a surrender - 72

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter ten)

 

in this moment

 

I've lost my memory. That’s what Heather tells me. I’m in the hospital and I don’t remember all that has been happening over the last few weeks. And every time she explains it to me, I immediately forget again. It’s some kind of amnesia, the doctors told her. In time, they said, my memory would come back, though probably not everything.

But I remember what came before. A worldwide pandemic put a stop to retreats on the farm for two years and, for a number of reasons, we didn’t have much hope for starting them up again. Then another family on the farm, with two children Ian’s age, who had been good playmates for him, decided to move away. And, more recently, some policy changes had been announced. There wouldn’t be any more “resident volunteers.” I hadn’t been too surprised by this, rather I was surprised it didn’t happen sooner. But that put us in another very difficult situation. 

Because we’ve come too far. We’ve taken too many steps away from the boat. And the life we’ve been given has been too good. For almost thirty years, I have been free to do the work that love inspired me to do, and give it as a gift. I’ve been free to give my time to poor people, and disabled people, and old people. I’ve been free to give every day to my child, so I know him and he knows me. And to help him grow and learn, with more depth and freedom than any school can allow. I’ve been free to share work equally with Heather, so she’s free to give her time to her writing and her garden and her friends. And everything that has come to us has been free too, given by people who are also inspired by love. By God.

Jesus told his followers that God wanted to give them life, and make them free. And God has given us life and freedom. 

So it doesn’t seem right to turn my back on that, to go back to being an employee, looking to an organization to tell me the value of my work. It doesn’t seem right to let my actions be driven by a job description or a manager’s priorities. Or by someone’s demands for rent. And I don’t want anyone to have to give me anything because official policy says so. I only want them to give me what they want to, inspired by love, the same love that inspires me. I know that will be enough for me, and for my family. More than enough.

Continued...

a surrender - 71

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

Looking back over the years since I walked away from the Navy, I’ve noticed something strange. Again and again, when I had been narrowly rescued from disaster, it turned out that the people involved were not trying to help me at all. They weren’t the ones rescuing me. The Navy lawyers were just trying to avoid the cost and negative publicity of a trial. And I was set free. The person who called the police was just trying to get rid of a homeless guy. And I ended up in a warm bed. The board of the campground was just saying no to a project that was too costly. And Heather and I, and our three-year-old child, kept our home. The new owners just found it simpler and easier to offer free housing to dedicated volunteers. And we were able to continue to “freely give” as Jesus taught us. 

When I thought I had to come up with a plan to save our life on the farm, I pushed my idea feverishly. But God didn’t need my help. When the new owners were being advised to send our family away, I didn’t even know it was happening. But that didn’t matter. Because God didn’t need my help.

It is said that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing. I entered the Navy with thoughts like that in mind. And burned myself out working in a homeless shelter, thinking the same thing. But, to be honest, I didn’t find the people in the fight against evil to be particularly good, myself included. What I found instead was that the fight against evil justified a lot of things that, it seemed to me, could also be called evil. But this failure also doesn’t matter. Because whether evil triumphs or not is not going to be determined by us. God stops evil, often through circumstances and people who know nothing of what they are doing, or even by turning one evil against another. God doesn’t need our help.

God wants us, yes. But not for our labor. God doesn’t need a workforce. God doesn’t need an army. God doesn’t need our help. God wants us, but not for what we can do. God just wants us—for us. There is nothing we can offer God, but ourselves.

That’s what faith is. A surrender of ourselves.

It takes no strength at all. It is a surrender in weakness, when we despair of our strength. It takes no effort, because it is the end of effort, the end of pushing, the end of struggling. Surrender is the end of what we can do, and the beginning of what God can do.

And what God can do is love. The power of God is the power of love. It is the inspiration and the energy for every good thing, every good word, every good action. It connects every person who loves, and makes them one family, one body. It owns everything and can provide anything, because, when love inspires it, any thing owned by any person can be given. As a free gift. Love is a power that cannot be bought or stolen or used for evil. It is a power without limit and without end.

And it is a power that is made perfect in weakness.

Continued...

a surrender - 70

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

There’s a letter by one of Jesus’ early followers, in which the writer says he prayed that a certain weakness, a “thorn in the flesh,” might be removed from his life. He prayed this again and again. But God didn’t remove it. Because, God told him, “my power is made perfect in weakness.”

We human beings, though, individually and as societies, are not content with weakness. Weakness means vulnerability. Which means danger. So we work very hard to build up our strength. And we organize ourselves, to combine our strengths into something even more powerful. This power is impressive, greater than any of us, and it gives us hope. A hope we cling to. No matter how many times our organizations fail us—our governments, our corporations, our unions, our hospitals, our churches—still we cling desperately to this hope. The “power of the people” will save us. It must.

But Jesus avoided this power, and he embraced weakness. He chose to be poor. He gathered no political party, led no army. Instead, he trusted that the power of God would provide for him and his followers, and protect them. He chose to be weak because God is strong. And God’s power is made perfect in weakness.

Despite our continual pursuit of strength, sooner or later each of us must face our weakness. Maybe it’s in a monastery garden, when our life has fallen apart. Maybe it’s when we realize that we are not the hero we thought we would be. Maybe it’s when we admit that we are an alcoholic. Maybe it’s when we accept that our organization will not survive. Maybe it’s when we look in the mirror and discover that we are old. In that moment, we have a choice. Cling to our hope that our strength will always return, ever stronger—or admit that our strength, even the strength of all of us together, isn’t enough. Isn’t enough to stop the pain, the hunger, the lies, the isolation, the death. Not even within ourselves. And it will never be enough. If we can admit that, then we are close to surrender, to faith, close to embracing our weakness, and trusting God’s power instead of our own.

We face that choice again and again in our lives. Each time it is more difficult. Though I had walked thousands of miles, the first step with Heather by my side was the most difficult. And the two of us losing our place to live was nothing compared to the possibility of losing our home when we had Ian with us. I often think of that story of Peter walking on the water. I’m sure his first step was frightening. But he was still close to the boat then, he could easily get back to it if he needed to. Then he took another step. And another. He was getting pretty far from the boat. A few more steps and he wasn’t sure if he could swim back in time. Each step took him further away from safety, each step made him feel more deeply how vulnerable he was. Though he had made it a long way, it didn’t get easier. Because each step was a greater risk, each step was more impossible than the last.

But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that it’s impossible for us. It doesn’t matter that, even if we could manage to all work together, we still wouldn’t have the strength to stop the evil and suffering in the world. It doesn’t matter. Because God never asked us to. God never put the world in our hands. God doesn’t need our help.

Continued...

a surrender - 69

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

Soon after I found out that the new owners were letting us stay, I learned that they had been advised not to. During the transition, some outside advisors had been brought in to help. And one of the advisors told the church group leaders that they should start fresh. None of the people who had been living on the farm should be allowed to stay. I think this was supposed to avoid complications and give the new group freedom to do things their own way. This advisor happened to know us, though, and knew our situation. I couldn’t believe it. How could he do that? I felt like confronting him, but wasn’t sure if I should. Then a few days later I was helping out in the bakery, washing dishes alone in the communal kitchen, and one of the advisory meetings ended in the next room. The man was there. I didn’t know what to do. So I decided that, if he just left, I wouldn’t say anything. I heard people walking out the front door. Then the door to the kitchen opened.

It was him. He started chatting, but I turned on him and said, “I know what you did.” 

He stopped, confused. 

“You told them to get rid of us,” I continued, my voice shaky. “But God saved us.” 

I knew that this man had been involved with many efforts to promote justice and help needy people. “You say you care about the vulnerable,” I said. “Don’t you see that we’re the vulnerable ones here? The powerless ones? That we would lose our home and have nowhere to go?” I was so upset, I was trembling. “You sit in those meetings, with the owners, making big decisions, doing what’s best for the organization, and we’re outside waiting to know if we’ll still have somewhere to live.” I took a breath. “I understand you’re sad that the community is losing this place,” I went on, before he could say anything. “But, please, please, think about what you’ve done here. If they had listened to you, they would have pushed us—our child—out. Because of your words.” Another breath. “But they didn’t. We’re still here. Because God….” 

He interrupted, defending himself, but I couldn’t bear to listen to it and rushed out of the room. I wished I could have said it better. But maybe that was enough.

Continued...

a surrender - 68

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

That seemed like the best decision, from a practical point of view, but it didn’t look good for Heather and Ian and me. The campground was well established and very professional. If we wanted to stay on, we would have to be hired by them. And it didn’t seem at all likely that the camp’s organizational structure would accommodate our unusual lifestyle. It seemed almost certain that we would have to go.

But I had no idea where we could go. In the weeks that followed, while we waited for the final agreement with the campground, many ideas tumbled around in my head. But none of them inspired much hope. Our time was running out.

Then, two days before the paperwork was supposed to be signed, there was an unexpected announcement. The governing board of the campground had voted unanimously to not accept the farm property. Apparently the camp did not have the personnel or resources to take on the new property. It seemed that the camp director, who had made the proposal, had been acting on his own, without the support of the board. So the campground would not be taking over after all.

That set off a two-day scramble in the community. They thought the decision had been made, but now there was no one to take the land. There were frantic discussions. Then another announcement. Now the property would be given to a local church group, who wanted to start an educational farm.

We were stunned. That changed everything for us. Some of the local church leaders were friends of ours. And this wasn’t an established organization, so they might be flexible enough for us to fit in. As a church group, they might even be open to us continuing our retreats on the farm. It took several weeks before we would know for sure, and I sweated quite a bit during those days because we felt so helpless. We were grateful that one of the church leaders, our friend Dennis, often offered us words of support and reassurance. Then finally it was settled. We could stay. It turned out that we were the only family that did stay. The new owners were happy to have our experience with the farm, and all the skills that we had learned in our years working here. And we could keep doing our retreats, as well as helping them develop new retreat ideas. We would be “resident volunteers.” This was basically what we had been previously. We could choose the projects that we worked on and didn’t have to pay for our housing. Later I learned that this arrangement had been chosen, in those early days of planning, primarily for its ease and simplicity. But for us, it was a perfect fit.

Continued...

I recall, as he
calmly teaches the teachers,
his cradle of straw

(previous years' Christmas haikus begin here)

a surrender - 67

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine)

 

God doesn't need our help

 

When our son was born, there were several other families with children on the farm. We didn’t think we would have any more children ourselves, but he would have playmates. Then, four years later, they were all gone.

The farm community had been having troubles for several years. Financial troubles and troubles agreeing about important decisions. They were also having a hard time getting younger people to join them. Then, over a period of a few months, several older members died, including a man who had been a trusted and beloved leader in the community for many years. All this seemed to convince most of the people that, after more than forty years, the end had come. A few families that had been pillars in the community announced that they were leaving. And then those who remained decided to disband and, as they had always planned, give their houses and land away to a charitable organization.

This came as a shock to Heather and me. We weren’t involved in the meetings or the decision-making, since we weren’t official members. So we didn’t see how dire the situation was, until the decision was announced. There didn’t seem to be any clear options for us. We didn’t have any stable income or property or family nearby. And we had a three-year-old child. The life that had seemed so stable felt now like it was collapsing under us. And we didn’t have any idea what would come next. 

An important meeting was scheduled, to decide who would receive the farm. Several small charitable groups would be presenting their proposals to the remaining community members. I also frantically put together a proposal. It was to provide low cost housing to the immigrant workers who came every season to help with the picking of the berries, and train them to eventually take over management of the farm. That would allow any of us who wanted to stay on the farm to stay, and would also support poor immigrants, who were having an especially hard time in our country at the time. I made a passionate presentation. But I think it was obvious to everyone but me that the idea didn’t have the support of the remaining community or the necessary connections in the immigrant community. After the presentations, I prayed hard and hoped desperately as they deliberated. But my proposal had no chance. The decision was made to give the farm to a Christian campground a few miles away.

Continued...

a surrender - 66

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter eight, "where is God?") 

No.

No! I was wrong then? Then what was he? Tell me that, what was he? Was he a liar? Him? He was truth itself and no one knows it as I do. Was he a fool? Proud, hopeful, overreaching—weak? Is that what demons of hell screamed and ran from? No. He was the one, he was everything, he was the very son of God and they killed him. And now the world is dark and empty but I’ll tell you one thing—I don’t care if he’s dead, I’m his—they can kill me too if they want but I’m his.

And I will always be.

That’s the sun. I can go now. I can go to him.

I did wonder during that time of confusion and grieving if we were wrong about God’s help. It took us a while before we felt ready to try again, and then when we did, it didn’t work. The first time, she had gotten pregnant so quickly. But now, month after month after month the blood came, dashing our hopes. I could make no sense of it. Never give up, that’s what they say. And we didn’t give up, we kept trying. And kept trying. But each time Heather gave me the sad news, I grew more unsteady. I was feeling less and less sure about this. Did we want to start our family this way, pushing and pushing, like it was something we were going to achieve by relentless, unyielding determination? That’s not how we had made it this far. We had made it this far by the power of God, taking each step as it was set before us, a beautiful, generous gift. So when Heather finally suggested that maybe we should stop trying, it sounded right.

“Never give up” might be good practical advice in life, but it’s not faith. Faith is a surrender. It’s the farthest thing from relentless, unyielding determination. It’s a prayer you say when you’re on your knees. Like Jesus was, that dark, lonely night before he was arrested. “Not my will, but yours be done.”

In the days after the miscarriage, I wrote the words of a song in my journal. It was sung by Lacey Sturm, powerfully, loudly, and I remember crying as I heard her shout:

Here you are 
down on your knees again
Trying to find air to breathe again 
Only surrender will help you now

See
and believe

I think it was important for me then to give up, to stop pushing. It was important for me to stop trying to decide what should or shouldn’t be happening. That wasn’t for me to decide. And it was important for me to stop trying to make sense of the loss and the pain. Because I couldn’t make sense of it, no matter how hard I tried. 

But I could ask. I could ask the only one who had the answer.

God, oh God—
why? 

Where are you?

Mary was overwhelmed with the answer when she arrived at Jesus’ tomb, and he wasn’t in it. And we were overwhelmed the following Easter with the news that Heather was pregnant again. The baby would be born right after the farm season ended. Good timing.

He would be named Ian. It means “God is gracious.”

Continued...

a surrender - 65

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter eight, "where is God?") 

In the days that followed I was miserable and confused. I remember sadly telling our friends that we wouldn’t be having a baby after all. I thought and prayed, but couldn’t make any sense of it in my mind. And it scared me. We had finally felt secure enough to bring a child into our precarious life, because it felt like God was helping us. But now that feeling was shaken. I didn’t understand it. We had had so many surprising experiences of what seemed like God’s care and support, so we had felt that it was safe enough for a child. Then it seemed that a child was given to us, and we had been so happy and hopeful. And grateful. Now that child was dead.

The miscarriage happened just after Easter. A few years earlier, we had led the Easter church service for the community on the farm. Heather had written a dramatic reading based on the Easter story. It was set in the days after Jesus’ execution, when his followers were in hiding, terrified and confused. It began with the thoughts of Mary of Magdala, as she prepared to visit Jesus’ tomb:

My eye is pressed to the crack in the shutters, looking for light. The doors and the windows are locked and barred.

The sky is growing gray in the east, I think it is, I know it is; soon it will be light enough to go. Shabbat is over now, that terrible Shabbat. Sitting in the dark, not moving, not speaking; the shuffle of someone’s foot in the darkness, then silence again. Nothing we could bear to say. I sat with the other women around the spices and the smell of the myrrh made me dizzy, and the shadows would shift and float, and I would come to myself again and again. Almost before I had time to think it’s not real—it’s a nightmare, I was jolted by the knowledge that it’s not. It’s true. It happened. I was there.

He’s dead.

He’s dead and the world is not what I thought it was. He’s dead, and it wasn’t true. Oh, oh I know nightmares if anybody does, they walked beside me in the living day, in the time of my demons…. I saw water turn to blood under my hands, I believed my touch would kill children; I ran from them. There were voices, they were with me when I lay down and when I got up—whispering God hates you… until he came.

He told me they were lies. He said to trust him. He asked me if I wanted them gone. They were flailing and screaming but I shouted over their voices, I shouted yes with all my strength—and he whipped them. Oh, if those men could have seen him then, those soldiers, those priests, if they could have seen the power in his hand, the light. His eyes were like the sun—terrible as an army with banners… And they really thought they could kill—Him?

And they did. They did.

There is no doubt. I watched him die. I watched his body broken on the tree. His breaths grew shorter; farther apart; desperate, fast, inhuman gasps, with silence in between. One last one, and then—no more. There is no doubt.

He’s dead. And the world is empty now. And everything he said—

I’m like them now—I never thought I’d be like them. Like my uncle Matthew and the others, when Judas the Galilean was killed and his army scattered, and they came home exhausted and with bitter eyes. They thought Judas was the Messiah. And they were wrong. You believe in a man, you put all your faith in him, the very life in your body is his—who’s to say he didn’t shine in their eyes, as my Lord shone when he drove my demons away, who’s to say he didn’t pull them out of the depths and back into life? You believe in a man, you believe. And then they kill him. And you have to face the truth.

You were wrong.

Continued... 

a surrender - 64

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter eight)

 

where is God?

 

Waiting for the doctor in the brightly lit examination room, we were nervous with anticipation. This was the day we would get to see our baby. The doctor finally came in, explained how the ultrasound worked, and then started the procedure. Our eyes eagerly searched the video image. It was hard to decipher what we were seeing.

The doctor seemed puzzled also. Then she said she was sorry. It seemed that there wasn’t anything there. Sometimes, the doctor told us, early in a pregnancy, the baby stops developing for some reason. It was fairly common, she said.

But it wasn’t common for us. We were stunned. I couldn’t believe it. We walked mechanically out of the doctor’s office and drove home, not knowing what to say to each other, except I love you.

In the days that followed, I kept hoping that the doctor was somehow mistaken. She had said we should expect a miscarriage in the coming days. But I prayed for some kind of miracle. Heather’s pregnancy had seemed like such a gift that I couldn’t believe it was for nothing. I felt like I had to keep believing, that I shouldn’t let go.

But then the pain came. Heather woke up very early one morning with abdominal cramps and some sharper pains, and she couldn’t go back to sleep. She got out of bed and tried to watch a movie to take her mind off it. But after an hour the pain was much worse, so she woke me and said we should go to the hospital. We didn’t have a car. I quickly went to another family’s house, and had to go in and knock on their bedroom door to wake them and ask to borrow their car. By the time I got back, Heather’s pain was worse. Then, when I tried to get her to move, she passed out.

I didn’t know what to do.

Should I try to carry her to the car? Could I make it? Was it even safe? My mind was whirling frantically. How long had she been unconscious?

Then slowly her eyes opened.

And she said the pain was less now. We decided to wait a little while, and gradually she felt better. Relieved, I returned the car to our neighbor; but walking back home, I was angry and crying. Losing the baby wasn’t enough, we had to go through this agony too? Why?

Where was God?

Continued...