lessons from the school of hard knocks

When life's journey takes you into the desert, it can seem like "real life" is on hold, waiting for problems to be resolved, waiting for questions to be answered, waiting for momentum to return. But desert seasons are where some of God's most important work gets done—inside us. This morning I read reflection #171 from Charles Ringma's profound devotional, Dare to Journey with Henri Nouwen. Time after time, this book has spoken life to my soul. Today I simply must share the whole reflection with you, because it captures so well the idea that the desert is God's classroom:

   "Much of life is spent preparing for and gaining knowledge for future roles and tasks. And many of our educational strategies are based on the premise of learning first in order that we may do later. For some, this has resulted in much learning but little doing. For others, it has meant quite a deal of unlearning once they have experienced the real world."
   "Yet it should be obvious that many things are learned by doing. One learns to pray by praying, to serve by serving, and to love by loving...."
   "Nouwen hints at this. He writes, 'The great illusion of leadership is to think that a person can be led out of the desert by someone who has never been there.' No only can we not look to spiritual guides who lack life's difficult experiences or who have failed to make sense of them or acknowledge them, but we also need to walk our own desert experiences and learn from them."
   "Because spirituality does not embrace only an aspect of life, but all of it, all of life's experiences become the testing ground for linking faith and practice. Thus, in being, living, doing, praying, serving, risking, loving, and participating, we are weaving a pattern for understanding our spirituality."

The school of hard knocks may not be your choice of a classroom. It's not mine, either. But the lessons we learn in the desert classroom cannot be gained anywhere else.

Show me your ways, LORD; Teach me your paths. Psalm 25:4

picturing Christ: icons in the Catholic Church

Today’s post invites you to consider Catholic teaching about icons. An icon is a work of art with religious significance, usually a painting. Icons are used extensively in the Eastern Churches (both Orthodox and Catholic), but also by Roman Catholics. A major point of contention during the Protestant Reformation, icons continue to separate Protestants and Catholics on a practical level. Some Protestants afford a place for art in worship, but many do not, and some reject any depiction of God, even of Christ.

Among Protestants, perhaps the most widely appreciated (recent) reflection on a religious painting is Henri Nouwen’s extended treatment of Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. Meditation on each aspect of the painting afforded Nouwen with a new depth of insight into God’s love for him, which became the subject of an entire book. The picture focused Nouwen’s reflections in a profound way on the truths of Scripture. In a similar way, Catholics use icons as objects of spiritual reflection. For some, this Christian use of images is controversial.

Unlike some Protestants who reject any depictions of God in art, even in his incarnation, Catholics see the incarnation as the authorization of iconography. With Protestants, Catholics agree that God the Father cannot be captured in any form, because his form has never been revealed (CCC §1159, 2129). Christ, however, took on a human form and became the very image of God, so his portrayal as a human is fitting (§476–477, 2131). Even in the Old Testament, God used images to anticipate his saving work in Christ (§2130). Icons illustrate the truths of Scripture and help to illumine it. In this way, icons are gospel-centered (§1160, 1161). All icons, no matter what their subject matter, ultimately represent Christ, because as images they recall the incarnation (§1159). Even an icon of Mary ultimately directs attention to Jesus’ incarnation.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC) describes icons this way:

The contemplation of sacred icons, united with meditation on the Word of God and the singing of liturgical hymns, enters into the harmony of the signs of celebration so that the mystery celebrated is imprinted in the heart’s memory and is then expressed in the new life of the faithful. (§1162)

Andrei Rublev's The Trinity evokes multiple levels
of reflection, beginning with the story of Abraham's
three visitors and culminating in the unseen Trinity 

This evocation of memory lived out in faithfulness is the goal of sacred art. God himself spoke in the art of creation before he revealed himself to humankind in words (§2500). The CCC calls art “a form of practical wisdom, uniting knowledge and skill, to give form to the truth of reality in a language accessible to sight or hearing” (§2501). When it is done well, “genuine sacred art draws man to adoration, to prayer, and to the love of God” (§2502; cf. 2513). It focuses our meditation on biblical truth (§2705). Icons that are not made with excellence are to be removed by bishops, while good art—that which reflects the truth of Scripture while respecting the Tradition— is to be encouraged (§2503).

Protestants will be glad to know that Catholics are not to worship these images: “the honor paid to sacred images is a ‘respectful veneration,’ not the adoration due to God alone” (§2132). Dr. Cavadini has given us copies of several of his favorite icons to illustrate Catholic teaching. In each case, the symbolism of the artwork invites contemplation. (A book that has helped us to interpret the icons is Paul Evdokimov’s The Art of the Icon: A Theology of Beauty). Protestants are perhaps confused by icons because we take them too literally. The Trinity? You can’t depict the Trinity! Of course, the artist knows that the Trinity is ineffable, and cannot be captured in full, but what they paint is meant to inspire our reflections on the Trinity. Dr. Cavadini calls an icon a “mediating device” or a “theological summary in pictures.”

We could learn from Catholics in this area. Rather than fear the imperfect analogy portrayed by a picture, we could let it direct us to contemplate the perfect reality: Christ himself. Remembering the purpose for icons will guard against their misuse. As the CCC says so beautifully, “Sacred images in our churches and homes are intended to awaken and nourish our faith in the mystery of Christ. Through the icon of Christ and his works of salvation, it is he whom we adore” (§1192). One of the best known Protestant religious painters is Ron DiCianni. A copy of “Simeon’s Moment” hangs on our living room wall (and a smaller version in my office), a reminder that the incarnation was the fulfillment of all of God’s promises and Israel’s hopes. As Simeon cradles the baby Jesus, his eyes sparkle and his face is radiant with the knowledge that the savior of the world has come! Ancient icons, like this modern-day depiction of the incarnation, are intended cultivate and inspire our faith in Jesus.

learning to listen

I just finished listening to a church history course lecture on Medieval Spirituality.  Spirituality is a hot topic again in our day, but it often comes in the form of a thinly-veiled quest for personal power or fulfillment or peace of mind rather than a genuine attempt to know God and align ourselves with His will.

Medieval Spirituality centered on the practice of prayer.  Unbroken communion with the Most High was the goal.  As Henri Nouwen said, "Jesus was all ears. That is true prayer: being all ears for God. the core of all prayer is listening, obediently standing in the presence of God."

But to listen we have to shut out the noise. And in our technology-saturated culture that is harder and harder to do. Our computers and cellphone and ipads call to us.  Facebook updates and blog posts (like this one!) pull our attention away from our need to be still and listen.  Charles Ringma (Dare to Journey wtih Henri Nouwen, reflection 52) speaks of it as an "outward momentum" that prevents us from "time for inwardness."  He says, "It is not only that we are busy doing things, nor that we spend a lot of time thinking about what should be done; it is also that we become restless when there is nothing on our immediate horizon.  We are therefore outwardly focused even when we have the opportunity to enter the inner sanctuary for refreshment and renewal."

I know that restless feeling all too well.  I feel a compulsion to check email again (even though I checked 5 minutes ago).  I feel like I'm missing something so I check Facebook or find a blog to read or call my mom.  For some of you the TV or the refrigerator becomes your quest for that something. All the while what we need most is to be still.  To be unplugged from constant status updates and breaking news.  To listen.  Just listen.

It feels odd at first.  It's awkward and empty.  But as we train our minds to focus on the unbounded love of God, we can learn to drink deeply of that love, and silence becomes sweet.  I, for one, would like to get to that place where listening prayer is as natural as breathing.

the power of problems

I'm reading through a little book this year called Dare to Journey with Henri Nouwen by Charles Ringma.  For each day there are a few short paragraphs for reflection.  Somehow, the author must have known that I would need these words today:

"God ... creatively uses difficulty to gain our attention.  He does not create the difficulty.  We are good at doing that; or sometimes the difficulty springs from the brokenness of life itself.  But problems can arrest us.  And if we are willing to learn from them, they can become our friends."

I've been sick since Wednesday.  And though I needed to make major progress on my thesis this weekend, I did not.  I have rested, slept, emailed, and spent what little physical strength I had left on the house. You see, we had two showings scheduled for this weekend.  Our first ones.  We were jazzed because we haven't even put our house on the market yet, and we wondered if God would give us the gift of a Spring with no roller-coaster of house-cleaning-and-showing.  Danny literally spent every waking moment working on the house Friday, Saturday, and this morning (minus the hour he was at church).  You don't really realize how much clutter there is until you start to box it up.  And you don't realize how dirty the house is until the clutter is gone.

And then both showings were cancelled.  The second one at the last minute.  Both of us wanted to collapse from exhaustion.  We wanted to cry.  We wanted to know "Why, God?!"  We could have had a restful day.  We could have been playing with our kids.  We gave every ounce of our strength to a project that didn't have to be done.

But. 

The Scripture for today's devotional is this:
"My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." (2 Cor 12:9)

I'm still not sure what this was all about.  Perhaps God wanted to give us the gift of a clean house to enjoy this month.  Many of the tasks we accomplished will not have to be re-done, and this weekend put us way ahead of schedule.  But maybe the lesson is for us to seek the Giver and not the gift.  We have certainly come to the end of ourselves, and there is no doubt left that we need Him.

He is good whether or not we have energy. 
He is good whether or not we show the house.
He is good whether or not we sell the house.
And His grace is ALL we need.