As people of God, as followers of Christ, why are we not more brokenhearted over the struggles, sins, and tragic choices of others?  Why are we quick to "point the finger" but slow to even "lift a finger" in coming alongside those who need our empathy and support?  Why aren't we a little more like Jesus, who weeped over a city full of people who would soon condemn him to death, and then still asked the Father to forgive them because they didn't truly know what they were doing?

Recently, the story of Cuthbert (634-687) jumped out and grabbed my attention in this regard:

     When Cuthbert came as prior to Lindisfarne he handed on the monastic rule by teaching and example, but some of the monks preferred their old way of life to the rule.  He overcame these by patience and forbearance, bringing them round little by little through daily example to a better frame of mind.  At chapter meetings he was often worn down by bitter insults, but would put and end to the arguments simply by rising and walking out, calm and unruffled. Next day he would give the same people exactly the same admonitions, as though there had been no unpleasantness the previous day.  In this way he gradually won their obedience.  He was wonderfully patient, and though overwhelmed by sorrow at these monks' recalcitrance, he managed to keep a cheerful face.
     He urged his people to lift up their hearts and give thanks to the Lord God more by the yearnings of his own heart than by the sound of his voice.  Often as they were pouring out their sins he would be the first to burst into tears, tears of sympathy with their weakness.
(Bede, A History of the English Church and People; cited in Celtic Daily Prayer, The Northumbria Community Trust)

What would it be like if professing followers of Jesus -- instead of judging, scolding, and accosting people for their sins -- were moved instead to empathy and tears and a love that patiently modeled healthier living?  What would our world think of such "Christians" then?
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Photo credit: © Diane Diederich, iStockphoto.com

At one of the small groups I attended last month, immediately after we prayed a common prayer together that was new to everyone, one of the participants commented: "That's pretty."

At first, I was little taken back by the remark and it's tone, and disappointed that the prayer hadn't impacted the person's soul more deeply.  I thought that prayers were meant to be inspiring, convicting, revealing, and moving... but PRETTY?  You gotta be kidding!

Then all of a sudden, the Holy Spirit seemed to step in and whisper: "Don't you think that prayer is a thing of beauty?  Is prayer meant to be void of all sense of art?  Do you really think it's wrong to appreciate the beauty of a prayer?"

And so, I put the question to all you readers of Paradoxology -- "In what ways should prayer be seen as a thing of beauty, and how have you experienced it as such?"

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[Afterthought:  Can the beauty of a prayer, or a song, or an icon, or an act of worship, ever become in and of itself a stumbling block and hindrance to our connecting with God?]

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Photo credit: © Rob H., iStockphoto.com

The valley of the shadow of death...

just got longer.

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This morning, one month after my mother's sudden passing, my grandmother entered her eternal rest.

Grandmother of three and great-grandmother of nine, Julia Monroe lived in a retirement home in Ontario, California (a 90-minute drive for me).  She was 98.

Remember your servant, Julia, O Lord.

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Photo credit: © Rene Mansi, iStockphoto.com

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