The Very Life We're Living
The Very Life We’re Living: 15 November 2021
Saturday. My dog walked over expressly to throw up right in front of me. Some primal, evolutionary need drives us to pick our safest companion when we need to be vulnerable. So, thanks Grady. But yuk. Luckily, we were outside enjoying the gift of an incomparable Fall day.
A Fall afternoon of your grand, vulnerable childhood. Warm in the sun, cool in the shade; blue, blue sky and vibrant leaves still waving along graceful branches overhead. Evening plans pleasant in the near distance, but still plenty of afternoon left for basking. Plus, the joy of being an adult: I can go get another beer before I revel in the voluptuous sunlight spilling in low-angled glory over the last of my cutting garden’s blooms.
Mark’s over there reveling in his occasional cigar and a wee dram of another smoky deliciousness. Grady is soaking up the blacktop’s warmth on his newly purged dog’s body. Jack and Emma are inside recovering from a squabble born out of hunger and basic siblingness. In a little while we’ll reconvene for teatime with the apple cider doughnuts I made this morning. Star Trek tonight.
It’s the kind of day when I’m happy just to be alive. Happy just to be. Joy.
In the blog preview I told my subscribers that I was thinking about what brings joy. A dear friend and mentor responded with encouragement, asking “What is the difference between joy and happiness? The deeper spiritual aspect of joy juxtaposed to the fleeting sense of happiness.” She ended with: good luck.
A kind bit of caution because our world does too often strive for happiness when joy is abundantly available. Joy is the deep current of blessing upholding the babbling surface of all emotion. In fact, I rather think that Joy is the river itself, the is-ness of reality; the gift of being wrapped in a benevolent Love that *is* no matter what is happening with the current (meaning both the movement and the moment). Joy is trusting the deep generosity of Now.
Saturday the Joy even felt painful.
It was painful to watch the church-league basketball game. But the same is true for a recital. Or report card performance or interaction at the birthday party. When it’s your own child, it might even be excruciating. Even when they are killing it. Because you care so very much. Not just about the level of play, which is important, but because you, possibly you alone, can appreciate the vast territory traversed between the last performance and this one. There is a joy and a wistfulness in watching the dawning maturity needed to assess the moment: to self-correct, to take advantage of the opportunity, to shake it off, to double-down, to pass the ball, to take the shot, to speak up, to be quiet, to do the hard thing.
Discipleship opportunities: to welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the prisoner.
Joy is the unspeakable rightness of something. The moment you realize you’re standing deep in the current, grounded in the moment, exactly where you are supposed to be. Even if the river’s flowing fast around you. Even if it’s awkward or uncomfortable. Especially if it feels unaccountably easy—that’s often a more difficult stumbling block for me. To feel easy and settled in a poignant moment.
I’ve learned to identify the poignant, deep Joy moments with tears. If my eyes are steadily dripping, it’s generally a profound moment. Sure, I tear up when I scrape, bruise, or burn myself, but usually that’s haste. I leak some tears if I’m tired or frustrated or angry.
I’m not saying I’m always aware of the Joy. And certainly few people experience danger with the calm detachment of Joy. But I do believe it’s there, the undercurrent of possibility always Present.
But in my regular not-dangerous moments, those streaming tears signal poignancy. The beautiful bravery of people living through adversity with dignity; the pure emotions of children; the rituals that make meaning for another generation of family or congregants or graduates. And kindness. Any act of kindness. Witnessing spontaneous kindness restores my faith in humanity. (Unless it’s my children, then I’m just full-on proud, immediately followed by some dose of humility.)
I wish I had more artistic talent, but I console myself that I am an excellent appreciator. My tears acknowledge all the things I appreciate but can’t articulate.
The poignancy of the perfect blue sky above impossibly red maple leaves. The painting that somehow expresses an emotion so raw that I can’t name it. And music. Oh my word, the music. Music seems especially expressive. I adore, but often am too teary to sing, all the verses of Sunday hymns.
John Cage once said that making music is “simply a way of waking up to the very life we’re living.” Ennio Morricone said that the job of a film’s musical score is “to make more explicit what the plot alone can’t achieve.”
Once, in Chicago, I had the great fortune to tour the organ at the marvelous Fourth Presbyterian Church. (I like to call it the other Fourth Presbyterian Church, the way Gamecocks declare Southern California the other USC.) The organist explained that the organ was really an early synthesizer, mimicking the voices of other instruments. He described the organ’s sound the way I’d only considered visual arts. A division of pipes had a particular palette. A certain rank was especially colorful. And my favorite description: a 4 foot (or 32 foot) note—the physicality of the pipe determining the color of its tone.
But sometimes sadness overwhelms the Joy— not overwhelmed by beauty but bludgeoned by the immensity and ubiquity of the world’s pain. Those are painful prayers. And I’m including the raw silent anger with which I sometimes assail God. God has never fought back, even when I’ve been trying to pick a fight. The answering silence is both pregnant and infuriating. I hate being yoked to this God. But that is exactly what Jesus offers in lieu of the help or revenge or sweeping victory I’m craving.
Instead, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)
Jesus didn’t say come lay down your burden so I can pick it up and carry it for you. It’s not that his yoke is easy enough that he has all this extra room to add my problems to his bundle. It’s that his yoke is a system I can learn which makes carrying my own burdens easier. He’s saying I don’t need to be carrying all this baggage to begin with.
Don’t worry so much, don’t acquire more than you can care for. Do not be afraid. When I accept Jesus’s system, I accept an internal re-calibration. This is what we do for someone we love very much. We don’t shoulder their burden so much as teach them how to pare down and carry their own. And then we walk alongside in solidarity.
As much as I love church, Sunday mornings are the worst. I’m already struggling with my own desire to lounge around with another cup of coffee, but I also have to prod and nag the other people in my house to get dressed and ready to go. It’s not quite as bad as it was with smaller children. I firmly believe that greeters should present parents of small children a gold star and a handshake when, at whatever time, they walk through church doors. Except parents don’t have extra hands available for shaking.
This Sunday during Sunday school hour, the Session met to hear Statements of Faith and Calling from the newly elected officers. I sat down, relieved to cross ‘get to church on time’ off my mental to-do list. I smiled around the room, but even during the opening prayer my thoughts were still streaming household tasks, church duties, work responsibilities and preparations for an overnight trip. All of that was abruptly derailed when the first new officer began speaking. In all, eight people spoke a very different yet uniquely profound truth. It was a privilege to receive the rare gift of someone’s core story. It was we who were blessed by their honestly. Such vulnerability. No individual in the room had earned such trust; we were simply the lucky ones chosen to represent the body of Christ in that moment.
Gone were the to-do lists; present was the palpable sense of awe. Deep communion. Joy.
At its best, this is what Church is. A collection of people who together become: a container for the Spirit to fill and overflow; a shelter in which to be both challenged and vulnerable; a glimpse of the deep current of Joy that is the central truth of reality. Church, Joy, Truth, Wholeness, Beauty, Family, Love: none cannot be fully explained, each only fully experienced. They are the very life we’re living.
“If you could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.” -Edward Hopper
