A Dwelling Place and a Kingdom

Image © Topher Ayrhart 2014

Imagine two people who've known each other in passing for some time both being invited to a house concert. They show up to that home carrying all that they are - their fears, their scars, their inexpressible hearts - such eternal beauties. They long like everybody longs to be touched, to make real human contact and be known deeply. They long to deeply know another in a way that is life giving, beautiful, and holy. But they don't know how to say it. If they are two sides of a ravine that look across to the other, they may know of one another, but what will be the bridge to build a connection between them? 

Or perhaps they are disparate threads who long to be woven into a common fabric. What provision will place a pattern before their eyes to draw them both up into a shared quilting of hearts? 

Then the music begins. The storyteller steps in front of the small crowd of loose attachments and begins to sing. He begins to open his heart as an intercessor who prays with his very life for the ones before him. In the songs he utters those deep points of contact that have for so long remained unutterable or even perhaps unidentified for most. The hearts of the listeners are like dark skies in which tiny glimmerings begin to shine and constellate into knowing forms. The singer speaks in all the varied tongues of his listeners a prayer that he hopes will communicate fire from the heart of the One who made all of us - the miracle is that a common tongue, a common language begins to settle among everyone in the room. 

The last note fades into a soft 'amen' and the guitar is resting on its stand. Our two acquaintances strike up a conversation. At first they're not certain about what. They are digging to find the pearl of great price - that seed that nourished in them a possibility that there was some growing bridge between them that could hold their weight and span their distances. They turn together the pages of memory and uncover for each other what the evening has meant to them. Now with a common tongue they find expression for parts of their deep hearts that they hadn't before. Each is thankful to find another soul who knows something they know, loves something they love, has grieved in some way they have grieved. 

And so they find themselves in a room together. On the walls are paintings of lovers embracing, of a child on an untimely deathbed, of the charred remains of a house. In the air is the scent of grass, cinnamon, and old books. Still lingering in the walls are the melodies and phrases that helped build the habitat for growing friendship. They walk together in conversation from picture to picture. "The dying child was my older brother before I was born," says one. "The dying child was my firstborn," says the other. "The lovers embracing are my parents in old age," says one. "The lovers embracing were my friends and I before the fight," says the other. "The house that burned down was my selfishness that nearly ruined me," says one. "The house that burned down was my heart and body after the abuse," says the other. 

They wander around the room - forgetting the discomfort of their gray metal folding chairs. The old books, the grass, the cinnamon are there like an invisible cloud of witnesses urging them on. Has each person in the room found a new kind of space to dwell in? Have the songs and stories and eye contact and proximity accumulated to frame a room-alive for us all? Can we meet there and weep, or laugh, cry out, or just silently wait together? 

I'm a singer and songwriter so these are my reference points. And I'm thankful for the songwriters who nourish honesty, intimacy, and healing in my life and friendships. But my sister the gardener could write this in her own words. I've seen her cultivate a habitat for the neighborhood children who come to play in her yard. My brother the chef could write this in his own words. I've seen him set a table with careful ingredients not least of which are laughter, quiet understanding, and gentleness. My own Dad does it by planting trees and tending fields; my Mother with art, conversation, and kindness.

"Because we loved you so much, we were delighted to share with you not only the Gospel of God but our very lives as well." We all have the life and gifts we have, like a medium of clay or paint or words, with which we may intercede for others and cultivate a habitat where they can grow. We can make room, create a kind of space, or create a space of kindness, where loneliness is swallowed up in welcome, pain is tended with tenderness, grief is walked through in safety, and joy is grown in family. Are you and I not the disparate strands that Jesus has threaded through the needle's eye miraculously and woven into the storied tapestry of his own astonishing beauty? Are we not the stones with which God himself is building a dwelling place and a Kingdom?

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PS:  Thanks to all from the Rabbit Room and those who attended the Laity Lodge retreat this past weekend. I was so encouraged by you all and the 'room' you made with your 'very lives'.

Links:
www.laitylodge.com
www.rabbitroom.com
www.topherayrhart.com
www.matthewclark.net