Drawing: Sybil MacBeth

On Friday, the laity and clergy of the Diocese of Oregon will decide who their next bishop will be.  Like the candidates and their spouses, they have spent months in prayer and discernment. When I tell people about this process many say, “If it’s God’s will, I hope Andy gets it.”  But what does that mean Does God have a favorite picked out? And if so, will Oregon get it right?

One of the best discussions on the bus was about exactly that. What is God’s will and is there only one correct choice for Oregon? We tossed around the idea that God’s will might be much grander and more lavish than we assume. It might include multiple possibilities. One person suggested that God chooses to be surprised and says,”I wonder who they will elect?” When the decision is made, God says, “Cool! I can work with that.” God, with the assent of the chosen person, will use their particular gifts and personality to work for God’s kingdom.

But what if there is only one “God’s will” choice?  What if we all get it wrong? I guess I so believe in a God of redemption that there isn’t anything God can’t use. Maybe even if these three candidates are all wrong, God will still say, “Cool, I can work with that.” My friend Susan says, “God is in the lemonade business.” We often make lemon-choices which God sweetens, refreshes, and returns to us as nourishment.

I don’t understand whether God’s will is narrow or grand.  But I will still try to discern it in all things. And even if I don’t get it right, God will redeem me and my choices.  I will continue to pray, “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done….” (Matthew 6:10, KJV)

It has taken years to give myself permission to rock or sway when I pray. It has taken even longer to allow myself to draw. But movement helps me to pay attention in prayer. It lets my body be a participant rather than an interloper. Drawing, swaying, rocking…all of these actions help carve out a physical space and place for my body to be in prayer. Then I get quiet on the inside and listen for the “still small voice” (1Kings 19:12 RSV) or sometimes “big, in-my-face” voice of God.

While drawing the doodle below, I had some sitting and talking time with Jesus.

Drawing: Sybil MacBeth

Impatience is one of my character defects. Meetings are a particular place where I am confronted with it.  I like people to say things concisely and quickly. I’m from the ‘Spit It Out and Shut Up” school.

One of the meetings I attend has some strong suggestions:
1 No interrupting a speaker who has the floor–even if what I have to say is brilliant and crucial.
2 No crosstalk or advice-giving–even if I can fix the speaker’s life in three easy steps and in the next three minutes.

These are great rules for protecting the airtime and dignity of the speaker. They are designed particularly for people like me who want to help others finish their sentences and interject my latest wisdom. The other strong suggestion is: The speaker will limit their comments to 2 or 3 minutes.  This suggestion/rule protects the listeners in the room and allows for participation by many people in the course of the meeting. I wish every organization I belonged to had these rules.

Last week my friend Sally and I attended this meeting. We know each other pretty well–so well that we sometimes finish each other’s sentences and give each other advice.  But in this meeting we are forced to behave, to listen and to keep our mouths closed and our opinions between our ears. At the end of the meeting, we talked about the process. We talked about how freeing it was to just listen without coming up with the next comment or formulating a judgment. We learned so much from the two-to-three minute verbal bytes by many speakers.

There were however, a couple of speakers who talked much longer than their allotted time. I confessed to Sally my impatience and my desire for brevity and eloquence. With true generosity and compassion, Sally said, “You know, it takes some people longer than others to unspool their story.”

I like to think this is how God listens to my fumbling, ineloquent prayers and my long-drawn out sob stories and pity parties–with generosity and compassion. Some days my meetings with God are quick and efficient.  On other days, I use more than my fair share of God’s time. It takes longer than usual for me to unspool my story. I trust God listens with patience and love.

Drawing: Sally Markell ]]> http://blog.purposedriven.com/prayingincolor/?feed=rss2&p=3057 http://blog.purposedriven.com/prayingincolor/?p=3048 http://blog.purposedriven.com/prayingincolor/?p=3048#comments Mon, 16 Nov 2009 11:00:38 +0000 Sybil http://blog.purposedriven.com/prayingincolor/?p=3048 Last week I drew a prayer by rubbing leaves and making a space for the names of people on my prayer list. This week I grabbed the last handful of leaves on our Japanese maple and traced around them. Artistic skill is not a necessity for a visual prayer practice!

So this is my leafy, intercessory prayer list. I’m praying for birthdays, healing, discernment, joy, work, freedom…. The drawing will sit on my desk and remind me to pray for each person.

Drawing/Tracing: Sybil MacBeth

Is there a chance I can be both right and happy? With some tweaking of the definition of right, perhaps both things are possible. Twelve-step programs talk about being “right-sized.” I understand this concept to mean having an accurate assessment of myself –not over-inflated or under-rated. I know my place as one of the 6.8 billion unique, beloved children of God. When I am right with myself which I get by being right with God, I feel less need to be right in the sense of superiority.

Jesus healed a man possessed by many demons. When I am right-sized and right with God, I, like the demoniac, feel as if I have been purged of my “unclean spirit” and returned to my “right mind.” (Mark 5, KJV) What a happy way to live–maybe even the right way–at least for me.

Being right can mean a lot of things.  It can mean I know the best way to raise children, to cook the perfect spaghetti sauce, to be a good Christian, to fold a toothpaste tube…. It can mean I know the accurate facts about a situation.  If I didn’t think I was right, wouldn’t I change my actions or my thoughts?  But the catch for me is: If I’m right, are you wrong if we disagree? And even if I think you’re wrong is it my “right” to correct you?

Always being right and having the last word of correctness has its delicious, perverse satisfaction. When my husband tells some friends, “On January 5th we went to Seattle,” I can employ my superior memory and correct him–”No it was January 6th.” I get to feel very smart for about four seconds. But the glory of accuracy is short-lived. I’ve made the facts more important than the story he tells. I have put him down in front of others. The rift in relationship is hardly worth four seconds of glory.

Being happy may be a more difficult choice.  Real happiness is not a moment-to-moment emotion. It ’s an approach to life based on a faithful, hopeful attitude of gratitude and wonder. My need to be right is often counter to the desire for happiness–though I’m under the illusion of happy= right.

My real happiness allows for others to have their say–to tell their story, to hold their own opinions, to have the last word or the best story, and even to make mistakes. My happiness may even be dependent on not correcting others or supplying them with unwanted information, advice, or opinions. It might just be dependent on respecting and listening to their words and the real possibility of my not being right.

Without their saving and collecting habits, I never could have afforded  the houseful of furniture I have; so I’m grateful. But then there’s the Royal Doulton figurines and flowery, china bowls for which I have no use or affection. When I try to get rid of them, I hear my mother’s voice saying, “You’ll appreciate these some day.” I doubt it, but it’s hard to defy the mother-voice inside of me.

One of their hand-me-downs I really do like is an assortment of small, clear turquoise vases. I love to fill them with flowers or cuttings from my yard or my next-door neighbor’s yard. Right now there are summer zinnias and marigolds still hanging out in the garden. Some big, yellow, autumn flowers with brown centers bloomed a couple of weeks ago. The winter holly berries grow redder by the day.  So on my dining room table (my parents’ table, of course) in the little turquoise vases is a wonderful confluence of seasons–summer, fall, and winter.

Whenever I think of seasons, I can’t help but think of the passage from Ecclesiastes. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance….”  (Ecclesiastes 3:1-4 NIV)

The flowers on my table are from different seasons and how beautiful they are.  My worshiping community is another place where I get to see a beautiful confluence of seasons.  We in the church are all in different seasons of our lives, our belief, our work, our growth, our mourning, our healing, our dance….How rich and wonderful it is to have so many seasons represented together. How boring it would be if we were all seasonally alike.

Photo: Sybil MacBeth

Drawing: Sybil MacBeth

The best thing I can do at the point of outrage is turn to God. I am unable at that moment to say or do anything constructive, so I’d better pray. Better to vent before God than mouth off.  Better to admit my powerlessness than assign guilt or create half-brained explanations without the details or whole picture.  Better to pray for all the parties involved, victims and suspects alike.

After I give it to God, I might later be able to have a sane discussion with others about the circumstances, the consequences, the solutions, and what we as Christians and citizens can do to help prevent these incidents of horror…. But if the rage and blame are all I can come up with, I’d better return to my knees or my drawing for more prayer time.

I stewed about the shootings all weekend and finally gave it to God.

Drawing: Sybil MacBeth