Portraits

“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I grew up surrounded by portraits. My father often explained who was who, but the people were only caricatures of distant relatives. I heard stories about them, but they were never real to me. Sadly, the portrait collection eventually included ones of my father and mother. Unlike the others, I’d known them. The portraits provided me with a sense of comfort at first, but, in time, they, too, have become little more than paintings on the wall. I miss the people, the real flesh and blood – the smell of my father’s Vitalis, the sound of my mother’s laugh, and countless other things. You know, the things that made them real.

As I sat with such thoughts, I realized how often we settle of portraits. Whether in the people we spend time with, or the versions of ourselves we offer to others, we present images rather than the real thing. Some of us are master artists, carefully working the paint so that the lighting and posture are just right. Often, what we see or what we offer is impressive . . . but they’re not real.

At some point, the paint cracks.

I think it’s time to put the portraits away. I think its time we let people see and know who we truly are. It’s scary to be real, vulnerability is the ultimate act of courage, but the result is better than being an image. Who knows, maybe by doing so, we give others permission to do the same.

And then there’s this way of saying it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GY3sO47YYo

Duck Spirituality

We’ve all heard about the duck who glides on the water’s surface, looking calm and serene, while below the surface legs pump wildly to keep him or her moving. That’s what living has felt like to me. I’ve wanted to appear capable, even talented, but beneath the surface I’ve been paddling furiously to keep up.

It began in school when I was told I had a learning disability. From then on, I paddled hard (or coasted) lacking the humility to admit I was not all I seemed. I did it socially, performing “as if,” often with the help of artificial substances. This morning, when a friend showed me this opening of Faust, I realized I’ve done it spiritually, too.

I was born with a soul that looked at the world as if there was something more than what I could see. Enraptured by the dream that life has a purpose and there’s one behind it all that loves and cares for us, I began paddling. I went to seminary, contrary to the flamboyant way my life looked on the surface, and learned a lot of theology. I used God-given talents to appear knowledgeable and wise, and yet beneath the surface I was paddling as fast as I could. The life I presented was not the one I was living.

In the end, I had a degree and a resume, but not what really mattered: a living faith. The journey from head to heart is, for me, the longest and most difficult one there is. Reading a book or writing something clever is easier than loving my neighbor or admitting my imperfections.

In the end, though, admitting we aren’t all that we appear to be on the surface is the pathway to true peace. Allowing others to see our exhausted paddling feet is when authentic community happens and living faith can begin. In what time I have left, that’s what I am going to search for. How about you?

The Stage

“The stage has grown further away,” said the once prolific performer. Now advanced in age, he climbed the steps onto the stage rarely, and it felt as if the stage itself had moved. It hadn’t. He had.

As the two of us sat on the porch in silence, I thought about the “stages” on which I had once performed. I could see, like him, that the stages seemed further from me than they used to be. It’s as if time slides the stage out of reach, then out of sight. I suppose it’s only natural, but the distancing stage phenomenon is something that troubles me.

There are all kinds of stages: jobs, roles, activities, friendships. Each in its own way has given us an invitation to show up, take our place, and offer whatever it is we have to offer, but if we ignore those invitations enough, those opportunities, like the stage for the performer I was sitting with, grow distant. We are left bemoaning the emptiness that surrounds us and think only of what used to be.

The key is to get up and walk toward the stage. Even with weary legs and scratchy voices, we need to make the effort to return and sing whatever song we have to sing. We need to pick up the phone and call that friend who once meant so much to us. We need to turn off the news and go join the group who asked us to do something. We need to pull out the long-forgotten instrument, pick up the pen, or make a meal like we used to. Yes, it will take some getting used to, and we are bound to stumble or forget the words to the song, but the more important thing to notice is the stage somehow draws closer and the steps are not as steep.

Time is not our friend when we squander it, but it can be a precious gift when we don’t.