My friend loaned me her favorite book not so much because I asked, though I did, but more because she is a proud evangelist of the gospel according to Annie Dillard. I've never read a book with so many marginal notes, a book so loved and poured over. Its tiny spine is peeling off and all the pages lay open, inviting anyone to read them again and again. I noticed at least three different inks writing notes and smiley faces over the course of various readings, one ink scribbling out the notes of another. Her name is written in the front cover along with two phone numbers (at least one of which is still current; I checked) along with, "This book means the world to me! Thanks."
When she shared the book with me, I literally took an oath, hand to heaven, to guard it with my life. Don't tell her that the other day, the book was sitting in a pile in my passenger seat and went flying into the floorboard when I slammed on my breaks. Also, don't worry, because it's still in its former condition.
But this experience was unique. It was like reading two books at once, one by Annie and one by Jamie, yet the very same book at the very same time. It was a shared experience between the three of us, though only one of us knew when it happened. And it made me think about sharing other things. I like my library to be open and I am quick to recommend a book when I think someone will like it or it relates to a question they're asking, but I don't often (if ever) share books as extensions of myself. To share something that so shaped me and say, "Here. Read this. Feel this. Be shaped as I was shaped, and share in my own changing." I'd rather offer my help than offer myself.
And this is what the book, Holy the Firm, is, among so many other things; it is the author sharing her world of mountains and sea, of dying moths and melting faces, and beauty in infinite incomprehensibility and locally bought communion wine.
"She saw me watching her and we exchanged a look, a very conscious and self-conscious look--because we look a bit alike and we both knew it (41)." My niece looks more like her aunt than her mother. And loves her twin, Aunt Elizabeth. I used to wonder about my pointy chin until I realized that I share this Chapman chin with my Great-Uncle Floyd. I share my name with father. I share my birthday and my name with my great-grandfather. I share my curly hair and my love of words with my mother.
And somehow, in some weird sacramental-mysterious-tangible way it is the sharing that amplifies the possession rather than diminishing the returns. And all of this must be because God shares everything with us. His great outpouring, his creational self-emptying continue on forever like everlasting widow's flour or Hanukkah oil.
All things come from thee, O Lord,
And of thine own have we given thee.
Of course, sharing too much or the wrong things is called infectious. We share our sins with our children and our children's children. The Lord...will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children's children, to the third and fourth generation. Complaining is not sharing our pain, it is birdshot with a blindfold, spraying venom on an unsuspecting crowd.
But sharing our pain is beautiful. Opening up to trusted others by saying: this is what hurts me, this is why I struggle, this is what causes me pain, begins to thin the poison and take away its sting. And tears start to wash way the dirt of injury, like baptismal waters, the waters we share with Christ.
Water, wine, and bread. The mystery only comes through community. The sacrament is only holy to and in a people. God not only shares his world with us, he shares himself with us, gives himself to us.
But only broken bread can be shared.
Sharing ourselves, not just our stories, but our very selves, is costly and risky. At times it's terrifying. But it's what we are meant to do. We are meant to be fed at a table each week with each other so that we can give ourselves to one another.
So, share your mother's casserole with someone's mouth as well as their recipe box. Explain your love of winter. Share the wonder you feel when you walk into a holy place--the mosaics of burning angels or the embrace of hallowed trees. For here is a place where self-giving is others-receiving. Here is a place where all our needs are met, not in ourselves, but because we have been shared with. Here is a place where our fears of emptiness and destitution are put to rest.
Here is a place for sharing.
When she shared the book with me, I literally took an oath, hand to heaven, to guard it with my life. Don't tell her that the other day, the book was sitting in a pile in my passenger seat and went flying into the floorboard when I slammed on my breaks. Also, don't worry, because it's still in its former condition.
But this experience was unique. It was like reading two books at once, one by Annie and one by Jamie, yet the very same book at the very same time. It was a shared experience between the three of us, though only one of us knew when it happened. And it made me think about sharing other things. I like my library to be open and I am quick to recommend a book when I think someone will like it or it relates to a question they're asking, but I don't often (if ever) share books as extensions of myself. To share something that so shaped me and say, "Here. Read this. Feel this. Be shaped as I was shaped, and share in my own changing." I'd rather offer my help than offer myself.
And this is what the book, Holy the Firm, is, among so many other things; it is the author sharing her world of mountains and sea, of dying moths and melting faces, and beauty in infinite incomprehensibility and locally bought communion wine.
"She saw me watching her and we exchanged a look, a very conscious and self-conscious look--because we look a bit alike and we both knew it (41)." My niece looks more like her aunt than her mother. And loves her twin, Aunt Elizabeth. I used to wonder about my pointy chin until I realized that I share this Chapman chin with my Great-Uncle Floyd. I share my name with father. I share my birthday and my name with my great-grandfather. I share my curly hair and my love of words with my mother.
And somehow, in some weird sacramental-mysterious-tangible way it is the sharing that amplifies the possession rather than diminishing the returns. And all of this must be because God shares everything with us. His great outpouring, his creational self-emptying continue on forever like everlasting widow's flour or Hanukkah oil.
All things come from thee, O Lord,
And of thine own have we given thee.
Of course, sharing too much or the wrong things is called infectious. We share our sins with our children and our children's children. The Lord...will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children's children, to the third and fourth generation. Complaining is not sharing our pain, it is birdshot with a blindfold, spraying venom on an unsuspecting crowd.
But sharing our pain is beautiful. Opening up to trusted others by saying: this is what hurts me, this is why I struggle, this is what causes me pain, begins to thin the poison and take away its sting. And tears start to wash way the dirt of injury, like baptismal waters, the waters we share with Christ.
Water, wine, and bread. The mystery only comes through community. The sacrament is only holy to and in a people. God not only shares his world with us, he shares himself with us, gives himself to us.
But only broken bread can be shared.
Sharing ourselves, not just our stories, but our very selves, is costly and risky. At times it's terrifying. But it's what we are meant to do. We are meant to be fed at a table each week with each other so that we can give ourselves to one another.
So, share your mother's casserole with someone's mouth as well as their recipe box. Explain your love of winter. Share the wonder you feel when you walk into a holy place--the mosaics of burning angels or the embrace of hallowed trees. For here is a place where self-giving is others-receiving. Here is a place where all our needs are met, not in ourselves, but because we have been shared with. Here is a place where our fears of emptiness and destitution are put to rest.
Here is a place for sharing.