Ronna Detrick | A Feminist with Faith

I imagine God’s voice…

I often and intentionally imagine God’s voice speaking directly, personally, intimately to me.

Some call this crazy, but I know it as an ancient practice called Lectio Divina* or Divine Reading – a way of engaging Sacred Text not as something to be studied, but as something to be experienced; trusting that God still speaks.

The words that follow were prompted by my interaction with that Text; with the story a young girl, sick and dying, whose father pleads with Jesus to heal her (Luke 8: 49-56).

This is a portion of my imagining God’s voice on my behalf:

I knew you when you were a young girl, Ronna. I was there, present, and loving you as much then as I do now. No cry was unheard. No wound unseen. No heartache unknown. Still. Always. And I can heal you: the young girl who remains within and the woman you are today. Imagine me as the mother who nurtures and comforts her sick child, who holds your head in my lap, who soothes your brow, who listens to your cries and says, “Shhhh. It’s OK.” Who’s always there. Who never leaves. Who sees and says that this-too-shall-pass. Who waits with you. Who holds your hand. Who advocates. Who calms. Who strengthens. Who believes. Who loves. I am that mother. I am that father. I am that God.

The young girl within you will yet rise. She will yet breathe. She will yet run and dance and play. All the potential and hope that dwells within her, dwells within you. She has only been sleeping. So now, hear me speak the same words to you that I spoke to her: “My dear child, get up.”

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I offer you this private, even vulnerable “hearing” – what I imagine (and believe) as God’s voice on my behalf – because I want you to hear (and believe) the same: in your healing and in a God who continues to speak. I also offer it with a slightly ulterior motive. It’s a small taste of Soulstice: my 21-day invitation into Sacred Text, divinely feminine spiritual practice, beautiful stories, the God within them, and my heart. It begins in just two days: Wednesday, May 1. Registration remains open through midnight, April 30.

Whether you sign up for Soulstice, or not, my intention remains the same: that you might imagine, hear, (and believe) that God’s voice speaks for and to you: directly, personally, and intimately. Really.

Oh, for ears to hear.

I can only begin to imagine (and believe) what healing and hope that would invite…

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* I’ve been contemplating the idea of a class or tele-conference or something on Lectio Divina. Would you be interested? Send me a quick email (ronna@ronnadetrick.com) or message me on Facebook. I’d love to hear!

And did I mention that I’d LOVE it if you’d sign up for Soulstice?

Spread the word. Evangelize! I'd be ever-so grateful.

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Eyes of the Heart

Today I am privileged to host Christine Valtners Paintner, PhD. She is on a virtual book tour, promoting her latest: Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice. Christine is a brilliant, kind, generous, and full-of-wisdom-woman with whom I’ve had the privilege of drinking tea…and even collaborating (more on that at the end of the post). I’d invite you to pour yourself a cup of tea (or coffee, or…) and imagine her sitting by your side. Hear her voice and her heart.
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Cultivating eyes of the heart is about seeing in a more spacious and expansive way, and recognizing how we often move through life with limited vision. It is a biblical perspective, where the heart is seen as the organ of transformation and integration. It is the place from which intelligence, intuition, experiential knowing, and deep wisdom emerge.

Most days we move through life seeing from our minds. Those tricky organs of thought, which love to categorize and analyze, love to plan and lay things out. Our minds look for what they expect to see, rather than what is really there.

In my work with photography, I have discovered the camera to be an important tool in reclaiming a different way of seeing: one marked by soulfulness and compassion, one which sees things as gifts to be received rather than products to be taken. Contemplative seeing means slowing ourselves down and savoring each moment, knowing there is something holy being revealed right here and now.

As women, we perhaps need to reclaim this sacred way of seeing even more vitally. We need to reclaim the gaze of the eyes of the heart, rather than the one we have internalized – the objectifying gaze upon our bodies which sees us as valuable only in terms of dress size or physical perfection. We discover these critical voices which live inside of our minds and echo the world around us. Ronna wrote a beautiful post about Eve’s grief over the ways we perpetuate this on ourselves (Eve Screams “No!”) that has stayed with me.

I see my work in encouraging contemplative practice, and specifically these days with photography, as a way of reclaiming this kind of graced vision for ourselves. I describe it as “beholding” which means to gaze lovingly upon a person or place without expectation, without judgment, without waiting to see what we will get. What if we could learn to behold ourselves?

In the mystical path, St Teresa describes the inner journey toward God as movement through a sequence of concentric chambers of a castle, and when we come to the most interior room, we see the soul as a brilliant diamond, and we can hardly bear this beauty. This is the shimmering truth that comes with seeing ourselves through eyes of the heart.

In one of the chapters of my book, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice, the invitation is to work with mirrors and reflections. Mirrors in medieval times were considered to be symbols for the soul, and when polished they reflect back the One who created all things and then exclaimed “that’s sogood.” Cameras use mirrors to reflect light and create an image. What is your own relationship to mirrors? Might you consider a practice of befriending your mirror image and beholding yourself? Learning to see yourself with eyes of the heart, with compassion, with insight into the diamond shimmering within?

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Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, is the online Abbess at Abbey of the Arts, a virtual monastery and community for contemplative practice and creative expression. She is the author of 7 books on art and monasticism, including her latest, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice (Ave Maria Press). Christine currently lives out her commitment as a monk in the world with her husband in Galway, Ireland.

She has graciously provided me a copy of her book, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice, in order to give it away! And I’d love to! Just email me (ronna@ronnadetrick.com) and I’ll do a drawing, get in touch with (hopefully) you, and mail it off to you within just a few days!

As mentioned above, Christine and I (along with Trish Bruxvoort Colligan and Dana Reynolds) co-created a 12-week online retreat called Threshold: The Wild Heart of Longing. I’m horribly and unapologetically biased, but believe me, this is gorgeous stuff. Take the time to read more and then steep yourself in this rich, deep, and overflowing-with-feminine-wisdom course.

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“Learn to see yourself with eyes of the heart, with compassion, with insight into the diamond shimmering within…” May it be so.

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Only two days remain to sign up for Soulstice. This contemplative, spiritual, and Divine Feminine journey begins on May 1. I do so want you to join me.

Spread the word. Evangelize! I'd be ever-so grateful.

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Walking on water (or not)

It is rare that a late afternoon presents itself to me with nothing scheduled, nothing required, no one home. Rarer still, that the sun is out. Miraculously, both occurred yesterday – at the same time! So I sat on my front porch and read a book (An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith by Barbara Brown Taylor). I was absolutely mesmerized, often in tears, and breathing prayers of gratitude after almost every paragraph; on this occasion after just one sentence; just twelve little words.

“The miracle is not to walk on water but on the earth.”

We are so drawn to those who seem to be able to walk on water, who seem to magically part the Red Sea, who seem to have pathways and waterways and high-ways and life’s ways open up before them. Successful. Charismatic. Beautiful. A Midas touch. An enviable life.

And we are so drawn (ravenous, even) to be able to replicate the same: the beyond-belief, the phenomenal, the dramatic, the amazing, the profitable, the love.

But it is the day-to-day of life that is truly miraculous. To walk. To keep moving. To get up yet another morning, no matter what, and do the best we can. Not walking on water, but living – really living – here on the earth. In joy and sorrow. In laughter and tears. In life and death. At times when we’re sure we’ll drown, but still we keep paddling like hell. Through days in which we’re sure our heart will break (and it does) and others we hope will never end.

These are the miracles. We are the miracles. Living. Breathing. Being. Walking. Especially when we’re not sure how or where or even if we have the capacity to put one more foot in front of the other. And still, somehow, we do.

“The miracle is not to walk on water but on the earth.”

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Soulstice begins on May 1. Take this journey with me. Let’s walk on the earth together – looking for miracles. Click here to learn more.

Spread the word. Evangelize! I'd be ever-so grateful.

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Blessing: for the week ahead, for the journey ahead, for you.

5 minutes and 58 seconds of unrehearsed, but deeply felt thoughts and emotions from my heart to yours.

With special thanks and deep acknowledgement to Andrea Olson, Amy Oscar, Callahan McDonough, Andrea Mee Maurer, Tanya Geisler, and Tara Gentile.

Spread the word. Evangelize! I'd be ever-so grateful.

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Boston, Winnie the Pooh, and God (or: Embracing Contradiction)

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

- A.A. Milne

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I have spent an inordinate amount of time during my 52 years searching for, reaching for God. This is understandable, but slightly ironic, for in truth, the stories that I most love (and frankly, every narrative in Scripture) tell of God as the one who does the searching, the finding, and the reaching. It is not that my effort has been in vain; rather, that it has been misplaced. As long as I am the one doing the searching, any lack of finding is then, ultimately, mine. The fault is mine. The failure is mine. The futility is mine. But if I expect (know/anticipate/believe) that God will find me, then it is not about my performance, my diligence, my belief, my faith, or even my endless, painstaking search. The agency is God’s. The action is God’s. None of it depends on me.

Which means that none of it depends on you, either.

It is God who seeks. It is God who finds. And it is God who reaches for you.

Like a shepherd who looks for a lost sheep.
Like a woman who looks for a lost coin.
Like a father who looks for a lost son.
(Luke, Chapter 15)

This is blessed relief.

Like taking Pooh’s hand and being sure. Or maybe, like feeling your hand taken and squeezing right back in return.

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I wrote the words above before Monday’s bombings in Boston. The whimsy of Winnie the Pooh seems incongruous to such horrific tragedy.

As I ponder this, mull it over in my mind, and weep on behalf of such senseless and inexplicable violence, I come to this:

In times like these, I need to feel God’s hand take hold of mine. I need God to reach, to move, to initiate. My heart is too tired, too weary, too worn. I’m guessing yours is, as well.

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So how do we live with this disconnect? How do we, even momentarily, feel the warmth of Another’s hand in ours and then, in a flash, feel the swift and sudden erasure of any sense of Divine compassion or care. “I just wanted to be sure of you” feels like childish prayer and foolish hope.

Still we pray. Still we hope.

I do not have profound or all-encompassing answers. Only this:

Contradiction is the way of it. Bombings in Boston. The miracle of birth. Broken hearts. Wild dance. Marriage. Divorce. Together. Apart. Sickness. Grief. Healing. Hope. Day. Night. Death. Life. We can’t possibly understand it. We do not have the capacity to figure it out. And trying feels frustrating, at best.

In times like these, neither mental constructs, political wrangling, nor theological platitudes suffice. We need a hand to hold. And we need ours held. Even more, we need to hold each other’s.

And here is where the contradictions fall away and Sacred embrace ensues. If you can allow that sometimes, every once in a while, if not always, the hand that so tenderly reaches for and slips into yours is the very hand of God, that means that your hand offers the same.

Sometimes, every once in a while, if not always, the most profound (and needed) experience of the Holy is yours to give.

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Contradictory? Perhaps. But no less true. Especially in times like these. Embrace it. Embrace others. And imagine that maybe, just maybe, God is embracing you…or at least, reaching for your hand.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

Spread the word. Evangelize! I'd be ever-so grateful.