Lent 4: Partial Images

“We are all partial images . . .” Richard Rohr

There was once a show called, “Name that Tune.” Contestants would be given a note or two and had to see if they could recognize the song from which they came. Sometimes it was simple; other times it was close to impossible.

This morning, I’ve thought about playing the same game, not with songs but with artwork. What if we were given a glimpse of a few brushstrokes? Could we guess the painting from which they come? Certain paintings would be easy, others would be more difficult.

I’ve long known we were created in the image of God – every single one of us. We often forget it, and some people are easier to recognize as God’s image than others. It’s like we are all playing “Name that Image.” Each of us is a brushstroke or two and the hope is the larger painting will be recognizable through what partial image we offer the world. The thought is as inspirational as it is haunting. Do we offer God’s image to the people, places and things around us, or do we offer something, or someone, else? Can people and the world recognize God’s image through our words and actions? Can they see, though us, the larger image?

Sometimes it’s easy, other times it’s all but impossible to see God through us, but the remarkable thing is WE know when we’re being God’s image. Something inside of us, our heart or our soul, swells. It’s like we’ve taken a deep breadth of life, a big swig of living water. So, too, when we’re not our soul constricts and gasps for air. I think God designed it that way so we would know when we are being our true selves or not, when we are being living images or not. (We can see it when we are driving or checking out at the grocery store, when we are at work or play, when we are with loved ones or strangers, in a pew or voting booth.)

In this season of Lent, it’s a good time to look at our lives and consider what images we are bringing into the world. Although we’re only partial images, we’re enough. Who knows, someone might guess the larger painting just from seeing our brushstroke or two, and that, I believe, is why I think we were brought here.

Lent 3: Eyes wide open

Early on, I developed the strange habit of squinting my eyes whenever I had to deal with something unpleasant - like clean up after my dog, remove a dead mouse or bat. Somehow, diminishing my vision made it easier to handle such unpleasant sights. I still do it, and realize I also do it with other kinds of unpleasant things . . . like those within me.

I grew up in a serious, penitential, church where Lent and all its somberness fit right in. Forty days to look at those things that keep us from being who God wants us to be was an on-going feature of the congregation’s spiritual walk. As someone inordinately self-critical, looking at those things became second nature.

But I recently realized that I squint my eyes when looking at such unpleasant things. Somehow it makes whatever it is less frightening, or disappointing. Facing one’s self-centeredness, greed, judgment of others, anger, lust, dishonesty, pettiness, prejudice, can be overwhelming. No wonder so many people treat the season of Lent like any other.

For those who take the season seriously, however, such soul-searching, while hard, is important. That’s why some of us squint the eyes of our souls to soften the blow, ease the pain and disappointment, but doing so doesn’t change the reality. Just like the dog’s mess didn’t go away, nor the dead animal disappear, our character defects don’t disappear or change because we look at them with a diminished view.

No matter what we’ve done or not done, who we’ve become or not become, nothing separates us from God’s love. That’s what I’ve heard, so we can all stop squinting our eyes and open them wide. The sunlight of the spirit is burning bright behind such clouds. It’s time to look at them as God, in God’s time, blows them away.

Lent 2: Dominant Voices

She had an unmistakable voice, some thought it was beautiful. Fresh from her high school chorus where she stood out among the others, she arrived at our first college choir rehearsal ready to assume a leading role. She took her place in the front row and sang with the gusto of an opera soprano. The director tried to get her to soften her tone and listen to the other voices, but she didn’t know how. She’d never done it before.

“The melody’s getting lost,” he pointed out, “as well as the harmonies.” She nodded as if she understood but continued her dominant performance. Little did I know the valuable lesson she was teaching me.

Recently, I was talking to a group of soulful sojourners, and the topic of negative voices came up. Despite our best efforts to listen to the positive, optimistic, voices within, the negative voices are sometimes the only ones we can hear, we confessed. Like the classmate in college, the negative voices seem to take their places in the front row and sing in such a way as to drown out all the others. As a result, we can’t hear the divine melody of our lives, nor the sacred harmonies around it.

It's hard to hear you’re a child of God when all you hear is how flawed you are.

It’s hard to hear that life’s a blessing when all you hear is what’s wrong with it.

It’s hard to hear the joy of life when all you hear is life is about striving and winning.

Yes, the negative voices are loud, but the season of Lent is a time to stand back and listen for other voices, the ones that come from God. It’s the season to silence, or at least quiet, the dominant sopranos screeching in the front row and listen to other voices and the melody given long ago.