What Comes In

When Lisa and I moved into our house, we realized something important about it: it isn't very big. It has other virtues, for example an expansive view of a lake where swans gather, ospreys circle, and bass rise. But that is its only expansive characteristic.

So we made a promise to each other early on: we wouldn't bring anything into the house that wasn't either beautiful or useful; there just wasn't room for all the ugly and useless stuff that modern human beings tend to accumulate around them. Of course, we've strayed from these criteria occasionally over the years (I was never sure that my own presence in the house satisfied either of them), but they've helped keep alot of things out that we would otherwise stumble over, need to fix, or come quickly to loathe.

Countless sages have observed that we should tend our thoughts with at least as much diligence. One of my favorite expressions of the idea comes from Lao Tzu, who said "Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habit. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny."

In a similarl spirit, St. Paul writes this in his letter to the Philippians: "Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." I suppose one could prepare a mirror image inventory of things to keep out of our thoughts.

But if all this seems a little tough to remember and implement on a day-to-day basis, then perhaps Lent is a good time to simply the formula and try putting it into practice. For these purposes, I like the useful and beautiful directive that Paul offers in his letter to the Colossians, exquisite in its simplicity. It goes like this:

"Set your mind on things that are above."

Amen.

Scraping at the Sky

Where I live, Lent arrives before winter has had her last words with us. The sun still comes up too late and goes down too soon; the frigid air still makes your bones feel brittle; the ground beneath your feet still seems unyielding and lifeless. We notice any sign of hope, like like a returning bird or an ambitious crocus.

Whatever its shortcomings, this climate offers abundant symbols appropriate to the spirit of Lent. And some years, the first spring day and Easter arrive as though coordinated down to the last hour. Of course, it doesn't always work this way: I have sat through any number of Easter sermons about the wonders of rebirth while the snow blew past the church--one of the advantages of stained-glass windows, I suppose. But, in general, the gradual arrival of light and retreat of darkness marks this season in a way that aligns nicely with the processes of our hearts.

If you're paying attention, other--perhaps less cliched--images may strike you as suggestive in meaning as well. So, for example, the other day I couldn't help but notice the upper limbs of the trees surrounding our house. They're leafless this time of year, scraggly, a confused clutter of frozen striving.

But if you look closely a pattern emerges. All of these branches have an upward inclination--no matter how slight. They all stretch and reach toward something higher. They all scrape at the sky, as if they were trying to tear the smallest hole, to get a look inside, to wake back up.

Amen.

Truth and Consequences

We all know these familiar words from I Corinthians 13: "Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Ironically, the familiarity of this passage may work against its significance. We may find ourselves reading past it, in the same way that we fail to look closely at the Mona Lisa or listen carefully to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony or attend thoughtfully to Hamlet's famous soliloquies. Through overexposure, amazing things can cease to amaze us.

This text has particularly suffered from overuse at wedding ceremonies. Indeed, these verses have taken on the same predictability as the cute ring bearer, the grin before the kiss, and the bad dancing at the reception. Years ago, a minister friend of mine said that he tried to talk couples out of using this often-requested scripture at weddings because they could not possibly understand what it meant until they had been married for a while.

If, however, we can bring ourselves to back away from the usual invocations of this text and read it attentively then we will notice some remarkable things. Recently, in trying to do this, I stumbled on something I had not noticed before: the statement that love rejoices in the truth. This caught my attention, because we normally associate the other things in these verses--patience, kindness, and hopefulness, for example--with love. But what is truth doing in there?

I suppose there are two kinds of answers to that question. One makes a direct and explicit connection between loving someone and being honest with them. In this sense, love doesn't just "rejoice" in the truth--it depends upon it.

The other kind of answer makes a broader point: that truth is an indispensible component of all of the work of God. It shows up everywhere. It shows up when we're talking about justice. It shows up when we're talking about love. It will set you free.

Lent offers a good occasion to ponder the role of truth in our lives and in our faith. After all, it plays an important role in the story that we remember during this season. To make the point, we might summarize that story this way:

Satan kept trying to tempt Jesus.

But Jesus kept telling him the truth.

Amen.