap to enfold

someone else’s yet to be written story.

Plant new gardens of life

from places of my own death.

Spur on to greatness the little ones

from my own obscure forgottenness.

Prop up their ailing mistresses of peace and hope

with the severed arms of my own distress.

Renew in light the victimized, en-shadowed and de-spoiled

with my own pursuits fit only for stolen kingships.

My big prayer experiment

On April 19, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, sacramental living, spiritual formation4 Comments

It is a strange thing indeed that God bids us ask, seek and knock when, with little room for doubt, we stand squarely at the center of the very hurricanes from which we then seek God’s rescue. It can be stated unequivocally that I will ask for things from selfish motivation, seek for answers to my own pet projects built on projections of someone I mistakenly believe to be the biblical God and then knock on doors I only think will lead to an enhanced sense of well-being and happiness which, in and of itself, grows out of my own ego and is misguided to begin with.

And yet, God bids us come. Why? What is there to be gained through misplaced asking, misguided seeking and misdirected knocking? Is prayer somehow a test of our faithfulness? Our orthodoxy? Does God simply use all of this to plumb our propensity toward righteousness? Unrighteousness? Test our mettle? Prove our character? Uncover poor mental health? Check for bowel obstructions?

I share here the three greatest gifts to my prayer life. Ever. One: contemplative prayer or, as I like to call it, prayer without agenda. It is a practice of which I cannot seem to get enough and about which I long to learn more. I have delighted in becoming a novice of this ancient art and try to practice it numerous times a day. The second gift to my prayer life: bring the roses along with the shit, neither of which impress nor vex God in any way. So, if like the Psalmist, I can come to God on my worst day, in my worst mood, smelling of my worst sin, for the worst reasons and God still stubbornly delights in my presence…well then, I say, “let’s go!” Since God is well aware of the even deeper levels of dark felch in which I so momentously swim why not come anyway and see what happens? Right? Or, am I just ridiculously stupid? (to answer is your prerogative but, know this, you run the risk of me praying for you. And you don’t want that). Finally, intercede. Praying for others has a strange way of drawing on a deeper joy, yielding better interior fruit and somehow diminishing my inflated sense of self-need. I’m not especially good at it, but the practice is half the fun.

I do bemoan something however. For five years we lived in a small, tourist, college town in Oregon. It was located in the middle of some of the most richly verdant, mystical territory I’ve yet seen. It was also less than a half hour drive from not one but three monasteries. The one of my choice where I spent countless hours giving God the finger, then apologizing, then wiping my tears, then repeating the process was a Trappist Abbey a mere forty-five minute bike ride from our house. There it was that God flayed the dead skin from my ailing soul on more occasions than I can count. There I sought God’s counsel on major life decisions. There I spent three days crying and screaming through uncountable tears and unspeakable pain when, for a time, my wife and I separated. There I would pray and laugh with the brothers who knew more dirty jokes and more great Merton quotes than I’ll ever know in a lifetime. By the way, never let anyone feed you a false bill of goods on monks. They’re bad-ass dudes with bad habits (pun intended), worse breath and still worse sense of comic timing. But honesty? Depth? Love? Oh yes.

Geography or setting does not determine good or bad prayer. It can help however. This post signifies the beginning of a search, a sort of prayer experiment if you will, in seeking out a new sacred spot where God and I can swear at each other through loving and mutual tears. Without further verbose delay, I give you my journal entry from day 1 of this search:

“Egad, my soul is desperately thirsty. I need to pray fervently for a space to pray fervently. At times like this I wish I was a 20 minute drive from the Trappist Abbey where I could go and work out my salvation submerged in beauty and the green, deep stillness. Lord, how I miss that place. How I miss the spirit of learning, the ethos of readiness, of dark corner catacombs out of which came light and goodness, bright, and the silent choir of active contemplation.

Lord, show me a place to tie the ends that beg to be braided in multiple strands joined in singular purpose.

Lift the fog enough to see the edges of solidity, and fray the ends of cords I only think I need to tie my world together.

Unleash into my presumptive skies the birds of purgation carrying with them twigs and branches for the task.

Let me author the story of my own demise if through my disappearance you fill someone else’s stifling horizon.

Swell in the hopeless heart a future of light through my abiding darkness.

Write someone else’s story complete with satin ending on gilded pages torn from the tattered pages of my tired, half-written tale.

Finish others by my incompletion.

Airbrush another life with the melted crayons of my own.

Sing another’s song with notes plucked from my own unfinished symphony.

Why not join me in prayer? We’ll pray for each other and see what epic tales emerge…

Check out the Trappist Abbey here.

Prayer picture: www.julieamarxhausen.wordpress.com

Easter Freedom Through Lenten Doubt

On March 31, 2013March 26, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, worshipLeave a comment

A website on which I am blessed to share blogs is ConversationsJournal. The following was a post I shared in February at the beginning of Lent. Today, as Easter puts an end to Lent and begins a time of resurrection celebration hinting at ascension, I wish to share it here. I trust it has been a blessed journey for you and your loved ones. Let’s continue that journey together in the mutual love of the Blessed Kingdom.

Easter Freedom Through Lenten Doubt

Peace, R

Picture is of “The Resurrection” by Carl Heinrich Bloch and can be found here

A poetic walk through the Passion

On March 29, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faithLeave a comment

Friends, if you have not taken opportunity to visit my other blog: http://www.robslitbits.com, I humbly invite you to do so as I post a poem a day through Triduum (Three Days) and Easter. Let’s take this journey together and see where it leads.

Grace and Peace, R

http://robslitbits.com/

Park bench Jesus

On January 11, 2013January 12, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation7 Comments

A while back I posted a piece entitled Laundry Day Jesus. It was a tip of the hat to a favorite doctrine of the Incarnation. This is a second attempt at the same…

Just having an empty page and pen in hand does not guarantee a lucid exchange of journal-thoughts, accurate reminiscences or profound epiphanies. What it does freely give is some open, lined space in which to articulate, albeit poorly, the state of my guts.

I cannot say from whence come the complex, oft competing impulses that so shoddily guide me through my days. The cracked, grey skies of the winter months hide well the last gasp of spring, but generally offer a steel-blue repose for artsy contemplatives like me. Conversely, the giggly swagger of summer lays out the easy welcome mat of joy and frivolity for most. I, on the other hand, struggle with an uneasiness that taunts me into believing I should feel and behave similarly.

I am often depressed in summer. The rather mystifying collage of incoherency that is my life refuses to pay attention to the obvious. With people laughing, dogs barking, frisbees flying, lovers kissing, one would think these the prelude to perfect afternoons. But my stubbornly individualistic mystic-whimsy makes unreasonable demands of me. It says pretentious things like “this is all too obvious; there is no sense of the obliqueness and nuance of the later seasons to satisfy this needy soul.” With such utterly ridiculous, almost morose sensibilities, is it any wonder that I so easily lose my way in other things?

Relationships baffle me. They frighten me while simultaneously providing hope. For too many years my relationships have been more responses to the gaping holes in my psyche than the proactive contributions of reciprocity. It makes me wonder how many times those I call friends were quite happy to see my ass on the way out the door. It also makes me wonder what others’ perceptions are of me. Further, it forces hard questions – questions that ask the deeper concerns of motivations, neglect, apathy, loneliness, desperation…even subtle hostility.

Do I leave friendships better than I found them? Do I take away more hope than I bring? Do I engender trust and ease or the tension of interpersonal unknowns? Would I be the hurting person’s first line of defense? If I make people laugh is it to bring them joy or me recognition?

At the risk of crudely undertaken and ill-advised self analysis, I poke my nose into this new calendar year. Knowing what I know (or think I know) of myself, I would not be easily given to hope. What I cling to instead is this crazy idea that, in Christ, God has sought us out; sought me out. Jesus is God’s jacketed dream for the confused and confusing, whimsical and uncritically romantic person like me.

Therefore, when I otherwise might be inclined toward a pewter-grey hopelessness, I need only notice the hooded Savior seated on the park bench of my soul. From there he feeds my questioning birds with the manna of presence he keeps hidden in his coat pocket. It doesn’t always satisfy right away. But it keeps me hanging around for more.

And he doesn’t seem intent on leaving anytime soon.

Picture at www.foodfashionandflow.blogspot.com

The show must go on

On January 1, 2013January 5, 2013 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, the arts8 Comments

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy theatre owner who said, rather inauspiciously, “well, the show must go on.” The actors had learned their lines. The sets were complete, dazzling in their allure and exactitude. The news was spread far and wide of the coming of this great spectacle. All was ready. But, if this was so, why the hint of shrugged shoulder skepticism in this phrase?

Anyone who has ever had the delight and electricity of live performance knows the unspoken pressures of day-to-day rehearsals against a backdrop of innumerable unseen dangers. What if the lead takes ill? What if her understudy also takes ill? What if the set designers or lighting coordinators or musicians’ union decides to picket the whole affair? What if the venue goes into receivership three days before opening curtain? What if? What if? What if…?

But then the lights dim. There is a moment of silence. The air is palpably more solid and we struggle to breathe, awaiting…something. Then, the orchestra swells with timpani crescendo as the first characters stride onto the stage. The thing we had been waiting so long to see unfolds before us in an explosion of color and swirl and dashing costumes. If only for an hour or two, we become pirates, animals of the forest or gods of mythology. For us, it is worth the wait just for these spine-tingling moments when our simple, cardboard lives are invited into a larger than life story.

As an enthralled audience, we often have little idea of the many strange and stressful tornadoes that beset the stories that move us. All we know is that we love what we see. We tell our friends. We are all a-twitter (yup, pun intended) about our experience that becomes ever greater in the telling thereof.

We are often spectators of our own lives. We give ourselves stage cues and arrange the sets for maximum impact. We choose our characters and assign actors carefully lest we become less than believable. We resign ourselves to a show-must-go-on attitude and then, against all odds, burst onto the stage where others get caught up in our orbit.

But we’re left empty somehow. Our post-performance lull in the backstage dressing room can boast nothing more than a tired, sweaty, makeup mess on a face we do not know. We’ve acted well. We know our lines. We’ve become one with our character. But the character has become symbiotic with what lies beneath it. The mirror shoves back a stranger in our face.

What kind of story have we constructed for our own audiences? Who have we hired to perform the most admirable parts of our stage-play characters? From where do we glean our deepest inspiration to shape our personas? A story is an ongoing pleasure, one meant to reveal ever-deeper treasures of delight, surprise, awe or fear with every turning page. But unless we have a commitment to unmask and expand our story beyond the stage and, with courage, risk the critics’ page, we never make it out of our dressing rooms.

A new year has dawned. The curtain has opened once more upon a new stage with different lights, an updated script, actors both old and new and an audience that awaits us. We alone are aware of the maelstroms that have brought us to this place. We are the ones who now stand before our audience and decide whether or not to remove our makeup, leave our script behind and let the lights show us for who we really are. Said that greatest of all playwrights, Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts….”

But if we are willing participants in the Kingdom narrative, we’re given help with our lines, the cast has been selected to shape our character for maximum delight and impact, hope and excitement can replace dread of opening day and our only real audience already knows how great this performance will be. He has used us to write the script. We are in fact co-writers.

So, in spite of everything, let the show go on. Our audience of one will be cheering. The critics have little to say on this one.

Dates on a calendar do not determine our stories.

We do.

Stage pictures from www.zimbio.com

Christmas, a transforming chaos

On December 25, 2012December 25, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation8 Comments

A fire makes its heartening presence known, tucked under the hearth upon which hang individual stockings and an antique clock I inherited from my Dad. A delightfully chaotic looking tree, augmented with bobbles made by the growing dexterity of my boys’ fingers – the accumulated little-boy detritus of Christmas past – stands guard at another window gazing out on a trusted neighbor’s house. Snow falls without sound or pretense just past living room windows that shield us from the oblique, grey winter, and all I can think is this: if Christmas, I.e. the incarnation, God with us, means anything at all, it must mean more than the Thomas Kinkade painting I’ve just described. It must have the same insidious undercurrent, rife with danger, of the stable. It must reek of real life spread out over a table of ambiguity and hopelessness scrounging for scraps of hope. It must mean that God is longing to burst forth into our own souls, finding enough room to receive the gifts of our own inner Magi. It must be genuine, like the rough and tumble character of a once-upon-a-time, ramshackle stable.

It was messy and scary and uncertain, but the perfect crucible in which to illustrate all that is truly important: the broken, smelly manger of human hearts made ready to receive the only thing powerful enough to draw them out of pain and darkness, God himself. And, apparently, God loves children. Enough to become one.

Not a soldier.

Not a business man.

Not a political revolutionary.

A crying child laying somewhere so shocking that he would be handily removed from us by social services. Understand that this was God’s chosen means of getting our attention, then study the faces of your frail, trusting and needy children and read the story again.

Yeah, it’s like that.

O come, o come, Emmanuel…

Where earth meets sky – the beginning of the end of the beginning

On December 11, 2012February 3, 2022 By robertalanrifeIn Addiction & Sobriety, Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation10 Comments

It was quite possibly the longest, most awkward car ride either of them had ever endured. Pastor Kent drove him home from the conference and used it as an opportunity to voice, loudly and repeatedly, his overwhelming sense of disappointment, hurt, humiliation, betrayal and just plain mess. Now, his would be the role of fielding nosy calls, inquiring as to the dramatic change in the music minister or “something I just heard.” His would be the task of chairing those ever-so-delightful follow up meetings with the church board at which his plan for healing and reconciliation would be mapped out. His would be the unwelcome experience of eating crow in the face of board members who were among those who voted not to hire him in the first place.

His anger was ripe, raw and very real. But, his victim willingly succumbed to the verbal whipping since he had already experienced life-changing realities too big to ignore; too broad to dampen his spirit. First of all, he still had a job. In spite of everything, he was returning to a place to call his own where he could begin working out the kinks of his new found sobriety. In community. With a paycheque. Secondly, for the first time in decades he had (re)discovered that he was actually gifted in his calling and that emotional resources already placed there by God were available on demand, without the added measure of drowning his desperation in drunkenness.

Like a heavy coagulation of rancid oatmeal, one thought remained in his psyche, however. He already knew to what he was returning. He was much less certain to whom. Would his wife and boys still be there? Had they chosen to jump ship, cut their losses and move back to Canada? Would he ever have opportunity to tell them of his first triumphant, alcohol free weekend? If so, would it make any difference this late in the game?

Though it was true that his situation hosted a complex set of factors that had contributed to his behavior over the years, insofar as the family was concerned, some key choices needed to be made. His lover had been the bottle, not her. His children had pop-tops and came in packs of six. His home was delirium and euphoria, not the cozy Oregon rancher that housed them all.

Her weekend journey had been anything but smooth or simple. There had been some resolution however to the gnawing questions she still harbored about their present situation. Although their lives outwardly were shrapnel, in order to have at least some peace of mind, she took Judy’s advice and drew up a family contract for him to read and sign when he got home. The gist of it was simple. He could stay with the simple proviso that he must sign the contract stating his intention to change lovers. If he decided that alcohol would not be his mistress and willingly pursued every lifeline already tossed to him by family, colleagues and friends, then there was still a place for him. If not, then not. He would lose everything, including custody of their boys.

To the uninitiated it might sound harsh. To the ears of a broken man whose feet still had the smell of prodigal pig shit on them, it was a symphony of grace beyond all reckoning. That day was Sunday, October 20^th, 2002. It was the beginning of the end of the beginning. There are no old beginnings. Only new ones.

Today, slightly more than twenty years later, that man sits in sobriety before his laptop sharing a tale that never gets easier with the telling. He has never had a drop of alcohol since that hideous week, the week he almost lost everything. Instead, he gained the whole world.

And the world tastes good…

Hi, I’m Rob and I’m an alcoholic.

Surprised by Healing

On November 30, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formationLeave a comment

From time to time I am given the honor of guest blogger. This month I shared a piece with Conversations Journal on the crucial topic of healing and wholeness. It looks back to my accident of two and a half years ago with fresh eyes. I hope it is meaningful, especially to other skeptics.

http://conversationsjournal.com/2012/11/surprised-by-healing/