Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Dearest God,

In the quiet darkness I walked down the steps to my basement early this morning. Filled with a soul’s joy I turned on the computer, ready to write, desirous of sharing together. When I typed in the username and password, I couldn’t pull up my blog. I tried several times to no avail. I was tempted to be very upset. After all I looked forward to this time alone. But there was a gentle stirring in my heart, telling me to remain calm, trusting.

Connecting with God is not about whether you can make your blog work or get the exact answer to the prayer you want; it is about taking a step toward God and anticipating God’s presence. I may not always see God or hear God’s voice; but I know within the depths of my being that God is present. How do I know? I always return to Jesus’ final words recorded in Matthew, "Lo, I am with you always even to the end of the age." But what if? What if these words were simply the words of a romantic, a writer who longed for an eternal connection? What if Jesus didn’t really say these exact words? Does this mean that God is not present at all times?

What makes sense here? I believe that God at creation took the stuff that became human then breathed life into God’s own creation. The connection at creation was so powerful that God could not abandon that which God had created. This makes sense to me, great sense.

Perhaps I am a romantic, believing that a Creator always wants to connect with its created creature. Am I just solely conceptualizing a human idea, then projecting it onto God? Do I believe a mother always loves her child no matter what; therefore, I believe God always loves God’s own child? The difference is that a human being does not always have the capacity to love endlessly. Situations, circumstances, or conditions can alter that love. But God is not like a human being. Human beings are to take on the likeness of God, not the other way around.

When I play God, expecting my way, directing people and things, I can step beyond my bounds. I try to manage all that is around me. I can misuse others or misdirect people working toward a human goal that may not necessarily be the will of God. The truth is I can only manage the world around me in human terms. I can only go so far. Human power will only manifest itself to a particular end. Divine power, on the other hand, can go much further, do more, create more, bring more to any situation.

My little life annoyances can indeed severe my "connection" with God for a time. But only because I allow my frustration to get in the way of the natural connection that happens moment by moment. I get sidetracked because I can’t make God happen. Thank God I can’t. I don’t want to manufacture God in my own image, like a plastic replica of Jesus. I want the natural flow of spirit love to flow in and out of me as I trust in the Compassionate God of the cosmos.

I needed this morning’s small irritation to remind me who is ultimately in charge. God knows my heart because surely God has placed within me the desire for closeness, a yearning not for spiritual power although that will come but rather a spiritual intimacy that drinks deep from the well of Living Water.

I cannot keep you in the same place
as I would a ceramic angel on a shelf.
I cannot return to yesterday’s vision of God.
Because today is a new day.
And I am not the same as I was yesterday.
I have lived 24 hours
and what has happened to me
during that time
has changed me if ever so slightly.
My time with God is ever changing.
My circumstances vary,
my heart swerves,
my outlook and perspective is different.
I am affected by events
where people destroy or harm one another.
I am uniquely designed
to be moved
by what I see
or hear
or experience.
I am supposed to evolve.
I am made to change.
My challenges are meant to adjust my atoms,
my established ways of thinking or being.
My malleability keeps me
like warm clay in God's hands.
I can be shaped and reshaped
by the Great Master
again and again and again.

I learned a lesson today, Andrea