Practice: Visio Devina

Over the years, I have enjoyed the practice of Lectio Devina: a slow, personal study of the Scripture, in which I meditate deeply on short passages.  I use the Revised Common Lectionary website for my scripture selections.  I love how it includes art and prayer that tie to the reading.  

This year, I am beginning the practice of Visio Devina, which is a method of connecting with God through visuals, often religious art.  Many churches, including mine, have chosen to forgo stained glass, icons such as crucifixes and statues, religious art, and other visual manifestations of the Story.  The philosophy is lovely:  the people are the church; the church is just a building to in which to gather, the Word of God stands alone.

But in my own quiet time, I benefit greatly from using art to accentuate my understanding of the Story and to connect with God.  Like Lectio Devina, I spend slow time with the image and listen for God to speak.   I research the symbolism.  The art is not necessarily inspired by God as is the Word, but that is ok. I do not worship the art or the artist, but I allow the art to lead me into worship.

Today, in the midst of Advent, while I wait for Christ's coming, I think on Mary.  There are so many wonderful paintings of the Annunciation, when they angel visits Mary with the life-changing news, but this one has always been my favorite for its simplicity and its "holy buckets, what's going on here" sentiment. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti  Ecce Ancilla Domini! (The Annunciation)1849–50

Here are some things I ponder as I study this picture:  

I wonder how the dear teenage girl in our church is doing with her little son?  I will pray for her.

I wonder what it felt like for Christ to leave heaven.

I wonder how my friends are doing, the ones who have had life-changing events this year.  

What is that red thing in the picture?  

What is the gender of the angel?  Does it matter?

What does it feel like to be a refugee?  A pregnant teenager?  An angel?  

Here is a song from my Christmas CD that I wrote from Mary's perspective.

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My Three Words for 2017

Each year since 2013, I have paused in December to reflect on the year and envision the future.  I have made it a habit to choose three words to set the course for the new year.  These words are not exactly goals or resolutions, they are guiding principles, like compass points that keep me on the path of inward growth and outward purpose.  

Last year, my words were Lift, Pray, and Nourish.  They remained on my kitchen chalkboard wall for the entire year and I read them daily.  Here are my reflections on the power of these words:

Lift-  I wanted to get stronger through literal weight-lifting, and I wanted to be intentional with lifting burdens from others using my resources.  Happily, I am as strong as I've ever been thanks to a gym full of weights and machines and a log book where I track my progress.  And I've found ample opportunities to lift burdens of others...really, there is no shortage of burdens, so the onus is always on my listening and responding to the Holy Spirit.

Pray-  As always, this one is difficult for me, though I found recent comfort in this quote: 

“For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned toward heaven, it is a cry of recognition and of love, embracing both trial and joy.” ― Thérèse of Lisieux  

I think I am of the "surging heart" type, not the "prayer warrior" type.  I think that is okay.

Nourish-  I did better than in the past providng nourishing meals to my family, while openly admitting that every Friday is pizza night and not the healthy kind.  I definitely nourished my mind with a great deal of reading.  Because of my daughter's new driver's license and my kids' schedules this year, a whole world of uninterrupted time opened to me, which I used primarily for reading and listening to audio books.  

So enough of the old. My three words for 2017: Place, Practice, Magnify

Place-  The French have a culinary term called "mise en place."  (French pronunciation: ​[mi zɑ̃ ˈplas]) It refers to having everything in its place before you begin, all the ingredients and the pots and pans in place after carefully reading the recipe.  I've experimented a bit with this in the kitchen lately: placing pre-measured ingredients in little bowls around me before I begin cooking, which makes me feel like a professional and a bit glamorous, like I'm on a Food Network cooking show. But the implications are greater than an organized meal prep.  What if my home, my work, my relationships, and my mind could be described as "mise en place?"   Lofty, I know. 

Practice-  Lately I have been fascinated with all things liturgical and iconic.  I want to know the meanings behind the church year, liturgy, spiritual disciplines, and religious icons.  My evangelical church does not typically enter into these things, which is fine.  Better to do the work on my own.  But the point of knowing the meanings is to practice and experience their intended outcomes, which is deeper communion with God and others.  I am starting with the Daily Examen. 

Magnify- Mary said in Luke 1, "My soul magnifies the Lord."  She spoke this in response to God interrupting her simple life with a GREAT CALL.  She spoke it in the midst of personal turmoil and fear.  Whatever God asks of me, I want to magnify him.  And I want to hold up a magnifying glass to the needs of the world.  And I want to hold up the unforgiving glass to my own sin so that I may be ushered into God's river of forgiveness and the Holy Spirit's unending assistance.  

And with that, I am now accountable for another year of growth.  

On the Son Leaving

When a person leaves your home, there is a tilt in your universe.  The balance scale, so carefully dialed in through the years, is suddenly weighted differently.  Your side is too heavy.  His side is too light.  His room is too clean.  His new life is too mysterious.  

I forgot to take pictures the day we moved him into his dorm room.  I suppose we were too steeped in the moment, reconstructing the futon, laying out the rug, debating the best place for the refrigerator.  I feel badly for not documenting such a momentous occasion: my boy, entering his new room carrying a duffle of clothes and linens in one hand and his banjo in the other, and me following behind carrying a laundry basket and wondering if I did enough to prepare him.  

I wrote him this morning, telling him it's perfectly normal to have an identity crisis at the beginning of college, where you are a small fish (maybe an amoeba) in a big pond.  I don't know that he's actually having one, but I suspect he is.  It's so much better to be known than to start over with a great herd of unknowns.  

Jesus must have felt that way, walking from town to town, humming some futuristic Whitesnake song, "Here I go again on my own..."  Starting over with new people.  Expecting rejection mingled with acceptance.  Leaning on a bit of miracle-making.  

My understanding of life has always depended more on metaphor than numbered lists of "how tos." Currently, life is a balance scale, off-kilter and needing the weights rearranged.  A photo of my boy in his new life would help. Perhaps a miracle would help.  What exactly is the weight of a miracle?