The End

"What of that which you fear most: death? Yes, the end will come, not just for you, but for this world as a whole. Do not be afraid, for this is a great joy. It is not an end, just part of the process of life. That is not just good, it is wonderful."

Will the world end this Friday? Does it really matter? Either way, the dance of life and love will continue. So who cares what form it takes?

"Let the dance of life carry you far away from this corner of the universe. Journey to planets and places unimaginable. Watch a star be born, then turn around and watch another die. Touch a planet and give it the spark of life. Let yourself be the creator, just as you were created. Forge your children of the stars into a sword of love on the anvil of tragedy and sorrow. Let them fall horribly, knowing that they must learn to run on their own.

Now follow me back to our little planet. See it for what it is: a jeweled marble in the playground of the universe. Watch it spin wildly for eons, until our sun dozes to sleep, and we fade into the night. Laugh at the divine humor of it. Life and death on the grandest scale."

Let Us Begin

Last night, I finally finished re-reading "Reluctant Saint: The Life of Francis of Assisi" by Donald Spoto. I am left humbled and speechless.

I hear Francis's voice over and over in my head: "Let us begin, brothers, to serve the Lord God -- for up until now, we have done little or nothing."

And then there is Spoto's description of the day Francis died:

Francis told his caregivers, "When you see that I have come to the end, put me out naked on the ground, and allow me to lie there for as long as it takes to walk a leisurely mile."

... His friends followed his instruction, and placed him stripped on the floor of his cell -- it was the full realization of the dramatic moment before Bishop Guido so many years earlier. Thus, as he lay dying and the afternoon began to fade, Francis's final prayer was a sublime gesture ... the action by which he expressed what he was and Whose child he was, about to be born again in eternity. In the core of his being, Francis was at last utterly dependent on God alone. His poverty was absolute: there was now nothing between him and God. After a brief time, he was clothed in his tunic again and gently lifted back on his straw bed.

His companions ... took his hands. "I have done what is mine," Francis whispered. "May Christ teach you what is yours to do."

There is something so utterly beautiful and wonderful about this scene, and how I long to be with God that completely. But I know that I have to do what is mine first.

I don't particularly like to write. It usually just feels like noise. There's already too much noise in our world, and the thought that I'm just adding to it makes my skin crawl. But God wants to me write; they want me to share what they show me. How can I say no? As Brother Francis said, “Who are You, my dearest God? And what am I but Your useless servant.”

So help me begin, Brother Francis, Brother Jesus, Sister Mary, and all of the Family, to serve the Lord our Parent -- for up until now, I have done little or nothing.

Follow Me On Twitter

Yes, I've taken one more step down the rabbit hole of social media and joined Twitter. You may now follow me, if you feel so inclined, via: @jwbidwell

I must say that I was very hesitant to do this. Social media seems to take on a life of its own. Can I use Twitter, or will Twitter use me? But then I read about Pope Benedict joining, and I figured I might as well give it a try. Fittingly, he is the first person I chose to follow. I cannot imagine him returning the favor, but one can hope!

And speaking of online connections, if anyone is actually reading this blog who is not one of my family or friends, I would really love to hear from you. If you feel called to do so, please send me an e-mail at: joebidwell@about.me

Thank you to everyone who is reading this. I truly believe what I write: We are family.

Welcoming the Incarnation

Last Saturday, I stumbled upon a new documentary, "Wish Me Away", about country singer Chely Wright, and her process of accepting her sexuality and publicly coming out as a lesbian. What I watched, however, was the story of a woman denying grace for so many years, until she finally recognized that the Incarnation dwelt within her all along. Is that not the task set before each of us in this season of Advent?

"You are my child. More than that, you are myself. We are one, linked forever. What you feel, I feel. What I know, you know. We are love incarnate. We are life."

The Church has long taught that God became human, so that we could become God. But I say that Jesus came to open our eyes to a divinity that already coursed through our very souls. That awakening is what we should be preparing for this Advent, for it is the gift our family needs most this Christmas. The many ways we abuse our siblings, as I have written about the last few weeks, certainly testify to that.

Perhaps the depth of this need is why I was so powerfully moved by Wright's film. Her story begins with a childhood prayer that becomes a daily mantra asking God to take away her gayness. Such pleading led her where it leads too many of our brothers and sisters, to put a gun in her mouth. But then she makes one last prayer, for peace, and finally hears what God has been whispering to her all along: that she's already exactly who they created her to be. And she knows she has an obligation to speak this truth, to share it with all her siblings who still have their fingers on a trigger.

Wright's truth is this: homosexuality is not a "deep wound" needing to be cured; it is a beautiful part of God's design that demands to be embraced. Her witness is evidence of what I tried to convey last June in "The Gift of Homosexuality" post, that our LGBT siblings have much to teach us about love. The most important lesson of which flows from the Incarnation: love trumps biology and everything else.

There is also in Wright's story a general reminder for all. Her childhood prayer did not spring up out of nowhere; it had a source. Corporate religion loves wounds; they keep its version of a hospital in business. Unfortunately, that means it often inflicts the very damage it claims to heal. Is there one among us who hasn't suffered from friendly fire? But that is why God became one of us, so that we might be able to see the difference between our rules and their truth, and to know what really harms our family. That is the grace, the peace, that we wait for so longingly during this time of Advent.

"We are the song of life, of love, of a mother and father who made us by sheer force of will. So much of life is a paradox, but it is there that we find God the most. It is there, in the confusion and that mess that we must dwell. It is there that we experience true beauty, true joy. It is there that we can see something wonderful, something that sends a chill down our spine, and puts a smile on our face and a laugh in our heart, where we know with certainty who and what we are and why we are here in this time and place. It is in that moment that we are at peace."

Monthly Reading Links

"Reflection for the Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time"
Greg Coiro, From The Heart of San Francisco

"Resurrection: Archdiocese of Boston Rebuilds After Sex Abuse Scandal"
Patrick Doyle, Boston Magazine

"Standing Up: Davien's Story"
Molly Hennessy-Fiske, Los Angeles Times

"Lincoln and the Virtues of Politics"
Julie Rubio, Catholic Moral Theology

"Thanksgiving Day"
Russell Saltzman, First Things

"Parasites: The Good and the Beautiful, Part I"
John Shea, The Jesuit Post

"Crossing the cultural divide between Arabs and Jews through food and film"
Carole Zabar, The Washington Post