A thought bubble with a lightbulb inside. Public domain image.
A Stress Relief/Trauma Life Hack*:
Get curious.
Ask yourself a new question. Go down a rabbit trail of learning. Explore something novel. Get to know someone. Delight in something unknown. Try something new.
Every time we explore new things, we are creating new chemical reactions in our brains. Our neurons fire, and our brains develop new patterns and associations. This is invigorating and stimulating. When we have interest and feel delight, we ease stress.
Curiosity is also a pathway to empathy. It helps us imagine the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of others. It also helps us have empathy for ourselves: Why do I think these thoughts, feel these feelings, and do things this way? Both kinds of curiosity are helpful during times of trauma and personal difficulty.
So let’s get curious.
And I’d love to hear from you: What are you curious about these days — inside yourself? within the world?
Pages from a book are folded to make the shape of a heart. A string of lights shines in the background.Public domain image.
This sermon was preached with Covenant Presbyterian Church in Southfield, MI and was focused upon 1 Corinthians 13:1-13. A written manuscript is below.
“Love.” It’s a simple word, and we use it all the time. But love — maybe it’s not such a simple concept. And then there’s this passage — familiar, familiar, familiar — read at a million-and-one weddings. But maybe it’s not so simple and straightforward either. There’s much to hear again — to hear anew. There’s much to challenge us, much to invite us to sit back and reflect, much to move us to gratitude. And there’s much to invite our questioning. I mean, what is love, anyway?
I wonder — do we ever really ask ourselves that? It’s a worthwhile question. When’s the last time you’ve asked yourself, What is love? And other than that Night at the Roxbury song with the same name, when’s the last time you’ve heard anyone ask it? My hunch is that we might not verbalize the question very often — even to ourselves — but I bet we’re asking it with our lives all the time. And we can ask it this morning too: What is love?
So how do we begin to ask that question? We could try to ask it as objective investigators — step back from love, this “object” of our study, pull out a few dictionaries or maybe a Wikipedia article, and try to define it. But I have a feeling we’d walk away unsatisfied. Because the truth is, there’s much more at stake in love than a definition. We aren’t simply objective observers. We don’t even want to be. We don’t want to be removed from love. We want to be immersed in it — surrounded, caught up, nurtured, and found in love. We don’t want to be researchers. We want to be participants.
But just for fun — did you know there’s actually a Wikipedia entry for “love”? Who knew? Here it is: “Love is any of a number of emotions and experiences related to a sense of strong affection and attachment…” Well, there you go. Good ol’ Wikipedia.
As Wikipedia says, love is unusually difficult to consistently define. And you know what? I’m glad. How boring would life be if love were nailed down on paper — confined to some stale, crusty, written-in-stone definition? If we narrowed love to a single paradigm, we’d start scolding every beautiful, creative, out-of-the-box expression of love that didn’t fit the mold. I’m glad love can’t be buckled down like that. I’m glad love is unusually difficult to consistently define.
Here’s something I love about this beautiful passage that the Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth. Our translation this morning says, “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is…” and so on. But in the original Greek text, every single description of love is a verb. That kind of love isn’t just an “is.” That kind of love acts.
Here’s a sense of what a verb-filled translation might sound like: “Love lives long-hearted in adversity. Love practices kindness. Love envies not, boasts not, swells not with pride. Love does not act unbecomingly, does not seek the self, does not provoke to anger, does not calculate evil. Love does not rejoice in injustice, but rejoices with the truth. It covers all things, entrusts all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never perishes.”
That kind of love is active. It can’t be pinned down to paper. It’s alive — in here, among us; out there, transforming the world; beyond us, swirling about and working in ways we can’t begin to comprehend. We’re not love researchers — thank God. Love is verb-like. We’re participants.
We’re also recipients. The scriptures aren’t always asking, What is love? Sometimes they’re also asking, Who is Love? Who is God — this One-Who-Loves, this One who is Love — and how does this Loving One love us? Who are we when we are found in this Who — this One who loves? Love is active. And love is personal. Love acts — immerses, surrounds, nurtures, and finds us. We are held fast and secure in the One Who is Love. We’re recipients — and participants — acting on that love toward others, spreading its influence.
Think about children — how do they begin to understand love? Someone once sent me an email that’s made the rounds for years — responses from children who were asked, “What is love?” Here’s how love has acted for them:
Billy, age 4, said, “When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know your name is safe in their mouth.”
Karl, age 5, said, “Love is when you go out to eat and give someone most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.”
Danny, age 7, said, “Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure it tastes okay.”
Noelle, age 7, said, “Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, and then he wears it every day.”
Bobby, age 7, said, “Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen.”
Mary Ann, age 4, said, “Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” And then there are the funny ones:
Karen, age 7, said, “When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.”
Emily, age 8, said, “Love is when you kiss all the time, and when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and talk more. My mommy and daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss.”
What are the concrete expressions of love that have held you up? And where might you find them in the days ahead? Love tends to act. Sometimes, it looks like a phone call. Sometimes, it looks like a hug. Sometimes. it looks like truth-telling. Sometimes, it looks like a meal, or care, or a form of advocacy.
Where will love find us? How will it act — in patience, in kindness, in relationship? This week, let’s look for it everywhere. And let’s live in gratitude that it’s finding us, even now.
Geese flying in a V formation. Public domain image.
That moment when you awaken to the sound of geese flying over, and you think peacefully, ah, yes, Mary Oliver… That’s right… You don’t have to be good…
Then three minutes later, you hear giggidy jillion more fly over, and it sounds like an utter symphony of clown horns.
And you lose it with laughter.
Good morning, everyone. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE GOOD.
Wild Geese You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting — over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
In my work at the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan, I receive many advocacy calls. Often, they involve discrimination or high stress in employment or educational settings. Occasionally, I hear about difficult encounters with police or other authority figures. Many times, people are struggling financially.
When these calls come to us, we usually have resources to share, and we always offer a listening ear. But sometimes the problems are vast — larger than what can be solved in a single call or by one agency. As David LaMotte often says, “We can’t always fix problems, but we can always change them.”
I take a cue from a friend I deeply admire: Allison Nichol is a civil rights attorney in our national office who hears countless stories like these. She often reminds us that alongside the tangible needs, there’s another human desire at the heart of these conversations — the longing to be witnessed.
And we should never underestimate the impact of that. We all need to know that people care, that we are worth someone’s time and empathy. We need to know that the wrongs done to us matter — that they were, indeed, wrong.
I think many people assume their needs and stories won’t be welcome. But what becomes possible when we do offer witness and welcome?
What if I were very, very sad And all I did was smile? I wonder after a while What might become of my sadness?
What if I were very, very angry, And all I did was sit And never think about it? What might become of my anger?
Where would they go, and what would they do If I couldn’t let them out? Maybe I’d fall, maybe get sick Or doubt.
But what if I could know the truth And say just how I feel? I think I’d learn a lot that’s real About freedom.
I’m learning to sing a sad song when I’m sad. I’m learning to say I’m angry when I’m very mad. I’m learning to shout, I’m getting it out, I’m happy, learning Exactly how I feel inside of me I’m learning to know the truth I’m learning to tell the truth Discovering truth will make me free.
I was driving on my commute, listening to music on shuffle. “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash came on. It’s a very sunshine-y song.
Literally.
It’s gonna be a bright (bright!) Bright — Bright and sunshine-y day.
As the music started, I was only half paying attention, but then, the second line jumped out at me.
I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way.
A line about obstacles? In a sunshine-y song? And this is good news — a nice development?
I guess it is, if seeing them means we can finally stop tripping over what we couldn’t name before.
I’ve heard this song so many times, but this was the first time that line really stood out. Sometimes, we go through our days on autopilot, unaware of the obstacles right in front of us — or worse, we’ve normalized them.
It’s pretty great news when we can finally see them clearly.
Brown leaves from oak trees that have fallen on an asphalt pathway. Photo, Renee Roederer.
I looked up and watched several leaves float down from the sky. They were falling in real time from very tall trees.
“They’ve never been untethered before,” I thought with some sadness, because for some reason, I tend to anthropomorphize things. I watched them fall to the ground.
I kept walking and pondering… As I was doing this, I realized that intertwined root systems existed underneath my feet with every step, unseen as I walked along this pathway with trees on either side.
Sometimes, we’re more connected than we think we are.
“Listening to others has changed my life. It has saved my life in many ways, and it’s given me a new life. I’m so grateful… I routinely call people who have sent me direct messages, and I speak to them on the phone.” He shares that he was never able to work through his grief and losses until his later years, but now that he’s gone down this pathway, it has transformed his life. “It’s only in the last two years by feeling this grief and this sadness that I’ve been able to feel joy.”
Smuggling Grace 