Becoming Home
Have you ever felt deeply that something was terribly wrong but not been able to put your finger on it? Not knowing what to do, continuing on the same path day in and day out, hoping that somehow, sometime soon, something will change? Persisting on living in the same ways, hanging on to the few bits of life that seem to work, but knowing, deeply, that there has to be more to life?
The author of our Collect this morning wrote from that experience. He writes, Almighty God, you know our necessities before we ask. [M]ercifully give us those things which for our blindness we cannot ask.
This is the prayer of a person who is confused and lost. This is the prayer of a person who does not know what to do, but who has enough faith in God to ask blindly for … something. Mercifully give us those things which for our blindness we cannot ask.
Twenty-five years ago this past week, I was dangling in the same place, but was alone there, without faith in anything but myself, and that faith was raveled and frayed. God and I had parted long before. I convinced myself that success was the same as happiness, and that popularity was the same as community. I clung to my work, which I loved, and to people whom I thought I loved, but my most intimate relationship was with alcohol. This would have been a dark night of the soul if my soul were still alive. Unlike the faithful writer of our Collect, I had no faith. I had hope. It was a tiny, weak flame. It was not bright enough to light a path, but it was bright enough for me to know it was there. But it was enough. I walked toward it, terrified. I quit drinking.
July 16, 1984, was the first day of living. Now what? Fortunately, my outpatient treatment program insisted I attend two small group meetings over that weekend. I was furious – what was I paying them for? – but I did it. At the first one I told them my name was Nancy. I looked them over, in their suits and dresses, their comfortable jeans and good hair cuts, their broken glasses and mismatched clothing. It was a mixed bag of people, that’s for sure. I listened. They talked about God too much and that upset me. But I kept going. I became one of them.
As you might guess by my presence here today, God and I have made peace, although it has been a long, bumpy journey. For a while I could admit to having a “spiritual side” with a vague notion of a Holy Oneness of some kind, whatever that might mean, and I didn’t know. Over the years, I’ve moved ever so slowly from believing I might have a spiritual side to believing that I, and we, are spiritual beings housed in these bodies, these transient earth suits. But as I had asked before, I wonder, “Now what?” Answering that question has required years of facing fear and opening up to others in trust. I’ve gradually moved from hating the idea that I can’t do it alone to being grateful I don’t have to. I’ve found that by God’s grace I’ve had all the best tools and people in my life when I need them.
My life in sobriety has even brought me to God. So now, when I ask, “Now what?” I have answers in an inspired book and among faithful people who live their faiths through their programs, as if their lives depended upon it. And I have rich answers in the Christian tradition, a broader body of faithful people to share and grow in the will of God. These two things have made it possible for me not only to come home, but to become home.
Samuel writes about David’s building the temple for the Lord in Jerusalem. God wants to take permanent residence among the people, leaving the portable Ark behind.
But look closely: Samuel writes, “Moreover the Lord declares to you that the Lord will make you a house.” As we make a permanent place for the Holy in our lives, the Holy makes us that permanent place, that home. Our unquiet minds are calmed. The lights are on, and someone IS home.
Paul reminds the people of Ephesus that they were once without Christ, that they were aliens (boy do I know THAT feeling!) that they had no hope and were without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus, Paul says, you who once were far off have been brought near…. Christ has brought us peace and has made us the living, spiritual dwelling place of God.
How do we do it? Our Gospel today describes the spiritual Tug of War that we and the apostles experience. The Tug of War is between whatever it is that consumes us on one end of the rope and our spiritual centers, our souls, on the other. The apostles have worked hard and are enthusiastically chattering about their successes. Jesus invites them to a deserted place for much needed rest and prayer, recreating the quiet mind that helps us listen to God and get our bearings once again. Before the apostles get away, their popularity and feelings of success seduce them back to the crowds. Even Jesus struggles and responds to the demands of the people. It is not until much later that the little community regroups, rests, and prays, and comes home again with the spirit.
Those who struggle with addiction, in its many forms and guises, know that being at home with the spirit is an alien concept. It just doesn’t have the seductive power we seem to crave. It feels impossible to pull away from the allure of the crowd, or drink, or drug, or a deadly need to be needed. Our God is prepared to give us what we need even when we don’t know God or what those things might be. We don’t know how or why, but somehow, we feel God’s hand on our heads, marking us for a better life. We are so blessed, and in that blessing, we find fellowships of people who love us enough to become the little communities in which we not only belong, but thrive. We know that in thinking we have everything, we have nothing, and in seeing we have nothing to lose, we gain everything.
I’ve shared some of the blocks of my journey this morning, but we all have our journeys. Some are direct, some wander painfully. Somewhere on each of our paths, God makes our souls his home. And for this I must say, today and every day, thanks be to God.