As if God were a direction, or every direction, that we could simply stumble into when we were too tired, too frightened, too overwhelmed for a graceful decent. As if the Holy were waiting for our unsteady feet, ready to catch us with the gentle breath of a lion and the solid warmth of a golden mane.
Flinging ourselves Godward.
As if it were as simple as that. Throwing ourselves towards the Divine with the easy faith of first graders who lean forwards, heavy, into the cradle of our hands, sixth graders who bump past or drop their head onto an arm, seventh graders who kick at feet, freshmen and sophomores who drop a shoulder in a younger, not quite forgotten, way of greeting. Littles and not-so-littles who draw close when they don't know what comes next.
Human enough to know that there is Someone waiting to catch us. Or, at least, human enough to know that we need Someone there.
One of the wonderful things about working with students is that they force me to learn in order to be able to teach. To research answers to questions that they haven't yet asked. To put words to thoughts that rattle around, unarticulated, inside my head. And, to remember.
To remember the power of proximity. To remember that sometimes having the right words isn't as important as they things that we say with our bodies. That sometimes it is worth more to stand elbow jostling close, to steal hats or examine pocket knives or hold out an arm for these dizzying circles that accompany the words to "Happy Day."
To stand outside in the snow so many times that our ears ache with the cold of it. To slip and slide on powdery sidewalks and make snow angels in the parking lot because it hasn't yet fallen enough to stick to the grass.
To light candles and watch movies and crowd into noisy basement circles where the world is a mess and we are a mess, and yet we are flinging ourselves Godward together.
Praying over the top of each other in a tangle of thoughts and voices. Talking about the future and the present and the past. Playing these games on Sunday evenings that are no more than a circle of chairs with more bodies present than our two years ago selves would have dreamed possible.
It certainly isn't polished or perfect. There are dancing through wildflowers moments and slogging through mud ones. Times where everything seems right, and times where we are certain that we are doing everything wrong. Long hours where we wrestle in prayer for these kids, for ourselves. And, longer ones where we lift up our heads, fling ourselves Godward, remember that there is Grace for unsteady feet.
Last year's word was courage. Courage to sit and wait for a youth pastor and courage to do so much more than sit while we waited. Courage for always changing plans and high schoolers who let Haiti adventures burrow deep into their hearts and souls. Courage for doubts and questions and truth. For making space to listen to each other speak.
This year's word is grace.
Grace that is a direction, every direction, waiting for our feeble attempts at humanity to push us, stumbling, into arms that fold over, protect, turn on the lights and send the darkness scattering to corners.
Grace that will surprise us and startle us and leave us frustrated, because, surely, in this situation or that one, Grace is not the answer.
Because, Grace isn't easy.
Every impatient corner of my soul wants to trade in this lavish Grace for Solutions, instead. Don't tell me to love my neighbor. Don't tell me to look closer when I'm already squinting and I can't see the beautiful past the ugly. Don't whisper that there are some questions that don't need to have answers, that the asking is the most important part of the game.
But, do.
Because, I need the reminders.
I need to remember that Grace has been out of hand since the beginning, since "Bereshit bara elohim," since the moment, long before man, when God chose the world, the universe, set it apart, appointed it for this great drama of Incarnation. Grace has been out of hand since Creation.
Stumbling towards Grace, flinging ourselves Godward. Becoming a better story.
As if it were as simple as that. Throwing ourselves towards the Divine with the easy faith of first graders who lean forwards, heavy, into the cradle of our hands, sixth graders who bump past or drop their head onto an arm, seventh graders who kick at feet, freshmen and sophomores who drop a shoulder in a younger, not quite forgotten, way of greeting. Littles and not-so-littles who draw close when they don't know what comes next.
Human enough to know that there is Someone waiting to catch us. Or, at least, human enough to know that we need Someone there.
One of the wonderful things about working with students is that they force me to learn in order to be able to teach. To research answers to questions that they haven't yet asked. To put words to thoughts that rattle around, unarticulated, inside my head. And, to remember.
To remember the power of proximity. To remember that sometimes having the right words isn't as important as they things that we say with our bodies. That sometimes it is worth more to stand elbow jostling close, to steal hats or examine pocket knives or hold out an arm for these dizzying circles that accompany the words to "Happy Day."
To stand outside in the snow so many times that our ears ache with the cold of it. To slip and slide on powdery sidewalks and make snow angels in the parking lot because it hasn't yet fallen enough to stick to the grass.
To light candles and watch movies and crowd into noisy basement circles where the world is a mess and we are a mess, and yet we are flinging ourselves Godward together.
Praying over the top of each other in a tangle of thoughts and voices. Talking about the future and the present and the past. Playing these games on Sunday evenings that are no more than a circle of chairs with more bodies present than our two years ago selves would have dreamed possible.
It certainly isn't polished or perfect. There are dancing through wildflowers moments and slogging through mud ones. Times where everything seems right, and times where we are certain that we are doing everything wrong. Long hours where we wrestle in prayer for these kids, for ourselves. And, longer ones where we lift up our heads, fling ourselves Godward, remember that there is Grace for unsteady feet.
Last year's word was courage. Courage to sit and wait for a youth pastor and courage to do so much more than sit while we waited. Courage for always changing plans and high schoolers who let Haiti adventures burrow deep into their hearts and souls. Courage for doubts and questions and truth. For making space to listen to each other speak.
This year's word is grace.
Grace that is a direction, every direction, waiting for our feeble attempts at humanity to push us, stumbling, into arms that fold over, protect, turn on the lights and send the darkness scattering to corners.
Grace that will surprise us and startle us and leave us frustrated, because, surely, in this situation or that one, Grace is not the answer.
Because, Grace isn't easy.
Every impatient corner of my soul wants to trade in this lavish Grace for Solutions, instead. Don't tell me to love my neighbor. Don't tell me to look closer when I'm already squinting and I can't see the beautiful past the ugly. Don't whisper that there are some questions that don't need to have answers, that the asking is the most important part of the game.
But, do.
Because, I need the reminders.
I need to remember that Grace has been out of hand since the beginning, since "Bereshit bara elohim," since the moment, long before man, when God chose the world, the universe, set it apart, appointed it for this great drama of Incarnation. Grace has been out of hand since Creation.
Stumbling towards Grace, flinging ourselves Godward. Becoming a better story.
"She flings herself Godward," says Elizabeth Johnson about Mary's Magnificat. "Flinging yourself Godward" is faith defined in 3 simple words
— Alethea Allen (@AletheaAllen) December 21, 2015
