Bravely On The Way
The Quiet Currency of Patient Formation
"We come to the prayer book of the Bible to get training in prayer and the first directive is: 'Go find yourself a tree, sit down in front of it, look at it long and thoughtfully.' Prayer begins not with what we don't see, but with what we do see. Prayer begins in the senses, in the body, in geography, in botany.
Abstraction is an enemy to prayer. Beautiful ideas are an enemy to prayer. Fine thoughts are an enemy to prayer. Authentic prayer begins when we stub our toes on a rock, get drenched in a rainstorm, get slapped in the face by an enemy—or run into the tree that has been in our path for so long that we have ceased to see it, and now stand back, in bruised and wondering awe before it...
By praying you do not get out of the difficult work of sin and enemy and family, you get further into it. Instead of finding it easier, you will find it more demanding. You will not become spiritualized and above it all. You are no longer exterior; you are an insider to yourself, to others, and to God.”1
—Eugene Peterson, Answering GodBravely On The Way: The Quiet Currency of Patient Formation2
Easter dawns cloudy in Kansas City, a whisper.
Wide awake in the predawn hours, I check the forecast from my phone: overcast with scattered showers. I close my eyes again—a long moment of indecision—then open them and consult my bedroom clock. 6:27am. If I get up now and throw on clothes, I can be downtown by 7am—a few minutes before the non-event of this morning’s sunrise.
Having seen the better part of darkness on this night—12am, 2am, 3am, 5am—it seems the only sane choice: leave these covers and enter this day, however dimly lit.
Buildings and clouds loom as I make my way downtown, so I decide to greet the dawn from a nearby rooftop—a downtown coffee shop I’ve always loved. Why not line up one sure thing? I think, hoping for a comforting cup of coffee and trendy views of a city I love.
But a few minutes after 7am, I am peering out at a stylish downtown rooftop, cup of coffee in hand, next to a locked door and a sign that reads: “Our patio is closed for the season.”
Probably it is a small thing, but I feel the air leave my body as I jiggle the handle a final time. My spirit teeters, not unlike the coffee cup precariously perched on its saucer, as I turn and walk down one flight of stairs. My body is still wearing last night's sleepless ordeal as I find the first table next to a window and sit down.
I’m here for a sunrise vigil that never wanted to be, I think, taking first sips of coffee. But I peer out the window and look east anyway.
Bright globed interior lights glaring on windowed glass beside me are the first to meet my gaze. Squinting past these, I can barely see a monochromatic city scene through the darkish window panes. One lone red rectangle, the only pop of color, sputters, stops, and starts—a city bus, making its lazy morning rounds.
As if looking for relief, my eyes scan a triangular field of vision: coffee steam rising just past my nose, student hunched-over-computer two tables down, and, out the window to my right (every third glance), the sputtering bus, exhaust fumes trailing.
Several rounds in, I make accidental eye contact with the kid working on his project. He looks stressed, but he shoots me a smile and it feels like solidarity, a notable act of kindness on this otherwise dreary day.
I look around: the grand staircase opens up to an extensive second floor, but the place is nearly empty. We are a small, battle-worn remnant, hunkered down on the frontlines of dawn. Like that first Easter, I think, hardly a soul.
I glance back to the window and watch as the bus, two flights down, creeps curbside, coming to a halt just below us and lowering its platform, letting third-shift workers trade places with pedestrians. I imagine the kind smile I’ve just received making its way whimsically onto the face of the bus driver—a glad and surprising farewell to the night shift workers, now bounding out onto the street. This makes me think of Mary Magdalene, somehow, and her unexpected early morning encounter with a third-shift gardener. One of my favorite Easter passages comes to mind…3
It has always struck me as remarkable that when the writers of the four Gospels come to the most important part of the story they have to tell, they tell it in whispers. The part I mean, of course, is the part about the resurrection. The Jesus who was dead is not dead anymore. He has risen. He is here. According to the Gospels there was no choir of angels to proclaim it. There was no sudden explosion of light in the sky. Not a single soul was around to see it happen. When Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb afterward, she thought at first that it must be a gardener standing there in the shadows…
I look out the window again; it’s getting easier to see the city now—the buildings, the streets, the sky. Against a window backlit by morning, the globed reflections have faded into faint circles of pale orange.
The way the Gospel writers tell it, in other words, Jesus came back from the dead not in a blaze of glory, but more like a candle flame in the dark, flickering first in this place, then in that place, then in no place at all.
I peer into my cup—a final few sips. It’s time to call it, I think and gather my things, starting for the staircase.
If they had been making the whole thing up for the purpose of converting the world, presumably they would have described it more the way the book of Revelation describes how he will come back again at the end of time with "the armies of heaven arrayed in fine linen, white and pure" and his eyes "like a flame of fire, and on his head many diadems" (19:14, 12). But that is not the way the Gospels tell it.
I am not three steps away from my table when I’m physically stopped in my tracks by a young woman who I’ve wanted to connect with for nearly a year—we’ve traded a dozen texts in earnest efforts to land a calendar spot.
On Easter morning, she is my contrast in every way: spunky, joyful, effusive. I've always thought of her as a better version of my younger self and, since our earliest encounters, I've had an affinity for her that’s hard to explain.
They are not trying to describe it as convincingly as they can. They are trying to describe it as truthfully as they can. It was the most extraordinary thing they believed had ever happened, and yet they tell it so quietly that you have to lean close to be sure what they are telling.
She rises the minute she sees me. She’s been a stone’s throw away—maybe the entire time?
We laugh. We embrace.Since learning of my diagnosis, this young friend has not stopped surprising me with random weekday texts, putting me in the way of earnest prayers and immersive beauty: pictures of jaw-dropping slot canyons, sunbeams over mountain cliffs, flowers in full bloom. Kind questions. Simple check-ins. I pause to recall the last text she sent—a video of musicians playing streetside in her old college town. Alongside a red heart emoji, she’d written: “Here’s to beauty in the small things, beauty in people, beauty in simplicity.”
They tell it as softly as a secret, as something so precious, and holy, and fragile, and unbelievable, and true, that to tell it any other way would be somehow to dishonor it.
I am brushing back tears as she introduces me to her coffee shop companion. The three of us greet and smile, saying all-the-things. Then, just before leaving, I pull out my calendar and we finally land a spot.
To proclaim the resurrection the way they do, you would have to say it in whispers: “Christ has risen.”
Shhhhh.
Like that.
Questions for Reflection:
In the opening quote, Eugene Peterson writes that “prayer begins in the senses, in the body, in geography, in botany.” Take a moment to recall the last time you felt truly connected to one of these: your senses, your body, your physical location (geography), or the natural world (botany). Is there a word, a phrase, or a prayer that surfaces, as you consider this location?
When was the last time you felt your spirit teetering—precariously perched—inside of a difficult circumstance? As you think about it now, can you identify any quiet signs of hope?
What’s something you’re currently sure you’re “right” about that—for whatever reason, in this moment—is inviting you to reconsider? If you were open to a new way of seeing, what might come into focus here?
Is there anywhere in your life you feel called to “lean close” in order to receive something beautiful and true? What’s the thing you need to know today? What’s the thing you need to name?
Several weeks ago, I invited you to join me on a Lenten journey. Here are the earlier posts, in case you missed them:
Blurt It Out: A Lenten Invitation
Bravely On The Way: A Chorus of Questions
Bravely on The Way: When We Don't Know The Way
Bravely on The Way: How it Works
Are these thoughts helpful? Clicking the heart below helps others find me!
Feedback for next time?! You can share anonymously—via text or voice memo—by clicking below:
(Psst! I love when our broader community has the chance to engage with your questions & ideas, so comment on Substack when it works. If more private feedback seems best, do mention your name when it makes sense, so we can connect more personally, as I’m able.)
Eugene Peterson, Answering God. (And for an interview exploring themes from this work, catch Krista Tippett’s interview with Eugene Peterson here.)
I am indebted to Andy Crouch for the phrase “patient formation”—to say nothing of his outsized influence on my lived theology, for which I am perpetually (joyfully!) in debt.
Frederick Beuchner, Secrets in the Dark: The Secret in the Dark.
I completely lose myself in your stories. Thank you JT for being so open. Love you kiddo.
So lovely, my friend!