The Alphabet of Grace

SANTA FE, NM -- Today I arrived in a different kind of beauty. The lush, green mountains of the San Luis Valley in Colorado have given way to the browns and reds of the high desert in New Mexico. In the Rockies, there was constant motion -- another waterfall, another stream, another trailhead, another encounter with animal life. There is a different soul in the desert, though -- slower, softer, more intimate, maybe even more "alive" to me than the mountains. I'm looking forward to experiencing the desert tomorrow through the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum and the Museum of Fine Arts (and by walking some trails).


Books have been a significant part of the journey so far -- Lewis, Nouwen, Dillard, Buechner, and others. At first -- and this is bizarre to admit -- I had forgotten how to read. Though I read often, it's usually for utilitarian purposes. What quotes can I pull out for a Bible study? What new leadership strategy can I apply? Would this sound good in a sermon?

My spiritual directors gave me a reading list for the summer with instructions to read only what I feel will be meaningful. Unfortunately, when I see a reading list, I think "syllabus" and "How do I get an A?" By last Tuesday, I had put down the notebook and the highlighter, and I tried to figure out another to absorb the right material.

What I've landed on is a kind of spiritual wikipedia approach. I'm literally carrying around about 50 books from Debra and Dave and my own library in the trunk of my car. I'm familiar with many of the titles, and as my mind wanders towards a particular topic or I sense that I need counsel in a specific area, I pull out that author or that particular tome. The various passages and chapters are coming together into a strange sort of patchwork, my patchwork.

In my last post, I expressed some sense of loneliness and perplexity about God's silence. (Thank you to those of you who have offered encouragement and prayer.) I was tempted towards cynicism, so I went back to an author who constantly wrestles with cynicism about this faith -- Frederick Buechner. I've always felt a kindred spirit with that curmudgeon old guy. Sometimes I picture the two of us as the old cranky guys of Muppets fame sitting in the balcony cracking jokes about the absurdity of God and his lemming followers.

Friday morning I awoke with a thought. "Come to me." I grabbed some water, trailmix, and a copy of Buechner's "The Alphabet of Grace," and pointed the car towards the mountains. I drove into an immense national forest. Still feeling the "come to me" thing, I aimlessly turned down various dirt roads without thought of how I would find my way back. I came upon some bluffs overlooking a mountain lake, and knew instantly I had found the place. Still feeling the silent treatment (hey, God, you were the one who said to come out here!), I retrieved "Alphabet" out of my backpack, and sat down to read on the bluffs.

"Alphabet" has always been one of my favorite books. It's kind of a spiritual Hooked-on-Phonics piece. Literally. Buechner uses the alphabet and the sounds we humans make to talk about the minute-by-minute interactions we have with the holy throughout the day. Buechner speaks of finding God as he places his feet on the cold floor after awakening in the morning, as he makes breakfast for his children, as he does his work, as he puts his head down on the pillow.

On Friday, one of the passages that struck me was: "The alphabet of grace is full of sibilants -- sounds that can't be shouted but only whispered: the sounds of bumblebees and wind and lovers in the dark, of whitecaps hissing up flat over the glittering sand and cars on wet roads, of crowds hushed in vast and vaulted places, the sound of your own breathing. I believe in sibilants life is trying to tell us something."

For me, the alphabet of grace has been too subtle for me lately. But I believe this "something" life is trying to tell me is "Come to me."

God says "Come to me" in those picturesque views from the bluff.

God says "Come to me" in the taste of the food I ate today.

God says "Come to me" in the voice of my middle child as he asks me to read him one more chapter of a book at bedtime, just to keep me in his room a little while longer.

God says "Come to me" when someone opens up their pain in my office.

God says "Come to me" even in the silence . . . even when I would prefer that he would say, "It's all going to be okay" or "Sure, I'll give you exactly what you want."

The are sibilants of life. There is an alphabet of grace. Your day is speaking to you.

What does it say?