Wednesday, February 25, 2015

The Strawberry and the Fennel

I used to journal.  a lot.  Since my brain surgery I haven't for some reason.  I have felt like there is something missing.  Writers block to no end.  When I come to my blog it stunts me and the words do not come.

Last weekend, I went to a conference and we talked about creativity in ministry.  We talked about using different elements of who we are as a person to be creative.  I sat down and wrote.  I allowed myself the space to sit with my journal and a pen and to let the pen take me where I wanted me to go.  That's generally what seems to happen anyway.

I decided that I want to start writing more.  For Lent I decided to give up eating out -- with a few exceptions.... with groups of friends, for work.  Just not by myself when I don't feel like cooking.  I decided to add onto that a to start writing something, anything, everyday.

What I mean by that is that occasionally throughout the Lenten season I will be putting things that I write onto here as I see fit.  Sometimes about faith.  Sometimes not.  It's generally in loose verse poetry I guess.  I don't know much about all those terms and distinctions.  I just write and read and write so more.  Or I try to.  God willing.


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I know no answers.  
I know only questions.
My uncertainty is why I come back.
My uncertainty is in part why I believe.

Because how could I know all the answers and still believe in a God that created 
the buffalo and the fly.
The wolf and the lamb.
The man and the woman.
The victim and the guilty. 
The popular and the outsider.
The strawberry and the fennel.
The rose and the ivy that is poison.

If I start putting my faith in black and white,  I'm afraid that I'll put God in a box that I'll store on my shelf.  A box that I'll creek open when I need to know that Jesus saves of God creates.  And by sliding open the corner of the box, I get concrete answers to my no so concrete questions.  
Questions about what Paul says about women.  
Questions of whether God's plan for creation could involve evolution.  
Living in fear of the almighty God that erupts when he comes out 
of my own boxes and expectations of how I want God to act.

My boxes mean that my God, 
my Jesus, 
is mine.

He is what I want him to be.
He is not who he is really.

My God is not white, 
not black,
not me.

My Jesus is a Jew is Israel.
To take him away from there makes him no longer God and puts me in his place.

So Lord, 
may you come out of the box that I put you in as a genie comes out of it's lamp.

Surround me.

Allow me to know that arriving at grey is fine.
That arriving with more questions is fine.
Because somehow in my questions I do understand.

I understand that I am smaller than I know and that you are larger.
If truly you created the entire cosmos, 
then my box, 
my walls, 
my black and my white, 
they cannot contain you.

My Lord and my God,
allow me to sit within the grey.
Allow me to sit with my questions.

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