it all leads to god... even falling down

Most of my days start quietly with a cup of strong, hot tea, fresh toasted bread and some poetry. With enough time in the beginning, I am usually open to greeting most of the challenges that are still to be born as the morning matures. To be sure, however, there are those days when I have neither the morning solitude I require nor the soul inclination towards presence let alone patience or hospitality. In those times, I wrestle with the reality of my anxious, needy and controlling self. I wish he were not so, but how does the folk axiom put it: if wishes were horses beggars would rise?

In the faith tradition of my youth, I found some strength that St. Paul knew my state. Eugene Peterson's reworking of the Romans 7 text puts it like this:

I am torn between one way and another... I’m so full of myself — after all, I’ve spent a long time (listening to my brokenness.) Still what I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise... Sometimes there is a part of me that keeps sabotaging my best intentions... I realize that I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time. It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God’s commands, but it’s pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question?

Most of the time this was interpreted as proof of original sin. Or human frailty. And the resolution was confession and repentance. What I've come to trust now is that my failings, weaknesses, brokenness and all the rest are not repugnant to God. Nor are they evil in and of themselves. Rather, my wounds, failings and confusion are just another path into the holy. At this late stage of the game, when I find myself lost and wandering in the wilderness, I take solace in two other truths. The first is best stated by the poet Naomi Shihab Nye in her work called, "Shadow."

Some people feel lost inside their days.

Always waiting for worse to happen.
They make bets with destiny.
My funniest uncle gave up cursing bad words
inside his head. He says he succeeded
one whole hour. He tried to unsubscribe to
the universe made by people. He slept outside
by himself on top of the hill.

When Facebook says I have "followers"––
I hope they know I need their help.
Subscribe to plants, animals, stars,
music, the baby who can't walk yet but
stands up holding on to the sides of things,
tables, chairs, and takes a few clumsy steps,
then sits down hard. This is how we live.

Eastern mystical Christianity teaches that Sister Naomi is right: living like a baby who can't yet walk but stands up anyway is humbling - and that is how God created us. Little ones who learn from our falls. And most of us have many falls. In fact, we fall over and over again. So on those days when there seems to be more falling than anything else, I am practicing remembering: this is how God made me. What can I learn from my fall? The other truth I am slowly coming to cherish, is this one from Rumi.

Rumi's prayer or Naomi's poem suggest that it all leads to God. And tenderness. And grace.And a bit of humility and a lot of learning. It does not lead to church. And probably not to religion either although some organization seems inevitable and maybe necessary, too given the human condition.

Whatever container we create to give shape and form to our quest to rediscover the holiness within our humanity, let's make sure it helps us grow in generosity rather than judgment. Serenity rather than anxious fretting. Trust instead of fear. And a beloved community of solidarity rather than isolation, too. I like the way Barbara Brown Taylor puts it:

I have had my share of frustration over the past few days. More than enough judgment and falling down as well. Today, as the rain waters our tomato and pumpkin plants, I remember that the failures are not the end of the story. Just a part of how it all unfolds. Besides, it all leads to God. Indeed.