It has been a terrible time for the world lately. Our story as human beings has had enough heartbreak to last a lifetime. Someone once defined heartbreak this way: “It is the emotional tornado that turns everything known upside down, scatters everything familiar and sane to the winds, spins lives into chaos and cuts a swath of sorrow through the landscape.”

At the same time, this kind of pain has another function. Heartbreak can motivate us to remove all the meaningless clutter of beliefs and labels we humans cling to so tightly. It scours everything clean while in its aftermath, it so achingly reveals … What. Really. Matters.

This fragile island home which we call “Earth” is the only known planet with life. It floats in the vastness of the Universe covered by a thin layer of atmosphere bordered by the cold, black, sure death of space. It is fragile. Life is fragile. It’s fleeting. It’s a gift.

Yet we draw imaginary lines and dare to call some: “other.” And then we demonize the other. We say that this side of the line is mine, and make sure you stay on your own side of the line.

When are we going to get it through our thick skulls that we’re all in this together? When will we understand that the lines which we humans draw are imaginary? When will we finally understand that our rock and its people are precarious? That life has meaning? That we humans have worth and our lives are precious.

Or not. There are only two choices: To love; to not love.

We could wring our hands once again at what happened at Christchurch or at Utrecht, and before that at the Synagogue in Pittsburgh, or in London, Mumbai, New York City, Toronto, Paris, Tokyo, Madrid, Bangkok; in Belgium, Afghanistan, India, … at Charlie Hebdo, a Sikh Temple, for schoolgirls in Nairobi, students at grade schools and high schools; in places of worship, means and modes of travel, sports’ gatherings, iconic buildings, landmarks…. or any of the other places where the tornado of heartbreak gathers precipitation.

Or we could harness a dark and dispiriting tornado of sorrow and collectively fashion its energy into a new beginning. We don’t want to cry, send our thoughts and prayers, then wait for the next heartbreak. That is not enough. But we are enough. Together we are!

A wonderful poem by Warsan Shire reads,

“later that night

I held an atlas in my lap,

ran my fingers across

the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.”

We can love better. We can be better. We can be the change we want to see, as Gandhi once put it.

There is a famous story told in Hassidic literature that addresses this very question. The Master teaches a student that God created everything in the world to be appreciated, since everything is here to teach us a lesson. The clever student asks “What lesson can we learn from atheists? Why did God create them?”

The Master responds “God created atheists to teach us the most important lesson of them all — the lesson of true compassion. You see, when an atheist performs an act of charity, visits someone who is sick, helps someone in need, and cares for the world, he is not doing so because his religion teaches him to. He does not believe that God commanded him to perform this act. In fact, he does not believe in God at all, so his acts are based on an inner sense of morality. And look at the kindness he can bestow upon others simply because he feels it to be right.”

“This means,” the Master continued “that when someone reaches out to you for help, you should never say ‘I pray that God will help you.’ Instead for the moment, you should become an atheist, imagine that there is no God who can help, and say ‘I will help you.’”

A similar story is told about an 8^th–century Sufi mystic, Rabia of Basra. She was seen running through the streets of her city one day carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. When someone asked her what she was doing, she said she wanted to burn down the rewards of paradise with the torch and put out the fires of hell with the water, because both blocked the way to God. “O, Allah,” Rabia prayed, “if I worship You for fear of Hell, burn me in Hell, and if I worship You in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise. But if I worship You for Your Own sake, grudge me not Your everlasting Beauty.”

In Christian tradition, this is known as unconditional love, though it is usually understood as the kind of love God exercises toward humans instead of the other way around. Now, thanks to a Muslim mystic from Iraq and a Hassidic rabbi, I have a new way of understanding what it means to love God unconditionally. Whenever I am tempted to act from fear of divine punishment or hope of divine reward, Rabia leans over from her religion into mine and empties a bucket of water on my head.

This is what we need now. To love each other, to act for the welfare of each other, to treat each other with compassion and grace. Our world cannot take much more of what we have just witnessed. But now, it’s up to us to change. It’s up to us to become the change we want to see.

Just before his death, Jack Layton wrote, “Love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic.” Layton was not some weak–eyed romantic. He knew that love, hope, and optimism require hard work, careful planning, and strenuous effort.optimism are hard work, require clear–headed planning, smart and strategic thinking, careful application of resources and determined action.

It’s time to be the change.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

“Piglet?” said Pooh.

“Yes Pooh?” said Piglet.

“Do you ever have days when everything feels … Not Very Okay At All? And sometimes you don’t even know why you feel Not Very Okay At All, you just know that you do.”

Piglet nodded his head sagely. “Oh yes,” said Piglet. “I definitely have those days.”

“Really?” said Pooh in surprise. “I would never have thought that. You always seem so happy and like you have got everything in life all sorted out.”

”Ah,” said Piglet. “Well here’s the thing. There are two things that you need to know, Pooh. The first thing is that even those pigs, and bears, and people, who seem to have got everything in life all sorted out… they probably haven’t. Actually, everyone has days when they feel Not Very Okay At All. Some people are just better at hiding it than others.

“And the second thing you need to know… is that it’s okay to feel Not Very Okay At All. It can be quite normal, in fact. And all you need to do, on those days when you feel Not Very Okay At All, is come and find me, and tell me. Don’t ever feel like you have to hide the fact you’re feeling Not Very Okay At All. Always come and tell me. Because I will always be there.”

Winnie the Pooh always delights me. There is such wisdom, communicated in such a simple and direct way.

I’ve been talking in the last few months with some folks who are going through a time of being Not Very Okay At All. The fact that they would speak with me is a very good thing. Many people know that I have also dealt with depression in my life. With the help of some very good people, I have managed to come through to the other side.

We need to get rid of the stigma about depression. It is not a moral failure, or a failure of any kind. Depression attacks many people, more than we might think. If you’re feeling depressed, it’s not your fault.

This quote from Pooh gives us some insights about how we might deal with feeling Not Very Okay At All.

First of all, don’t keep quiet. When you’re in a rough patch, it’s important to let someone else know. You don’t have to suck it up all by yourself. You don’t have to keep calm and carry on. You’re allowed to freak out for a moment, for a while, to stop, to ask for help. A simple conversation with someone you trust helps immensely—maybe a relative, or a friend, a colleague, a spiritual advisor. If that seems too much, call a helpline or seek advice from your doctor. Who is your Piglet?

Secondly, you’re not alone. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that everyone else has it all together, and you’re the only one falling apart. It’s easy to feel trapped and isolated and overwhelmed. But you’re not alone. Everyone is struggling, even if they don’t show it. As Pooh observed about Piglet, “You always seem so happy and like you have got everything in life all sorted out.” And Piglet responds, “Even those pigs, and bears, and people, who seem to have got everything in life all sorted out … they probably haven’t.”

Thirdly, take the time for yourself. Take a mental health break from work, or school. Take time for yourself. Allow yourself to feel what you’re feeling. That would also be a good time to take a break from social media. Take a nap. Read a book. Watch a movie. Go for a walk. Do some gardening. Whatever floats your boat.

Fourthly, you don’t have to have an answer for what you’re going through. It’s OK not to know what is going on right now. It’s OK not to know how you’re going to fix the things in your life right now. Just take it one day at a time … one hour … one minute at a time.

Fifthly, be open. Things will come to you without you having to stress yourself about it. Stay open to the goodness that is out there in the world, and some of that goodness may well land in your life.

And finally, this is so important that it bears repeating. Don’t keep quiet. Talk with someone. Share what you’re going through. People do care about you, and are looking for a reason to show just how much they love you.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

On Wednesday, the church entered the season of Lent. We mark that day as Ash Wednesday, because we mark our foreheads with the sign of the cross in ashes.

Lent is a 40–day–long season. Forty is one of those important symbolic numbers in the Bible. In the flood, it rained for 40 days and nights. Israel wandered 40 years in the wilderness before entering the promised land. Moses fasted 40 days before receiving the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai. Jesus spent 40 days fasting in the wilderness, preparing for his ministry. The symbolic value of 40 is that it marks a long time … long enough to accomplish the purpose of the event. Forty days is long enough to accomplish the work of Lent.

However, if you were to count the days on a calendar, you’d find that there are actually 46 days in Lent from Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. That’s because the church doesn’t count the Sundays that fall in this season as part of the 40 days. The church has always understood Sunday to be the day of resurrection. Sunday is not a day of mourning and repentance. Sunday is intended to be a day of feasting and celebration, a day of being nourished with God’s goodness.

When Lent was first celebrated, the intention was that the faithful would use the weekdays for repentance and fasting. It was intended to be a daily walk with God, journeying more deeply to the heart of our faith. On Sundays, people would be given a break from their daily penitential walk. Sunday was a day celebrate God’s goodness, to rest in the warmth of God’s grace, and to feast on God’s abundance.

Nowadays, that pattern has changed. People pay less attention to the Lenten discipline in their day–to–day lives during the week. Sundays have become the focus of Lenten devotion for many people.

So what is the purpose of Lent? In the early church, Lent was the culmination of a time of preparing for baptism. During Lent, candidates for baptism would examine themselves, and be examined by others, as to their understanding of what it meant to be a follower of Jesus Christ. For those who had already been baptized, it was a time to make a fresh commitment to walking in the way of Jesus.

That’s why we “give something up for Lent”. It’s not just about giving up something that isn’t good for you anyway, like chocolate or social media. We give something up as a way of clearing the clutter in our lives so that we are more able to focus on God’s love in our lives.

As people who have been baptized, we are part of the community of Christ. We are a new people who belong not to this world, but to God.

As people who belong to God, we strive to honour God’s values in our world. We cherish justice, peace, reconciliation and wholeness. We seek to live in such a way as to honour God in all our dealings. As we have been blessed, so we bless others. As we have been healed, so we touch other lives as gently as we can. As we have been included by God’s grace in a community of hope and reconciliation, so we reach out across all the barriers which keep us apart. We live in the world as people who embody God’s gospel purposes with all of God’s beloved children.

In this context, repentance has to do with the renewal of the heart. That word repentance is often misunderstood. It doesn’t mean to feel really really sorry for what we’ve done wrong. Repentance is about renewing our commitment to God’s ways in the world.

Let me quote former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams: “Repentance happens when you suddenly see the abundance of God’s love and generosity in someone else and you come to the realization that you must change. Not only must you, you want to.”

We repent and learn to listen in a new way for the whisper of God in our lives and in our world. We are spiritual beings. To nourish our spiritual life is as important to us as food and water are for nourishing our physical life. God comes to us in countless ways, again and again, whispering a word of life into our lives, nudging us to see things from a new perspective, prodding us to be renewed in our hearts.

This vital truth is central to all the great religions of the world. They all call us to wholeness and holiness. They all whisper to us of renewal and hope.

In the church, Lent is a time in which Christians journey to the heart of our faith. We respond to God’s call to come home. We take small, faltering steps as we yield ourselves to God’s healing embrace. We clear the clutter in our lives and make more space for God’s spirit to touch us and heal us and lead us into lives of greater wholeness.

So, while Lent is a serious and solemn moment in our lives, it need not be gloomy or depressing. We are being called home. We are being graciously invited to return to the heart of God. We are being embraced by God’s love. We are being healed by God’s insistent Spirit — healed in our personal lives and healed in our communities. We are clearing the clutter—spring cleaning, if you will, in our lives and hearts.

So come again on this journey to the heart of our faith. Come, follow the one who promises us that above all else, we will find rest and healing.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

In my column last week, I wrote about Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD) as a faithful way of thinking about the end of life. While some churches are opposed to this practice, there are many of us which are not.

I wrote that one argument which was used to oppose this practice was to say that it is God’s prerogative as to how long we live, and that for us to choose medical assistance in dying usurped that which only belonged to God. I suggested that if this argument was valid, that if it were true that the number of days allotted to us can only be determined by God, then the same argument suggests that we can also not employ medical means to prolong life.

I received a lot of response to that column, virtually all of it positive. People were grateful that I had raised this sensitive subject, and that I helped them think about it in a way that they hadn’t thought about it before.

Several people also raised questions about other issues raised by MAiD. Let me answer two of those questions in this column. The first is our changing understandings of suicide, and the second has to do with the role of suffering in life.

For a long time, MAiD was referred to as “Assisted Suicide”. The language has changed since then to reflect the view that end of life decisions like this are quite a different matter than considering dying by suicide. People request MAiD as a deliberate choice when it has become possible to sustain life only by intensive and massive medical intervention. Such intervention is often dehumanizing, and a person chooses to die with dignity rather than to wait for an inevitable end.

While there are still some churches which simply condemn suicide as a practice “contrary to God’s will”, many churches now understand that we must respond with compassion and care. The church in which I serve is one whose approach to suicide has changed in healthy and helpful ways.

The Anglican Church of Canada developed a document entitled “In Sure and Certain Hope”, which deals with the subject of MAiD. “The church no longer sees as acceptable interpretations of the motives for suicide cast in terms of lack of courage, unfaithfulness, or in terms of the rejection of God’s will.” Society’s growing awareness and understanding of mental health issues have led to this welcome change. We are becoming increasingly aware that people struggle with suicidal ideation in the course of dealing with mental health issues.

We are becoming more open to discussing mental health, without the sense of strong stigma which characterized such matters in the past. That stigma has not yet been eradicated, but we are generally more aware of the strong and damaging effects of struggling with mental health.

The church also understands and strives to deal compassionately and caringly for those who struggle with suicidal ideation. We try to have a more “nuanced understanding of the situation, health, and motivating factors that might lead an individual to believe that the only viable option in front of them is to take their own lives.”

That leads me directly to the second issue of the role of suffering in life.

For far too long, the church has believed that suffering is a necessary and important part of the Christian life. Many Christians in the past (and still some in the present) point to the teaching of Jesus that we must take up our cross, as well as St. Paul’s teachings about suffering, as a way of legitimizing the necessity of suffering. They have counselled people to remain in abusive relationships, to accept the suffering that comes to us in life, since the Bible clearly teaches that it is a necessary part of faithful living.

Many Christians today disagree. We make a clear distinction between suffering for the sake of the gospel, and suffering as a part of the human condition. When Jesus invites us to take up our cross and follow, it does not mean that we are to accept every act of suffering that is meted out to us. Indeed, Jesus’ words clearly point out that we need to make a choice. The reality is that the general suffering of life, or suffering caused by the ill treatment of others, takes away our choice.

Indeed, many people, whether we are Christian or not, choose to suffer for the sake of another. Parents let go of some of their rights and wants in order to care for children. Children will often make the choice to care for aging parents who are no longer able to care for themselves. Such acts of compassion and self–giving love are exactly what the gospel points to as we choose to deny ourselves for the sake of another’s welfare.

But there are forms of suffering in life which we do not choose—debilitating illness; mental health issues; cancer; an accident which leaves us incapacitated; an abusive relationship. In each case, we must decide anew on a course of faithful living.

I will not go so far as to say that all such suffering has no meaning. That is not my call to make. It’s way above my pay grade!

But I will say that in such instances, it is the individual, in consultation with loved ones and care providers, who has the primary right and responsibility to decide on a course of action which is best and most faithful.

MAiD is such a possible faithful, loving, and wise course of action. If the suffering becomes intolerable, and life can only be sustained by massive medical intervention, then the individual concerned has the right to make an appropriate choice for him– or herself. Such a choice is never made in isolation. Rather it is made in community.

We never give up our right to live with dignity. No one can take that from us. I will go further than that and say that we also have the right to die with dignity. MAiD gives us that option in a way that hasn’t been possible before. I am grateful for that possibility.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

In February 2015, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that parts of the Criminal Code would need to change to satisfy the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. The parts that prohibited medical assistance in dying would no longer be valid.

On June 17, 2016, Canada’s Parliament passed federal legislation that allows eligible Canadian adults to request Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD).

It will come as no surprise that many churches are opposed to MAiD. The Roman Catholic Church has consistently opposed MAiD. Bishops in Alberta and the Northwest Territories have gone so far as to issue guidelines that “priests should consider refusing to conduct funerals for people who have chosen a physician–assisted death.”

Roman Catholic leaders are not alone in taking this stance. Other religious leaders say that supporting terminally ill patients means accompanying them through their pain and fear, not allowing them to actively choose death. They also believe that even suffering holds valuable lessons for patients and survivors.

But it needs to be said that not all churches are opposed to MAiD. Many churches agree that individuals have a right to determine for themselves how they will die. Those churches agree that physician–assisted dying is not to be chosen lightly, but it is a legitimate option for people of faith.

My own church is a case in point. The Anglican Church of Canada acknowledges that although MAiD may be a difficult choice, it is nonetheless a faithful choice to make. The Anglican Church issued a comprehensive document called “In Sure and Certain Hope” which lays out some of the issues involved in the matter of MAiD. It notes that “public opinion has moved clearly and decisively in favour of physician assisted dying”, and that we need to consider all the issues carefully as we support those who have chosen to seek medical assistance in their own death.

One of the common arguments made by Christian leaders against MAiD is that “God numbers our days.” The argument runs like this. From birth to death, our lives are a gift from God. It is God who determines the length of our life. Therefore, when we choose to seek medical assistance in dying, we are going against God’s sovereignty, and taking into our hands a decision which properly belongs to God alone.

The argument is based on various scriptures such as Psalm 139:16 which says, “Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.”

Ray Noah, Senior Pastor of the Portland Christian Center, writes about this Psalm, “I find great comfort and security in knowing that God has my life so ordered that I will neither die a day sooner nor live a day longer than what has already been recorded in his book. You see, life and death are far above my pay grade, so I will happily let Father God take care of that department, thank you very much.”

The whole argument is that only God can choose when we live and when we die. When we take that decision into our own hands, then we overstep our bounds.

On the face of it, the argument seems to be consistent with an understanding of the Bible as the divinely given word in the Bible.

But is it really? Let’s examine it a little more closely.

If it is really true that God numbers our days, then we may not take steps to end our lives prematurely. We are to leave the time of our death completely in the hands of God.

By the same token, we may also not take steps to lengthen our life. In my own case, what that would mean is that as a diabetic, I could not take insulin or any other medication which would help me because my body is no longer able to produce its own insulin. By this argument, I have made a decision to lengthen my days by injecting myself several times each day with the first medically useful product of genetic engineering, and thereby I have taken a decision for myself which ought to be left in the hands of God.

The logic of this argument would also lead to the conviction that we ought not sanction heart surgery or treatment for cancer or any other medical intervention which has the effect of allowing us to live healthy and productive lives for a longer span of time.

The point I am making is that we cannot arbitrarily apply an argument to only one part of life. We cannot say, when faced with the prospect and desirability of MaiD, that we are overstepping our bounds when on the other hand we take steps in many different situations to lengthen the number of our days.

I am an ardent advocate of MaiD, both philosophically and from personal experience. I don’t mean to suggest for a moment that we should take this option lightly. It needs careful consideration and consultation with family members, doctors and others who are important in your life.

But when there are no other options left, MAiD is an important part of living our life with dignity.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

Many of us, even faithful believers, feel like we don’t have enough time for God or for “spiritual things”. We’re busy enough trying to get going in the morning, preparing meals throughout the day, taking care of all the mundane chores and tasks that are part of living.

I’ve been reading a wonderful little book called “Liturgy of the Ordinary” by Tish Warren Harrison, in which she explores where God is present in all of these tasks and chores. In 11 chapters, she highlights practices to guide us as we seek to discern God’s presence in our lives. She takes us through a typical day—waking up; brushing our teeth; eating breakfast, lunch and dinner; arguments with your spouse or children; checking email; sitting in traffic; calling friends; having tea or coffee; and then going to sleep at the end of the day. She helps us discern God’s presence in all of these very ordinary events and moments.

She suggests that we think about approaching these tasks from the posture of faith. As we learn to see God in every ordinary act, we can deepen once again our desire to love God and our neighbour.

For example, waking up well becomes a reminder that “how I spend this ordinary day in Christ is an indicator of how I will spend my Christian life.” Warming up leftovers is a call to “eat such things are as set before me, to receive the nourishment available in this day as a gift, whether it looks like extravagant abundance, painful suffering, or simply a boring bowl of leftovers”.

The book is filled with wonderful little gems like this, all of which help us live with a greater grace and a more fulfilling faithfulness. How can we live so that we can see God more clearly? Where can we see God as we learn to respond well to losing our keys? Or reconciling after another argument with our spouse or children? Or idling in crowded traffic? Or (grumble, grumble) having to go out and shovel more snow?

One of Harrison’s insights which particularly grabbed my attention was her discussion of “imprinting the day”.

Imprinting is a concept in biology and psychology in which “a very young animal fixes its attention on the first object which it sees or hears or touches, and thereafter follows that object. In nature the object is almost invariably a parent…” (Encyclopedia Brittanica). People who rescue animals have found that if they rescue a baby animal in the wild, that baby will accept the human as its mother. It is said to be “imprinted”. It can no longer live in the wild on its own, because it has come to accept that humans will give it what it needs to live.

Harrison applies this concept to our morning rituals. She writes, “shortly after waking, I used to grab my smartphone. Like digital caffeine, it would prod my foggy brain into coherence and activity. Before getting out of bed, I’d check my email, scroll through the news, glance at Facebook or Twitter … My morning smartphone ritual was brief, no more than five or ten minutes. But I was imprinted. My day was imprinted by technology. And like a mountain lion cub attached to her humans, I’d look for all good things to come from glowing screens.”

Well that got my attention, but only because it sounded so familiar.

So I decided to try an experiment. I would start my mornings differently.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the Examen, a spiritual practice which is used at the end of the day to review the day and give thanks for what happened. I adapted that practice for the beginning of the day.

Here’s how I begin my day now. After waking, I lie in bed and think through what the new day will bring. I imagine the people I will meet, the tasks I need to complete, and the ordinary moments of the coming day. I discern the good moments, as well as the moments of struggle. I try to open myself to every new experience which that day will bring.

I’ve been doing this now since the beginning of Advent. I guess you could call it a “new year’s resolution”, since Advent marks the beginning of a new year in the life of the church.

I wish I could tell you that my new routine has been wildly successful or cheerfully buoyant. I still am not a morning person, and I still am a little grouchy in the morning. But I have begun to notice that, very subtly, my days are being imprinted differently.

I no longer begin the day as a consumer. I no longer have to get my morning fix of instant infotainment. I am discovering that the rest of my day is less pressured, less stressful, less distracted. It’s as if, in re–imprinting my day with this act of worship and quiet, I am telling my brain what to care about and what to think about throughout the day — and it’s not the latest tragedy; it’s not Donald Trump, or the latest scandal for Justin; it’s not the latest juicy tidbit.

I’ve come to realize once again that social media doesn’t care about my soul. I have to care for my soul. Imprinting the day in this new way helps me do that, to guard my soul and know in a new way that God is indeed with me.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

From beginning to end, the Bible is the story of God. However, as I’ve written before, the Bible is not God’s story of God. Rather, the Bible is a library of how ancient Israel and the early Christian movement thought about God.

The question I want to ask today is “How did these two ancient communities picture God and God’s relationship to the world?”

It would be nice if there were a single simple answer. But there isn’t. The Bible imagines God in a number of different ways.

Most familiar to us is the personal imagery which the Bible uses to speak of God. These are “anthropomorphic images”, which means that they speak of God as being like a person: God is king, lord, father, mother, warrior, shepherd, creator, and potter.

The most familiar image to many Christians is that of “father”. Too often, however, we’ve taken this image of father literally, as if to say that God really is our father. But the sheer fact that there are so many different anthropomorphic images points to the fact that all of these images are metaphors. God is not literally our father, not literally a warrior, not literally a king or a shepherd. These are human ways of trying to speak about ineffable mystery.

No single image will do, because we believe that God is beyond the power of language to describe, and so we must use many different kinds of images to help us express our sense of who God is.

A second set of images compare God to something inanimate: God is a rock, a fortress, a shield, my hope, my trust, a strong refuge, my portion, the strength of my heart.

Again, these images can’t be taken literally. They speak of God in ways with which we can identify.

A third set of images compares God to animals, such as a mother bear or a ravening lion.

Many of these images suggest that God is “out there”. We imagine a God who created the universe a long time ago, and that creation is separate from God. Because God is mostly “out there”, that means that God is not “here”. To quote a familiar phrase, God is “our father” who is “in heaven”. God is away from us, watching over us from somewhere else. While God may be as close as a parent, God is nevertheless “in heaven”.

On the other hand, there are also some images which suggest that God is as close as our next breath. God is “right here” as well as more than right here. With these images, we picture God as an all–encompassing Spirit. God is not material; God has no physical form. Nevertheless God is present as a reality that surrounds us and everything around us.

Acts 17 describes God as the one “in whom we live and move and have our being”. God is not somewhere else, but all around us, like the air, like the force of love. Psalm 139 takes a similar approach. The Psalmist asks, “Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?” The implied answer is “Nowhere.” The Psalmist continues by imagining a journey through the ancient three–storey universe: ascending into the heavens, descending into Sheol, and travelling to the furthest corners of the earth. The constant refrain is “You are there.”

Some of the meanings of the biblical words for spirit also suggest this same way of seeing God. In both Hebrew (“ruach”) and Greek (“pneuma”), the words which we translate as Spirit are exactly the same words which we translate as “wind” or “breath”. God is like wind, like breath.

Imagine what “wind” meant to ancient people. They did not think of it as a material reality, as molecules in motion. Rather, they experienced wind as a powerful, invisible force. You can feel its effects, but you can’t actually see the wind.

The same is true of breath. For the ancients, breath is an invisible life force within us. It was mysterious and unseen, yet always present. They would describe God as ruach and pneuma, because they experienced God to be like the wind that moves outside of us and the breath that moves inside of us. We are in God, even as God is also within us.

The fancy theological word for this is panentheism. The Greek roots of the word explain its meaning: pan (everything) en (in) theos (God). Everything is in God and God is in everything. We are in God. We live and move in God. God is not “out there”, but a presence all around us.

There is a tension between these ways of seeing God. Our natural tendency is to want to resolve that tension between these two ways of seeing God. But notice that the Bible never does. It allows both ways of experiencing God to stand side by side.

Why? Because these images and metaphors try to capture a sense of how we experience God. At the same time, the Bible is always very clear that we can never capture the whole of who God is. When we think we have done so, we have come up with nothing more than an idol.

So while we may use personal images when we speak to God, we also revel in the presence of a God who is not out there, but right here, a God in whom we live and move and have our being. God is close at hand, as close as our own breath.

In this way, the life of faith is not believing in a God who may or may not exist. The life of faith is a life of trust, entering into a relationship with the God is who is “right here”.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

One of my favourite musicals of all time is “Fiddler on the Roof”. The opening number sings about the importance of tradition and sets up the central point of tension in the show. Tradition, says Tevye, tells us who we are, how to behave, how to relate with one another and with God. Tradition is the glue that holds a family or a community together. Tradition … and the rest of the show shows how tradition begins to unravel as the complexities of life unfold.

Our own society has all kinds of traditions as well, whether we’re aware of them or not. When Presidents are inaugurated, or Prime Ministers installed in office, it is surrounded by all kinds of tradition. Remembrance Day is marked by tradition. Weddings and funerals and other significant transition points in life are marked by tradition.

Life can be its best when we take long–standing traditions and fill them with new meanings appropriate to a new day and a new way of being.

Jaroslav Pelikan, one of the foremost historians of Christianity, however warned us of the dangers of a narrow traditionalism. In one of his famous aphorisms, he said, “Tradition is the living faith of the dead; traditionalism is the dead faith of the living”.

I was reminded of this again when a friend sent me an email about the standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) in the US. The standard is 4 feet, 8.5 inches. What a weird number that is! It’s exceedingly odd. Why such an odd gauge?

Well, the simple answer is “that’s the way they built them in England”, and US railroads were built by English immigrants. And the English built them like that because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre–railroad tramways, and that’s the gauge they used. And ‘they’ used that gauge because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons which used that wheel spacing. And the wagons had that odd wheel spacing because otherwise the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England because that was the spacing of the wheel ruts in the old roads. Those old roads were built by imperial Rome so their legions could travel long distances more easily. Those roads have been used ever since.

And the ruts in the roads were that wide because they were originally formed by Roman war chariots, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Finally, the wheels were that far apart to accommodate the rear ends of the two horses which pulled the chariots.

So the US standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches is derived from the original specs for an Imperial Roman war chariot. It’s based on the space for two horses’ rear ends. Bureaucracies, which thrive on traditionalism, live forever.

But it gets even more interesting. Modern space shuttles have two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These solid rocket boosters were designed at a factory in Utah. The engineers who designed them would have preferred to make them a bit fatter … but they had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory happens to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The rockets had to fit through the tunnel, which is slightly wider than the railroad track; and the railroad track, as you know, is about as wide as two horses’ behinds.

So, a major design feature of what is arguably the world’s most advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse’s rear end.

I couldn’t help but laugh when I got that email. All of us, to some extent, are caught by such unthinking traditionalism. We think that the way we do things makes good sense … but truthfully, we often do them that way because we’ve always done them that way. We never really think it through. We do something once … and twice … and then it becomes a tradition, even when the original reason for it has passed. After all, who decrees that a set of train tracks needs to be the same width as a set of chariot wheels? Arguably, it was important to be aware of the rear ends of horses for a chariot, but it makes much less sense for a train.

The church is especially vulnerable to this. A popular spiritual sings, “Gimme that old time religion” because “it was good enough for (add a name here)”.

But let me challenge that. Is it really true that our faith doesn’t change? I don’t think so. Each generation has new questions based on new knowledge, and I would argue that each age needs to formulate its faith in a new way to meet new needs and to answer new questions. We can’t just keep doing the same old things the same old way.

And honestly, while change is difficult, it’s easier to discern new answers to new questions than it would be to change the railway track system in North America.

Tradition can be a very good thing. Traditionalism usually is pretty unhealthy.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt

I read a short piece by Garrison Keillor which both tickled my funny bone and made me stop and think. That’s a rare thing in a piece written by a humorist, so I thought I’d share it with you. Keillor was the creator and host of the popular radio show “A Prairie Home Companion” from 1974–2016.

“Church was practically full last Sunday, with a few slight gaps for skinny fashion models but otherwise S.R.O., and everyone was in an amiable mood what with several babies present for baptism, and then the organ rang out the opening hymn, the one with “teach me some melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above” in it, an exciting line for us Episcopalians who rarely get into flaming stuff, and I sang out from the fifth pew near some babies and their handlers, some of whom weren’t familiar with this famous hymn of Christendom, though later, around the baptismal font, they would pledge to renounce the evil powers of this world and bring up the child in the Christian faith, but their ignorance of “Come thou fount of every blessing” suggested that they might bring up the child to play video games on Sunday morning, but what the hey, God accepts them as they be and though with some reluctance so must we, and I’m sorry this sentence got so long.

“I was brought up evangelical and got baptized when I was 15, the morning after a hellfire sermon in which the evangelist suggested strongly that our car was likely to be hit by a fast train on our way home and we’d all be killed and ushered into eternity to face an angry God. I was the third child in a family of six and the thought that my five siblings and two parents would lose their lives on my account weighed heavily and so in the morning, as a life-saving measure, I asked to be baptized, and Brother John Rogers led me into Lake Minnetonka, I in white trousers and white shirt, he in a blue serge suit, shirt and tie, and immersed me in the name of the Holy Spirit. I have been careful crossing railroad tracks ever since.

“Our church sent around a questionnaire a month ago, asking, “Why do you come to church?” and I still haven’t filled it out. For one thing, I go because I read stories in the newspapers about declining church attendance and I hate to be part of a trend. For another, church is a sanctuary from thinking about myself, my work, my plans for the week, my problems with work, my view of DJT and my PSA and most recent MRI, my lack of exercise, other people’s view of me, myself, and I, and frankly I’m sick of myself and so would you be if you were me. My mind drifts during the homily — the acoustics amid Romanesque splendor are truly lousy — and my thoughts turn to my beautiful wife and our daughter and various friends and relatives, Lytton and Libby, Bill Hicks the fiddler, Peter Ostroushko, Fiona the Chinese exchange student, and I pray for them. I pray for solace and sustenance in their times of trial and I ask God to surprise them with the gift of unreasonable joy. I pray for people caring for parents suffering from dementia and people caring for children who are neurologically complicated. I pray for the whales, the migrating birds, the endangered elephants.

“And then the homily’s over and we confess our sins and are forgiven and everyone shakes hands and goes forward for Communion, a small wafer and a swallow of wine. Then a blessing and a closing triumphant hymn as the clergy and deacons process down the aisle and then I go home.

“It’s an hour and a half with no iPhone, no news. Last week is erased, bring on Monday. The babies will grow up to be impatient with orthodoxy and eager to be other than whatever their parents are, but it was holy water they were splashed with, not Perrier, and who knows but what they might wander back into church one day and appreciate the self–effacement it provides.

“Man does not live by frozen pizza alone. Sunday does not need to be like Saturday or Monday. Turn down the volume, dim the bright flashing lights of ambition, look into your heart, think about the others, one by one. As part of the service, you get to reach around, right, left, forward, back, and say a blessing on them all (“The Peace of God be with you”) and when else do you get to do that? Not in the produce section of the supermarket. People need to be blessed. Shouting and sarcasm and insult have not worked, so move on. God loves you, reader. Bless you for coming this far. Go in peace.”

Keillor points to our need for space … and time … and quiet. A time to be with ourselves. A time to be with others. A time to be with God, however you construe who God is for you. He reminds us that our lives include praying for or thinking about others.

Let me encourage you to be part of a community of that kind of grace.

Rev Yme Woensdregt

The last few weeks, I’ve written some columns about a life worth living. I’ve quoted Jean Vanier, Saint Teresa of Calcutta, and Michael Josephson. All had some valuable insights into what makes a life valuable. It reminds me of a wonderful quote by Winston Churchill: “We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”

There is at least one more element which deserves some reflection. In order to live a life worth living, we will need to take time to reflect on our lives. While the three people I mentioned above give helpful insights, they do not offer cookie–cutter approaches to how we can do it. Each of us is responsible for reflecting on our own lives, setting our own priorities, and determining what would be most important for us in how we live and how we can make positive contributions to all the different communities of which we are a part.

How might we go about examining our lives? How might we find ways to reflect on our lives so that we can move forward in a more intentional way?

Let me suggest a tool which has been helpful for me. It arises from the Spiritual Exercises developed by St. Ignatius of Loyola. If you’re not a spiritual person, please read on anyway, because I’m convinced that this process can be used in any number of different ways.

St. Ignatius of Loyola was a Spanish priest and theologian who lived from 1491–1556. He is best known as the founder of the religious order called the Society of Jesus, commonly called the Jesuits. This order was a missionary order, and is well–known for establishing colleges and universities such as Gonzaga University in Spokane.

Jesuit spirituality is a very concrete form of spirituality, which is grounded in the conviction that God is active in our world. As the great Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote: “God is not remote from us. He is at the point of my pen, my pick, my paintbrush, my needle — and my heart and my thoughts.” The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius is a way of discerning God’s presence in our everyday lives, and doing something about it.

One of the most popular Ignatian exercises is called the “Daily Examen”. It’s a spiritual review of ourselves which involves prayerfully recollecting moments during the day and reflecting on how God was present at those times, followed by a decision to act in some way.

In this way, the Examen is concrete. It focuses our minds on the day just past and the feelings which were stirred within us at those specific moments.

To put this in less overtly religious language, this kind of spirituality allows us to examine our lives so as to discern ways in which our lives will be of benefit to others. We review each day, remembering moments of gratitude, moments in which we acted according to our highest and best instincts, as well as moments in which we failed to do so. This kind of daily review is a helpful way of discovering the patterns of our lives with gratitude, and also provides us with opportunities to correct what needs to be corrected. We examine our lives so that we might live with greater intentionality.

St. Ignatius recommended a five–step process to help us meditate on our lives at the end of each day. (I’ll use less religious language in brackets in each step.)

1. Place yourself in God’s presence. Give thanks for God’s great love for you. Be aware of the Light in whose presence we live. (Become aware that we live in a vast universe in which we do not live for ourselves alone, a universe which we share with other people, other creatures, and forces which we cannot see or understand.)
2. Pray for the grace to understand how God is acting in your life. Seek to discern the movement of God’s Spirit in our actions and words. (Become aware that our actions and words are determined by our upbringing, our culture, our origins, and that they have an effect on other people and indeed all of nature.)
3. Review your day. Recall specific moments and your feelings at the time. (Review your day. Recall specific moments and your feelings at the time.)
4. Reflect on what you did, said, or thought in those instances. Were you drawing closer to God, or further away? (Reflect on what you did, said, or thought. Were you becoming more clearly the person you wish you could be, or were you regressing?)
5. Look toward tomorrow. How might you collaborate more effectively with God’s gospel purposes in life? Be specific and conclude with prayer. (Look toward tomorrow. How might you continue to be a force for good in your world? Be specific, and conclude with silent reflection.)

This form of the Examen places a special emphasis on gratitude and feelings. The heart of the practice is step three — review your day. James Martin in “The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything” suggests that we think of it as a movie playing in your head. “Push the play button and run through your day, from rising in the morning to preparing to go to bed at night. Notice what made you happy, what stressed you out, what confused you, what helped you to be more loving. Each moment offers a window to where God has been in your day.”

This kind of self–examination has gotten a bad rap in the last while. People have become too focused on self–criticism. But if we focus on gratitude and growth in our lives, it becomes a very helpful tool.

And in that, for me at least, God is present.

Rev. Yme Woensdregt