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I am a church woman, and I was a church girl — religious to the core. I have been in churches, and served on the staff of churches, large and small — Greek Orthodox churches, Episcopal, Presbyterian, United Methodist, Baptist. Mostly Baptist. A 50-year Baptist and an ordained Baptist minister for 26 of those years.

I enjoy so many fond memories of my time in all of those faith traditions. Some poignant times, some hard times, some joy-filled times, some hilarious times — all made my journey a very rich one. So I will share with you just one funny story. I once was a part of a women’s choral ensemble in one of our Baptist churches. We sang lovely hymn arrangements, some contemporary pieces, and a few high-brow anthems. But at rehearsal one night, our director pulled out a piece of music that was rather mind-blowing. We looked at the lyrics and began to giggle. Soon we were laughing uncontrollably as we saw the opening line of the song’s refrain: “Justice could have called but mercy came instead.”*

Turns out, this was a bonafide gospel song, a quartet song, and we thought ourselves much too musically sophisticated to sing a gospel quartet song. But this is the interesting thing about those song lyrics that seemed to us so funny. In applying my theological and doctrinal knowledge to those lyrics, I determined that the sentence is true. It is very true that God can confront our sins and flaws with justice, but instead covers them with mercy. How full of grace is that truth! How many times have we needed God’s touch of mercy and grace! How many times has my sinfulness convinced me that mercy is out of my reach, that grace is impossible for me!

Pope Francis clearly understands sin in this way. Shortly after he proclaimed the Holy Year of Mercy in 2015, he was asked why humanity is so in need of mercy. He replied, “considering our illness, our sins, to be incurable, things that cannot be healed or forgiven. We lack the actual concrete experience of mercy. The fragility of our era is this, too: we don’t believe that there is a chance for redemption; for a hand to raise you up; for an embrace to save you, forgive you, pick you up, flood you with infinite, patient, indulgent love; to put you back on your feet. We need mercy.” 

When all is said and done, the words of that gospel song are true. Indeed, “justice could have called, but mercy came instead.” It is my hope and prayer that all of us will find redemptive mercy in the God of grace who offers us love, patience and forgiveness.

* Written by R.R. Christian as listed in the Catalog of Published Music

I am digging deep to find strength for the living of these days. Certainly, I am dealing with health issues and aging, enough to wrap a comforting cloak of depression around my self. I am deeply concerned about a dear family member who is working through sorrow. I am sad that people come to the abyss of life feeling that the only answer for them is to take their own lives.

My faith is filled with questions . . . How does faith really work? How can I place myself in God’s comforting presence? How do I pray, for myself, for my family and friends, for this nation, for the world? And most of all my question is simply “Why?”

I hear news reports that cause me sadness. I see photos of parentless immigrant children that break my heart. I hear the voices of individuals who still demean women. I watch senior adults in our nation trying to live without adequate healthcare. I share the shame of homeless veterans who placed their lives in harm’s way for this country. I hear the ringing of gunshots echoing from past school shootings, a sound in my spirit that I cannot silence.

I listen to the voices of young school children who say they are afraid to go to school, and Imsee their anxious parents who just want to hold their children close, far away from danger. And I hear the loud, clear and confident voices of teenagers marching to Washington to demand change. That is the best sound of all, one that should give us all hope.

And then there are the things I don’t see or hear — like the voices of congressional leaders that prefer comfortable complacency over uncomfortable confrontation. Where are their voices of reason? Where is their collective wisdom that could well ease some of our nation’s unease?

That’s it. I’m a bit down about it all. And the honest truth is this: my religious rituals don’t really help. My faith, held for so many years and through so much turbulence, is faltering. My prayers seem to float into the unknown, unheard and unanswered. My laments are in vain. I fight with the demons that tell me my faith will not hold and I wrestle with the angels that whisper, “There is yet a quiet hope that does hold you in holy, gentle hands.”

That’s what I bank on.

Often, I am comforted and inspired by the writing of Bishop Steven Charleston. In this brief writing, he eloquently expresses the difficultly in finding a way to faith.

I am a thinking being not a religious robot, 

And I often find my way to faith,

Finding the holy in questions,

Seeking the sacred in lament;

Wrestling with angels before the dawn finds me . . .

— Bishop Steven Charleston

If we are honest, we will admit that we find the holy in our questioning and we stumble upon the sacred in our laments. Perhaps that is faith’s true path, not the easy path we expected. In the end of all things that bring despondency, we still find our way to faith. We find the holy again and again. We find the sacred over and over even through our laments. 

Faith begins to live in us while we are drowning in sorrow. No, we do not get to the very center of our faith by acting as religious robots. We get there when we stand courageously against our demons and wrestle with the angels that have the power to lift us from the depths.

I have always loved Tree of Life images. They remind us of our rootedness, our connectedness, our potential for flourishing growth. This Tree of Life watercolor features a woman as the giver of life. She is strong and steady, with arms ourstretched, and she stands as the symbol of a foundation at the center of life.

On her chest is an amulet called the “Mati” or the evil eye. The evil eye amulet originated in Greece where it was known as an “apotropaic” amulet, meaning that it reflected harm and thus protected the wearer.

The most powerful symbol in the painting is the WomanSpirit, a symbol of wisdom, strength and life-giving power.

To order an 8″ by 10″ print of this and other watercolor pieces, visit the link below. You will see a variety of watercolors such as:

Enchanted Forest

Holy Ghosts

Ugandan Washday at the River

Circle of Friends

Well-Behaved Women

Circle of Women

Dance!

The Hummingbird

East African Sunset

Bird in Stillness

Gentle Forest

Plains of Africa

Ugandan Crested Cranes

Masai Mara

Branches

Whimsy

Flight

The Gentle Forest

https://kalliopeswatercolors.wordpress.com/2016/03/25/watercolor-prints/

This piece was first published on the blog at revgalblogpals.org. Thanks to that wonderful group for publishing this article and for all their thoughtful and informative publications.

As I reflect on faith and illness, I recall the words of an old hymn, “My anchor holds and grips the solid rock.” Remembering the hymn’s message gives me hope in myself and in my faith. Still, these are empty days for me, and I ask myself these questions:

What is it about faith that raises me up when I have fallen face-first into the dirt?

What is it that gives me the strength to get up, dust myself off, and continue this faith journey?

What is it that assures me that my faith still holds “and grips the solid rock?”

My thirty-four year ministry journey was life-giving, until 2014, the year I endured a drastic life interruption. A serious illness threw me into a year of multiple hospitalizations and several brushes with death. Suddenly, I was plunged into what I can only describe as desert days. The diagnosis?

End-stage renal disease

It sounded awful to me, “end-stage.” Its meaning is simple: the final stage of kidney disease when your kidneys have failed and you cannot survive without dialysis or a kidney transplant.

Those desert days included most of the things I had always dreaded about hospitalization — near-fatal infections, endless blood draws, collapsed veins, mental confusion, physical weakness, long and sleepless nights, and debilitating fear.

In time, I found my way back to my new normal after months of therapy where I struggled to regain the ability to accomplish the simple tasks of daily living. My patient physical therapists trained me to walk again, write again, learn the alphabet, re-learn colors, place blocks in holes, and recite the name of the president of the United States. Way down on the priority list was the slim possibility of moving myself back into ministry. In those days, it was a victory just to be able to sign my name and walk a few steps unaided.

I have now settled into a different life. My days include eight hours of dialysis every day, waiting on an lengthy list for a kidney transplant, working hard in physical therapy, and trying to find myself again. Desert days they are, and at times, I wonder if my faith is still gripping that solid rock.

Like so many ministers, I found my identity in mission and ministry. To be honest, not having a “ministry identity” has left me feeling discarded. My mind tells me that I am more than my ministry, but my heart tells me I am an empty shell.

And then there is what my faith tells me: that I am grateful to be alive, that I am thankful that I feel strong, that God has a purpose for this life interruption, and that ministry really is more than a defined vocation and a specific place of service. Yes, there is an enormously empty place in me, there is.a soul that is longing and a heart that is searching for life beyond this current desert. All the while, reality tells me that my years of ministry are over and that I must learn how to “be” within that reality.

So while I still mourn the loss of my ministry, I am learning how to attend a church service without grieving. I am learning that my writing, blogging and painting is my offering to God. I am learning that I must find contemplative, holy moments to feed my thirsting spirit. I am learning that stillness might be more sacred than activity.

Faith and illness? It is a relentless challenge. There is no doubt about it: illness can be a rude interruptor of life. While I am in the center of that life interruption, watching intently while faith and illness fight a battle for my soul, I have choices.

One choice is burying my emotions and moving unmindfully through each day, without expectations, without dreams, simply going through the motions. My wiser choice is to look squarely into my soul, honestly admitting that these truly are desert days.

To make the wiser choice is to mourn the fact that some of my dreams have died, to own my angst and face off with my losses. This choice does not mean walking around the desert. Rather it means walking directly through it, hoping for manna, for perseverance, for grace.

So as I make my way through this desert, I can say this: it is not easy. It is uncomfortable and frightening. It is a journey that reminds me how fragile hope can be, a journey that tests my faith and my faithfulness. And yet, on this desert journey I have rediscovered that my faith “still holds and grips the solid rock.”

Thanks be to God!

Update to previous post