Hello friends,
This is Mark Gladman,
Also known as Brother Frederick James,
Your friendly neighborhood monk in dogs.
Welcome to day five of our Lent 26 journey in the wilderness,
Still held as we walk through the Gospel of John.
As always,
As we begin,
I invite you to find a comfortable position to allow your body to settle,
Your shoulders to soften,
Your jaw to unclench,
Your hands rest easily.
Take a slow breath in,
Release it gently,
Again breathe in,
Let the breath fall away without effort.
There's nowhere else you need to be for the next few minutes,
There's no one you need to become,
Just arrive.
Today we're going to sit a little bit more with those words we looked at yesterday of that encounter with the two disciples with Jesus.
The very first words Jesus speaks in John's Gospel are a question,
What are you looking for?
Again,
Not a command or a teaching or a correction,
But what are you looking for?
And when the disciples respond somewhat awkwardly,
Rabbi,
Where are you staying?
Jesus answers with that quiet simplicity that we looked at yesterday,
Come and see.
Isn't that striking,
Jesus doesn't begin with belief or theology or even repentance,
But with location,
Where are you staying?
Because long before transformation reshapes our lives,
Before we get insight,
Before freedom grows,
Life is always being lived somewhere within us.
We all have an inner residence,
A place the heart returns to without thinking,
A landscape that we inhabit when we're not managing our appearances,
When we're tired,
When we're unguarded,
When we're unsure.
Some dwell in anxiety,
Always scanning,
Always preparing.
Some dwell in distraction and rarely arrive anywhere fully.
Some dwell in control,
Holding tightly so nothing slips beyond their grasp.
Some dwell in quiet resentment,
Some dwell in loneliness,
Some dwell in striving and some perhaps,
Even without realizing it,
Are beginning to dwell in trust.
The wilderness has a way of revealing this.
When the comforts fall away and the noise quiets and the familiar supports are no longer within reach,
We discover where we actually live.
Not where we wished we lived,
Or where we present to the outside world as where we're living,
But our true inner address.
And this discovery isn't meant to shame us,
It's meant to awaken us,
Because transformation doesn't begin with relocation,
It begins with noticing.
Noticing.
So gently now,
With compassion towards yourself,
Allow the question of Jesus to turn towards you.
Where are you staying?
Not where should you be staying or where others think you should live,
But simply,
Where does your heart tend to reside?
Notice where you go when you're tired,
When your strength is thin,
Your patience gone,
When you no longer have energy to curate your responses.
Where do you stay?
Notice the places you return to for safety.
These are the patterns that promise protection,
But they quietly drain life.
Things like overthinking,
Numbing,
Withdrawing,
Performing,
Holding everything together alone.
See whatever arises without judgment.
Don't diagnose this like a problem,
Think about it as learning your address,
Where you tend to live.
Now,
Just as gently,
Let another question surface.
Where do I sense Christ already dwelling within me?
Not someday,
Not once you're better,
Not once you've resolved everything within,
But where is Christ present now?
Perhaps in the small capacity to remain,
In the breath that you're noticing,
In the awareness that's opening,
In the quiet longing for something more spacious.
Christ is rarely absent from the places we assume are godless.
Very often,
He's waiting there,
Unobtrusive,
Steady,
Compassionate,
Not demanding you to move immediately,
But only inviting you to see.
This,
My friend,
Is the space where abiding begins.
It's not an aspiration,
It's about being honest.
This is not climbing to some height,
But recognizing the ground beneath your feet.
You don't have to force yourself into a new dwelling tonight,
But simply know where you are right now.
Awareness itself is already movement,
Because what we can gently see,
We no longer have to unconsciously inhabit.
And listen again to the response of Jesus,
Come and see.
Notice what he doesn't say?
Doesn't say fix yourself,
Or prove your worth,
Or relocate before you're ready.
Just come.
Bring your real address with you.
The anxious rooms,
The guarded hallways,
The places still learning how to trust.
Come and see.
Because the deeper mystery is this.
Even before you thought to seek Christ,
Christ has already chosen to stay near you.
Rest for a moment in that possibility.
You're not journeying towards a distant presence,
You're awakening to a nearness that has always been quietly holding you.
And as we close,
Let these questions rest lightly within you.
Where do I tend to live when I'm tired?
What places do I return to for safety that doesn't give life?
Where do I sense Christ already dwelling within me?
There's no need to answer them completely,
But let them accompany you through the day like gentle lanterns along the path.
And now let me offer you this with kindness.
Whatever inner room you discover yourself in,
Friend,
You are not trapped there.
The door is rarely locked and Christ is never standing on the other side waiting for you to escape alone.
More often than not,
Christ is already inside,
Patiently staying with you,
Teaching your heart how to abide as well.
So tonight or today,
Walk gently,
Be honest,
Be unafraid of what you see.
And remember,
Transformation begins the moment we're willing to know where we stay.
Rest there.
And when you're ready,
Come and see.
And may grace,
Peace and love rise within you as you go into your day today.
Bless you,
My friend.
Until tomorrow.
Bye for now.
