Simply Awake

Ch#1e  Simply Awake - This a rough edition of a sub-chapter writing of my third book in recovery, 1st Chapter, day 5

Scriptural Text: I Peter 1: 22-25 (Peter's Epistle being the back story of this writing)

I just left a memorial service at my new church. She, a 70+ woman who passed, is a delightful soul, her smiling eyes ever betraying a mischievous spirit, just underneath her air of sainthood. 

In our "Prime Timer's group she was the only woman, who when playing cards or rolling dice, would risk everything in a last effort to come in first; never content to play it safe and land a respectable 2nd or third or eighth place. Gotta love that. 

In the raucous, dangerous environment of Rome, 65 A.D. it was Christians with Susy's spirit that would step into the darkened spaces of Rome's capital city, whose very street lights included the burning flame of Christians hung and gassed; These, charged by Emperor Nero as traitors. 

The source of Susy's strength was that of an authentic, unpretentious soul, rooted in a life (even from childhood) lived in plain sight of pain and death, her spirit lifted playfully heavenward, fixed upon Jesus. 

As Peter wrote to the Roman Christians ever at risk, it would seem that he had met our friend. Ever vulnerable, Peter notes that even in the face of accusation and death these Christians have "purified your souls by your obedience to the truth for a sincere brotherly love...and since you have been born again, not of perishable seed but of imperishable, through the living and abiding word of God..." Then Peter, almost as a nuanced thought, reminds them of just how vulnerable we humans really are; "for 

All flesh is like grass and 

      all its glory like the flower of grass. 

The grass withers, and the flower falls, 

but the word of the Lord remains forever.” 

And this word is the good news 

      that was preached to you"

(1 Peter 1:22-25 ESV).

I managed to get to the service in the perfect American cultural window of time, between 10 till the hour and the hour of service; the goldylox moment, neither early or late. That in itself was no small feat given I had nothing appropriate to wear as my weight fluctuation meant all my clothes were too large or small. Finding no cottage of three bears, I rushed into the DXL men's clothing store one hour before service. The employee helped me find slacks, belt and shirt over-lay with 35 minutes to spare.

As I turned off the car, combed my hair and pocketed my keys to enter my church I felt almost a new man, having never, in three years yet worn anything other than baggy long shorts and shirt. (Senator John Fetterman had nothing on me, till today.) This place was a refuge of acceptance and love, parishioners and pastors alike allowing me to be who I really am and not the betrayer of yesteryear. Susy was part of that acceptance and so I very much wanted to be present to her memorial. 

I took my place behind two dear friends, each retired pastors whose friendship is like that of close colleagues, the message of their heart, ever ...'I know who you really are and value the gift of your life in ministry, including the highly confessional journey of these three years.' My senior pastor's sensitive, familial ministry among those mourning, the smiles, special song and pictorial review of Susy's life filled the sanctuary with love's reign. 

The only sadness that awakened within me was in the coming of another colleague from my pastoral history with whom and in good spirit I affirmed, challenged and debated on a Naz pastoral website. In a kind greeting of eye contact I could not tell if he recognized me. Didn't matter, unless context forced conversation. It did. 

When memory dawned his facial expression was consistent with the extremely good human heart that is his; a kindness and genuine interest which is one of the many charism's of his person. Briefly, following his inquiry as to why I was no longer engaged with the pastoral web site we enjoyed, I let him know that I had surrendered my credentials due to sin and that Renton Naz was now my spiritual home. His eyes moistened in genuine concern, not a hint of judgment. Therefore I added that my wife and I are together and life continues. With that we renewed a warm handshake and I turned to meet another friend, Susie's husband, and make my way home.

It's 9:30 in the evening as I reflect on the day. It strikes me that I am moving beyond the continual need to lay over every moment my own losses in respect or purity of heart or the very real cost to others of my sin. It's all there and my soul and spirit seem open to let flow the appropriate emotions, insight, lesson, grief over a damaged heart or... the pain I see in my children's eyes, in my wife's deep love mixed with appropriate self-protection in areas of trust.  

Yet it is the unspoken intrigue I felt in Susy's spirit in the short time I've had the privilege of knowing her and Dennis that has been one of many graces extended to me. Hers has been the faith-certain trust 1 in the God of her experience, ever faithful to her—though life gave her many a memory of approaching death when she could have cried out with David and later his son, Jesus, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" I imagine she did in the quiet of the night echo the full feeling of their cry, yet holding on to "my God, my God" in all. 

The only moments I have felt such agony were the result of my own decisions, informed by mental ill-health. Even so, the God of my experience has never once abandoned me and instead, briefly disciplines me for salvation's sake.  It strikes me that only God can turn faithful, obedient trust (Susy's) and my own faithless trust into resurrection, the human fruit of which is holy-love.

The other quality of her life, and frankly Dennis's as well is the positive sense of rebellion, whatever the cost. S

o many of us evangelicals inhibit healthy, quite natural personality traits because of mis-understood ideas of 'the holy'. The result is a boring community of likes believing the ridiculous; teaching, for example, Samoans not to dance or Native Americans to leave their drumming home when in worship. One of the reasons I enjoy Renton Naz as I did WSCN is the refreshing room for personal expression in worship and beyond.

I too have been a rebel in heart, but kept it hidden for fear of rejection, save in the realm of theology where this creative charism found legitimate expression. Perhaps. I wonder if my rebellion in sin was in part the result of a little boy who, in fear, lived at the altar, ever trying to cleanse away my feelings and so "be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect"? (Matthew‬ ‭5‬:‭48‬ ‭ESV‬‬). 

And so, at this evenings end I simply pray: "Thank you Father for my friend Susy and the

I Can Only Imagine

many others you've given over the years; each, who like Susy, walked comfortably in their own skin. Grant her, I pray, the sheer delight of being entirely herself as she awakens surrounded by Your glory. And help us on this side of so thin a veil to live beautifully, authentically, aware of Your glory, anticipating our soon awakening in Your Presence. I can only imagine,

what will my heart feel?

2

Will I dance for you Jesus

Or in awe of You be still?

Will I stand in your presence

Or to my knees, will I fall?

Will I sing hallelujah?

Will I be able to speak at all? 2, 3

Imagine, Lord, through us. 

Terry June 8, 1:53 a.m.

1 Scripture Reference: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Hebrews‬ ‭11‬:‭1‬ ‭ESV‬‬).

2 Lyrics to Bart Millard's song, sung by 'Mercy Me'—"I Can Only Imagine"

3 Memorial Service for Susy at Special "I Can Only Imagine" https://www.youtube.com/live/VZehAHPAEGc?si=BNmJcfeLINRLT0qv&t=466