In my reading this morning, Henri Nouwen, in his book Life Of The Beloved: Spiritual Living In A Secular World, used a phrase that’s had me thinking all morning. Is it possible, he asks, that “the fruitfulness of our little life” could possibly make a difference in a world swirling out of control? The fruitfulness part attracted my attention first. Is my life really fruitful? If not, how might I become more fruitful? That’s certainly worth thinking about.

The renowned twentieth-century Benedictine monk Thomas Merton tells a story that has lingered with me for several years:

In the old days, on Easter night, the Russian peasants used to carry the blessed fire home from church. The light would scatter and travel in all directions through the darkness, and the desolation of the night would be pierced and dispelled as lamps came on in the windows of the farmhouses, one by one.

The young women of Ukraine, holding their babies, crouched in dark basements and dank subway corridors, strong, articulate, courageous, determined, these women just may change the world as we know it. As these pictures and testimonies soak into our minds and souls, nightly, just perhaps, against all the terrifying odds of brutal power, the world may be forced to rethink what power is all about. In the midst of all the talk of a collapsing civilization, surely these images give us a glimpse of where we ought to be headed.

At dinner the other evening, one of our dear friends, after a sigh, mused: “We just don’t know where all of this is going. We are living with just so much uncertainty.” We were talking about Ukraine, of course, and the brutal use of lethal power, the likes of which we have not seen in the lifetimes of most of us. What can we do? What should our leaders do? What in the world will the leaders of this horrifying assault do in the next days and weeks and years? Where is our world headed? Yes, indeed, we live with profound uncertainty.

The other day I ran into a William Butler Yeats’ poem I have loved for many years. Here the great poet suggests what it feels like, unexpectedly, suddenly, to know, without a doubt, we are blessed. We are overcome with great happiness. In my language, this is what it feels like to be struck by grace. When this happens, we discover, not only am I blessed, but I can bless. To be blessed changes everything.

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. I was educated on poetry, foundationally from the Bible, where one finds the greatest poetry of all time, but later too, in my early teaching life, where I taught poetry, both old and new, from Chaucer and Shakespeare, Milton to Wordsworth, to the dark moderns John Berryman and Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath, or the more hopeful voices of T. S. Eliot, Denise Levertov, Theodore Roethke, William Stafford, Wendell Berry. I wrote poetry for years.  

Buckle up! I ran into an image the other day that blew my mind. It may blow yours too. You may find yourself resisting the image at first, a bit too mystical perhaps, a little overblown, but stay with me. The question posed in the image is this: No matter where you are on your spiritual journey, is it possible to go so much deeper?

I was asked recently by a group to tell a story from childhood that continues to shape my spiritual life. I quickly thought of that moment, early one morning, when I heard a murmuring coming from beyond the cracked door to my parents’ bedroom. I nudged the door forward and peeked guiltily into the semi-darkness. I saw my father on his knees, beside the bed. Edging a little closer, I thought he was talking to himself. The speech seemed intense, earnest, calm but urgent. Suddenly it dawned on me that he had come into the presence of his Lord, his friend, his companion. The suspicion sunk deeply that he did this every morning.

I’ve changed my mind. In fact a lot of my life right now is sorting through the changes I’m going through. The changes in thinking are internal, but much of it is driven by the distressing things going on all around us. Sometimes I think the earth is shaking beneath our feet. We’re all reaching for the handrails, trying to find our balance. But how is it, as I begin this new year, I find myself full of new energy, leaning forward, in anticipation. How can it be when things seem so grim and dreadful? Well, I’m guessing it is a pretty complete readjustment, a kind of new conversion. I’m changing my mind about a lot of things. I actually believe a new sun is rising.

On this Christmas Eve morning, I cannot resist one more reflection. Somehow this year through Advent I’ve been trying hard to wrap my head around this amazing thing that is happening: Come, Lord Jesus, come. Come this very day. This is the light of the world we’re talking about. Our dark world, in which we are so engulfed, is not the final answer.

Early each morning I find myself watching out my study window for the sun to rise. There is a time of waiting, a time of expectation, a threshold time. I often grow quiet, a bit reverent. I have come to consider this event, so common as to be overlooked, a breathtaking announcement of new beginnings, a new start, a daily hint that new life is possible. We have gone to bed in darkness—perhaps even darkness in our souls, gripped by anxiety, surely with worries about our world, or fear, or grief for so many of our friends who suffer loss—but then the sun rises. Again. Can it be? New life is possible!

I’ve been in a number of conversations lately where folks are talking about things coming unglued. Things are out-of-whack. Nothing seems to be working as it used to, or sometimes just stops working altogether. You try replacing something that has worked for a longtime, and you can’t find the same brand. Brands proliferate, even though real innovation, as some scholars are suggesting, is hard to find. I went out online to get a flashdrive the other day, and there must have been fifty options. How do you know what’s best anymore?

I’ve been reading lately the amazing poet R. S. Thomas. I’ve been taking him slowly, almost devotionally—a poem a day is about all I can digest at one time. These poems require careful attention, lingering reflection. This poetry is rich, often surprising, sometimes impenetrable, sometimes as harsh and spare as the Welsh landscape where he lived.

Sharon and I heard a speaker at our church the other evening make this bold prediction: “Within the next decade, we will witness a spiritual revival.” I hear this kind of talk around these days. We sense we may have reached the depths of disillusionment. That’s when revival takes place. Maybe, from this nadir, it’s time we will open once again to a fresh sense of God’s presence in our midst. Could this be possible?

From my reading in the last week, I was startled into attention by this line from Psalm 22: “May you always be in good heart!” Notice the exclamation mark. This is a big declaration, apparently, of what the Psalmist thinks our lives can be, should be. I’ve been going around repeating this line: “May you always be in good heart!” Is that possible, especially in our day?

The other night Sharon and I went to the Tee Pee Tap Room, a restaurant that serves real Mexican food, the kind that teeters out there on the peak of perfection. We call it Phoenix Mex, and we know from living in so many places, it’s distinctive, special—it’s the best. And we’ve got a long history with this tiny restaurant. We used to go there, some fifty years ago, when I was in graduate school. On a student’s budget in those years, the Tee Pee Tap Room was always a big night out. This was just place the place for us. Still is.

I woke up this morning from another restless night. I am told there’s lots of anxiety out there, growing rapidly, causing a lot of harm. What’s going on? Our grandson Andrew may have summed it up the other night: “I went to a party last night. It was weird. Something’s happened to us, Grandad, something’s changed.” It’s not very clear what has happened, but we know a bunch of stuff is causing a lot of change. It’s just not the same.

I recently learned about Jiro Ono, a Japanese sushi chef, aged ninety-four, who is still “making sushi, better and ever better sushi.” Making sushi has “been his life’s work and sole ambition.” He “still continues to pursue perfection in the preparation and presentation of raw fish. He dreams about sushi, and said that he would like to die making it.”

So many of the people I read or hear from these days talk about longing for what is true. We seem to have lost a handle on anything we might agree on together. As I was watching one of our highest officials last night, I said, a little too loudly: “Just give me the truth. I can handle it. Stop framing these numbers to fit a narrative of your choice.”

For those of you who have been following, I’ve been thinking a lot about thresholds. We all cross over our personal thresholds, some small, some big. It seems right now our world is stuck on a prolonged threshold too. Maybe it’s Covid. Whatever it is, I know I’m ready to crossover. I think our world is also ready.