A disciple once came to Abba Joseph, saying, “Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, my little fast, and my little prayer. And according as I am able, I strive to cleanse my mind of all evil thoughts and my heart of all evil intents. Now, what more should I do?” Abba Joseph rose up and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of flame. He answered, “Why not be totally changed into fire?”

–from Prayer by Richard Foster.

I write and read daily with waves of plainchant playing in the background. For hours, the single lines of melody, each carefully crafted in set constellations of tones, flow around the room and order my distraction. The soaring and dipping, softer, then louder, offers a gentle rhythm for my thoughts and feelings to gather. A sonic anchor…an audio lighthouse in the storm of words and ideas.

As I listen, a familiar melody begins. The words are in Latin, so I’m not certain how I know it. Closing my eyes and letting the tune bring memory, I find myself in a dark church, before dawn, with only one candle illuminating the singer:

Hæc nox est,
in qua, destrúctis vínculis mortis,
Christus ab ínferis victor ascéndit.
Nihil enim nobis nasci prófuit,
nisi rédimi profuísset.
O mira circa nos tuæ pietátis dignátio!
O inæstimábilis diléctio caritátis:
ut servum redímeres, Fílium tradidísti!

This is the night
when Jesus Christ broke the chains of death
and rose triumphant from the grave.
What good would life have been to us,
had Christ not come as our Redeemer?
Father, how wonderful your care for us!
How boundless your merciful love!
To ransom a slave you gave away your Son.

And I remember…all the Easter vigils through the years where the Exsultet, the proclamation of Easter, was sung, ancient words to an ancient melody. Across centuries and languages, the music connects me to the great cloud of witnesses.

The composers of the texts and music of plainchant believed that what you hear, over and over, affects your spirit. Music could inspire prayer and worship. Music could help nurture virtue or inspire goodness. Or when poorly composed,  it could cause spiritual dissonance.  The music and the texts were paired, with words emphasized by tone, giving them multi-layered meaning.

To be in tune was more than a simple delight to the senses, but was bodily participation in the throne room of glory, where the praise is sung with unending beauty to unending Beauty– always surprising in the best way, always welcoming, always joyous at one more joining the song. Worship inviting worship.

As I’ve pondered the word theme for this year and the habits rising as un-resolutions in the past three months, a quiet, deep river flows under what the Lord has been teaching me in writing, reading, prayer, ministry:

Worship.

And I ask. What is worship, Lord?

One day I hiked up a hill near my home, and if you know the hills in Seattle, there are a few brutally tall ones worthy of the term “hike” rather than simply “walk.” Feeling like I was on a draw bridge opening steeper and steeper, all I could see was pavement, the crest of the hill above me and the sky.

And then, the last painful steps, and I reached the top and the world opened to the Sound and the Olympics in snow-covered glory, wringing quick tears and an audible “Thank you, God” whispered in gasping awe.

It was the mountains and the sun that day, but it was more. Through them, beyond them, and completely beyond me.

And the Lord said, “Susan, that, that, what you just felt, what escaped in tears and praise, is worship.”

Even more, the pleasure I sensed from God in that moment was not because worship is his due (which it is), but because he delights in sharing joy and beauty and love, and longs for us to join with him in that delight.

And the worship of God is life and health for us.

When we whisper worship to God, we are not lost in worship of what or who cannot be, is not, Life.

On a dusty road, two disciples learned about worship. Their fears and questions and doubts and frustrations were little gods clamoring for attention, blinding them to their traveling companion. Their hearts longed to worship as Jesus dusted off their hope and quenched their thirst, preaching the Word to them even as they didn’t recognize him. And then their eyes opened when he took, blessed and broke the bread for them, offering once again his life and presence to them.

“Did not our hearts catch fire, did they not burn while he spoke to us on the way?”

Worship can well up in our hearts at the most unexpected moments.  On a dusty road to Emmaus, or after a trudge up a steep hill in life or spirit.

This year I’m praying to worship. To seek God and offer God worship in all my activities.  To be open and ready to worship at any moment.

To gradually catch fire.

Four ways of cultivating worship  which have gently seeped into my life:

1. Paying attention to what I see and what I listen to. I’ve written about how screen media can be a challenge for me, robbing me of attentiveness, time, and energy. It is now 3 months since I’ve watched TV and I’ve seen only a few movies in that time. I don’t share this as a judgment against watching media. For me, the perennial question has been why I watched it and whether it was truly giving me rest.  I decided I’d try giving the time to other pursuits. Now I would never go back.

Music is the same.  I’m consciously choosing music that feeds my spirit–not simply “praise music,” though I listen to that at times–but chant, classical, Celtic, and music with content that helps me focus on God and life. A wonderful help for this is Pandora Radio and my two favorite channels Gregorian Chant and John Dowland, a 16th century composer. For praise music, I enjoy this channel. Some days, I turn off the soundtrack and just listen to the birds. (And the sparrows are particularly noisy now, even with nesting material in their beaks!)

2. Paying attention to how I speak. The past two years I’ve spilled a lot of words  on the challenges of writing and academic study.  Good words. Healing words. (Sometimes melodramatic words.) But now, I’m approaching the reading and writing as an act of worship–simply offering it to God and see what he does. The words I use to describe writing the dissertation matter. It is not the end of bouts of writer’s block or the challenges, but I simply no longer wish to live or speak in opposition to this life and task God has set before me.

3. The Liturgy of the Hours. This has been part of my practice for over 10 years, but I now find myself (with more time, energy, and ability to focus) consistently praying the Office of Readings and Compline as bookends of my day.  One day a week, I’m stopping at regular times and praying the smaller Hours.

Practices of prayer and worship require intentional attention, but not so much by gritting teeth and setting goals. Me-focused plans for discipline often get in the way.

The practice simply scooted into my routine without any jostling or fanfare.

Each Hour is a collection of psalms, prayers, and a scripture reading, taking 5-15 minutes to pray through.  The Office of Readings also includes a selection from Christian writers, preachers, and theologians, from the past 20 centuries.  These are not dry theology, but fiery and prayerful snippets from the lives of people whose faith and love for Jesus still influence the church today.

4. The Rhythm of the Church Year. Following the Liturgy of the Hours and being a part of a liturgical church that has services during the week brings me into awareness of God’s time and the cloud of witnesses who have lived before me, who loved Jesus before me, who worship now at the Throne, and whose lives give the church a legacy of love in Christ.

The first time I felt shifted from calendar time to liturgical time happened when I lived at St John’s University in Minnesota, a Benedictine monastery, where the monks gather for prayer 5 times a day to the ringing of bells. (The bells are a little bit of heaven on earth–you can hear them here.  I often stood under the tower to feel them ring.)  One day, after a few months, I found myself thinking in liturgical time: Today is Wednesday of the 2nd week of Ordinary Time, rather than January 19th.

Once I graduated and left St John’s, I found that gathering for Sunday worship alone was not enough to maintain that sense of God’s time.  The Liturgy of the Hours at home and gathering at church once or twice during the week for prayer or communion is an important thread for me connecting Sunday to Sunday, season to season, that I keep coming back to.  (I don’t have bells calling me to prayer, but I do have a bell alarm on my cell phone!)

I would love to hear what helps you nurture the habit of worship.

Together at His throne,

Susan

This morning I pondered 1 John 4:18.  When I say morning, I mean 2am, the standard hour when anything that might worry me shakes me awake and starts whispering. The past six months, since moving to Seattle, I’ve been very grateful for the strength to roll over and go back to sleep.

But this time, it was about writing a dissertation chapter, due this coming Monday. Everything from general incompetence to the lack of future job opportunities to silliness like, “I don’t know how to form coherent sentences anymore,” listed themselves in my thoughts. Needless to say, it’s a vulnerable area.

I’ve asked many times in the past five years whether this path toward PhD-ness is really God’s call or my ego. I’ve asked many times in the past six months, so-totally-joyfully-wonderfully-grateful to be back in Seattle and at my church, whether I can eke out 200 pages of academic writing, battling the fears that steal sleep and energy, or whether I should raise the white flag.

To surrender to fear doesn’t seem the best option. It might be the easy way, but not the way, as a daughter of the King, to live “to the praise of his glory.” Fear is not our inheritance in Christ. I can write this chapter, this dissertation, with God’s strength. To give up in the face of fears that tell me I can’t write it would mean calling that truth into question.

However, battling the fear, plowing through, doesn’t seem to be a good option either.  All the energy goes into the war and leaves little for much else. And the past year has shown me how much more there is. This Advent of Joy is overflowing with abundance.

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” (Romans 8:15)

I don’t want to live focused on winning a battle.

So, in comes 1 John 4:18:

“There is no fear in love [dread does not exist], but full-grown (complete, perfect) love turns fear out of doors and expels every trace of terror!” (1 Jn 4:18, Amplified)

The focus is on the Love, not the fear. When Love draws me on, fear cannot repel me.  And God is Love, so God casts out the fear. Not me.

Rather than focusing on all the fearful whispers, I’m focusing on Who is the Love that beckons and all the ways He comes into daily life.  Those people, those experiences, those realities which are Love made flesh, Immanuel.

What this means for the chapter, I’m not sure. Somehow in following the Love, rather than focusing on the fear, an answer about writing the dissertation will become clear.

But for now, this gives me a much better response to those 2am anxious whispers.

For each day, from now until Epiphany, I’ve thought of one thing I can do to practice joy and gratitude, and to give love,  putting it on a calendar that draws on some older Advent and Christmas traditions.

In the 6th century, the Celtic Christians celebrated Advent during the 40 days before Christmas, as a mirror to the period of Lent before Easter.  In this age of  blurring of holy-days and consumerism, I like the idea of starting Advent earlier, so that Thanksgiving is included, but also there can be more intentional preparation for Christ’s coming.

Another tradition from around the 6th century (and probably earlier) was the “O Antiphons.” Most people would recognize a version of these antiphons as the verses of the Advent carol O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They are still prayed in many churches, as they have been for more than 1500 years, from December 17 to December 23.  Each of the antiphons refer to a name of Christ, most from the Book of Isaiah, and offer a jumping off point for reflection.

Finally, Christmas seems to end abruptly on December 26th in our consumer celebration. Another lost tradition is the Twelve Days from Christmas to Epiphany.  Epiphany means “appearance” or “manifestation” and remembers the Magi and shepherds visiting Jesus, and Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan, the public revelation that he is God’s Son.  The period from December 25 to January 6th seems an ideal time for reflecting on the Light that has come into the world with the birth of Christ.

Pulling these three traditions together, I’ve created a calendar of ideas for living each day intentionally and joyfully.  Here is a PDF version.

The ability to give and experience love and joy doesn’t just happen, it needs to be stretched and strengthened. And over time, the capacity to love and to joy increases.

Let the Holy Spirit lead!

(I’m joining with Ann Voscamp’s Walk with Him Wednesday  blogging community and sharing about a scripture verse I’ve memorized.)

I’d always focused on the negative side of Luke 6:45: an unloving heart speaks hurtful words and makes people sad, or a silly heart says embarrassing things, and on and on. So at some point, I decided to hide my hurtful words and my silly words, so my unloving and silly heart wouldn’t be found out and cause problems.

Of course, it didn’t work and just made me feel worse. What I really wanted was a heart that said loving words and words that weren’t embarassing.

A while ago, during the stress of comprehensive exams, I started doodling a story about Little Me and Jesus.

Little Me took her heart to Jesus and something happened:

And then Jesus sent her on an adventure:

A few months ago, I read Luke 6:45 and realized that there was another side to the verse–the positive side–so I memorized it and it has been my prayer: that Jesus would give me the little glowing heart from my Little Me doodles so that it could be shared with others.

“The good woman out of the good treasure of the heart produces good…For it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks.”

Only Jesus can give that abundance and does so with joy! And then he sends us on adventures….

While in Boston, one of the many places I lived was in a lovely old building in a long-standing Orthodox Jewish neighborhood.  Originally, the apartment complex was occupied by Jewish families who needed to live within walking distance of the near-by synagogue since cars were not used on the Sabbath.  Ownership of the building had shifted over the years and it now houses mostly students, but a remnant of its past and location remains: many of the apartment doors still have a mezuzah affixed to the frame.

An example, mine was not as ornate.

I didn’t notice mine until after I moved in–it was so painted over, the four inch long tube was almost lost against the frame.  But one day, I saw it and knew instantly was it was–the Hebrew letter shin (short for shaddai, or Lord) just slightly raised on its small surface like braile.

Inside the mezuzah lives a scroll with words from Deuteronomy 6:4-9 and 11:13-21, the Shema prayer, which begins “Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is One.”

With care, I removed it, cleaned off the decades of paint, and replaced it. The shining metal was now a visible reminder to pray every time I walked through the door.  It was a particularly difficult and lonely season of my life, and my sense of God’s presence was next to nothing.

I made a point of touching the mezuzah, as is the Jewish custom, whenever I passed it.  It became for me a visual anchor, reminding me of God’s presence through the ages–a connection, a quiet memory, a way through, a path forward, a blessing.

The mezuzah speaks

of years touched

by fingers of faith or

disinterest

or habit.

Painted over in ignorance

pryed at, forgotten–

hidden scroll still and

silent

like G-d’s voice to Elijah.

My fingers long to seek

connection in

metal and letters, a tie

to a deeper hope

across years and many lives and cosmos.

I reach out with hand, eye, and ask it,

Are You still there? I miss You.

It answers simply

with presence.

Yes.

(Susan Forshey, 2007)

“I dream of a Love that even Time will lie down and be still for.”

When I was in my 20s, I used to say, if I marry, I won’t marry until I’m 30.  I could count on a few fingers men who had touched my heart–men who also only saw me as sister and friend.

Love–the covenant, life-long-promise kind of love–remained a distant hope.

“There is plenty of time,” friends and family would say, during seasons when I’d flail and founder, and demand a reason for my singleness.

Now I am 40, and can look back at two decades of dating experiences (less than one hand could count) and a brief engagement–infrequent, glorious and often painful forays into the realm of love and heart.  The Lord took me on a journey this past year after I caught another glimpse of this longed-for- Love, and promptly reached out with both hands and held on like one drowning, squeezing out its life.

I have felt a lot like Elijah impatiently pleading with God at the mouth of the cave.

Patiently and gently, the still small voice responded, “So you want to be married? Good, let’s take a realistic look at what you call love and what you would bring to a future marriage.” Through the verses of the old standard, Proverbs 31, God asked the tough questions: Do you have your house in some sense of order? Do you have an understanding of how you deal with stress and discouragement? Are you following My call on your heart and willing to make it a priority? What are your habits, good and bad? Are you able to nurture a relationship? Are you financially and emotionally stable?

I reeled and was silent in the face of such Love. Love that sought my best, not just for me, but for all whom I am in relationship with. Love that wasn’t interested in coddling me or worried about my reaction.  Love that would speak its peace and then still be there in the morning.  The kind of Love I longed for, but didn’t know the first thing about how to give or receive.

And then God had a heart-to-heart with me about the difference between love and longing.

Longing is that deep heart-desire for a kindred spirit, a person who knows me intimately, a person who loves me even when I’m not likable; the desire for comfort after a hard day, for a hand to hold in fear; for the kiss that curls the toes.

But the focus of longing is on me and what I desire.

Love was not in my relational earthquakes or the wind or the fire, the tumult or anxiety, the intensity or the tears.  Longing, yes, but not Love, a Love that simply loves, without demanding payment.

Now, the desire to be loved is good and wonderful, and this desire has a place in relationships, but actions rooted in this longing are not the same as love.  Love places the beloved at the center–not a desired response, not the fulfillment of my longing to be loved.

Am I giving love or longing? Am I seeking to do and give what is loving for the other person, or only what will garner a fulfillment of my longing?

It is a question that is changing how I approach all relationships.

But what do I do with the longing?

I write this only as one in the midst of asking the question.  I believe God is the only One who can bear and fulfill the full intensity of our longings–no person can be our fulfillment.  Deep friendships , family, and covenant relationships have space for the mutual sharing and fulfilling of longing—for love, intimacy, encouragement, delight.  However, I am persuaded that even then, the call is to love those in our lives first, and our longing’s fulfillment comes only as a grace-full gift.

I am practicing giving God my longings and giving others love.