Mercy Seat

This model was made for a movie, but I suspect it's as close as any, to the originalI was reading from Exodus 25 in the mornings a while back, and have particularly been mulling over the concept of a mercy seat. Let me first explain the source.

According to Exodus 25, God told Moses to build an "ark" of acacia wood, overlaid with gold. On the lid of that box was to be the "mercy seat," a space bounded by two carved and gilded cherubs that had their wings spread over the "mercy seat" spot. Furthermore, the cherubs were to be carved so that their faces were looking right at the mercy seat. And over the mercy seat rested the shekinah glory--the brilliant visible representation of God's presence. (And by the way, I learned recently from a fellow Bible study group member that "Shekinah" is a feminine word in Hebrew. Haven't checked that out yet.)

When you grow up hearing certain terminology, you just take it for granted, I think. I don't recall ever asking anyone--my mom, my teacher, my pastor--what a mercy seat was when I was growing up. I already knew it from the Bible story and the pictures created by artists or in the Bible story felt sets used by teachers to tell the stories. The mercy seat was a term for that flat top over the chest called "the ark," and it had an empty space in the middle with two angels sculpted on each end, spreading their wings over the center.

But what does "mercy seat" mean? Why mercy?

As I've thought about it, I think this was the message God wanted people to get in the centrality of mercy to the design of his visible dwelling place: More than anything, if we are to reflect the character of God, we must become people of mercy.

Mercy regarding what? Well, we might start with the symbolic fact that just below the mercy seat, inside the chest of the ark, was the ten commandments. There's plenty of discussion--at least in our country--of the ten commandments. Christians like to acknowledge the claim of the ten commandments on our laws, our behavior, our system of justice. Doing right is important. Honor to God and respect to fellow humans is important. Following instructions is important.

But there's a HUGE issue left out of our discussions in society, in families, in self-help literature, and I would guess in many counseling offices: Mercy. I think it's because we tend to trust our perceptions or our knowledge of stories and people as being right. Our perceptions of others and of situations are assumed to be the reality. So there's plenty of reason for passing judgment, and not much for mercy.

There are a hundred, maybe a thousand, ways each day in which we fail to show mercy to those around us. We show no mercy when we criticize others in an effort to make ourselves look like the heroes in comparison to their "villainous ways." We show no mercy when we label others with negative characteristics. We show no mercy when we bull-headedly insist on having things that we crave, over the good of those around us. We show no mercy when we adhere to our own constructs of "principle," to the destruction of our relationships. (Don't get me wrong here; I think one can and should set needed boundaries and still show mercy.) We show no mercy when we allow our own pain to outshout the pain of others. I would add this observation: It is tough to be merciful when we are feeling selfish, and tougher yet when we are feeling stepped on.

I really debated about whether to write that last paragraph, starting a list. I think the question of whether or not you and I are people of mercy is probably best filled in by our own consciences.

"And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." Micah 6:8

So here's my own question for today: is the mercy seat occupied by any glory at all in my life?

Where Nature and Revelation Unite

Last week I returned to the Napa Valley in northern California. We had meetings there for the administrators of our system of 14 colleges and universities in north America.

I had dreaded returning, to be truthful. I'd not been back in about seven years, and I knew it would be a poignant, nostalgic time. It was indeed a nostalgic visit, one of many memories. Everywhere I went, odd memories that popped into mind: the time I saw a car burning by the side of Silverado Trail (a road that goes upvalley from Napa) at 1 a.m. as I came home from an out-of-state trip. The time I drove down the hill and saw that someone had tacked a posterboard on an oak tree reading "MIKE, CALL ME." The memories of standing by the fountains in front of the music building and greeting people in my wedding reception line just before I moved away. The memory of taking screenwriting from Harrison Ford's brother--I kid you not, and he was not a bad teacher, I thought. The many memories of holding my breath as I drove through the corridor of trees north of St. Helena; the tradition is if you can hold your breath as you drive all the way through the long corridor, the wish you make at the beginning will come true. I did it again this time.

There were also memories of doing musical theater with the student club I sponsored, and the memory of being told off by the choral professor in the aisle of the local market because she said we were "ruining the students' voices" because of all the rehearsals for the musicals. There were memories of graduation ceremonies up in the grove on the top of the hill. There were memories of waking up in my little house among the pines on McReynolds Drive and worrying that the wailing wind was going to knock a tree down through my roof. I drove within view of my little house, but I couldn't bear to go right up to it and knock on the door to say hello to Michelle, the current owner. Some memories are best left unadjusted.
One of the mornings we had a worship service in the college church--the church where I was a member, where I played the organ, where I baptized Cary, a junior high student who wanted me to do the honors, and the pastor let me do it ... the church in which I got married. As I walked into the passageway to the right of the church lobby I was suddenly struck with the thought: the last time I stood in this passageway I was wearing my wedding dress and getting ready to walk down the aisle!

As I listened to the chorale sing several songs, tears ran down my cheeks. How I miss it! I miss that massive organ that dominates the front of the church. I miss the people who sat in the pews near my usual spot. I miss those lovely green banners that still hang at the front of the church with the college's motto on them: "Where nature and revelation unite in education."

This church has strange memories, too. I remember hearing that there was an unusual prayer group that met in the community (this community does manage to collect some odd folk), and they felt impressed that God was going to strike the church with lightning because of the sinfulness that had crept in. They even had named a particular Tuesday afternoon date for the demolition of the church by the hand of God. Well, I was supposed to practice that afternoon in advance of playing the organ for a wedding. The question was: do I go practice, or not? I went. I'm still here.
I stopped by the library to hook into their internet, revise some documents and send them back to my university. I settled into one of the brown couches in the entry area. I doubt anyone there realizes it, but I decided this was my wedding gift. When Husband and I got married, there was a capital campaign on to raise money for a new library. Since I had all the household things I needed, I asked in our wedding announcement that people donate to the library fund in our honor. Husband had a building project for a new elementary school where he is principal, and he made a similar request.

The library capital campaign sank like a stone. There just wasn't enough lifting power. Husband, on the other hand, is currently in his fifth year of being principal in the lovely new school facility. Back at this college in California, they took the money raised and remodeled a part of the existing library "to look like Starbucks." Despite my disappointment that the project failed, I like what they did. Make no mistake: that brown couch is mine!
The valley and surrounding hills were beautiful. I love the stately oaks of the area (like this one next to the deck around the college president's home), as well as the mustard that had just begun blooming yellow in the vineyards. The flowering cherry trees around the college had busted out in pink, well ahead of our trees in the Northwest. The landscape was a living green, the kind that feeds your eyes and makes your heart ache from the beauty of it all.

Instead of driving back from lunch at the president's house I walked back through the woods, past the dorms on the hill and down the steep little trail to the main campus. I thought of my stepdaughter, who went to school here and watched for mountain lions on her way down from that dorm on the hill. And I breathed deeply of that delicious woodsy spring air.
By the steps leading up to the Education department, that building where I worked and taught happily for seven years, the pink and white camelia bushes were blooming. The cement steps look more chipped up than ever, and the building could use some spiffing up inside. But I got the same warm, delighted welcome from old colleagues that I'd gotten everywhere I went. This is a place where I'm loved. This is a place where--surprisingly--there are still students eight years later who have heard of Ginger who taught here and was creative in this place. It was astonishing and healing for me to "feel the love" after years of administration in a place where the faculty seem to run on the fuel of suspicion (with good historical reason, so I understand, but that's a story for another day). It seemed like every corner I turned revealed yet another old friend who greeted me with delight.

I didn't return home with any revelations, just a blessed reminder that there exists a place where I am loved a great deal, and where I love them back, heart and soul. I think people usually call such a place, "Home."

Hope for Spring

There may be a fresh dusting of snow on the roofs this morning, and the weather gurus may be predicting a chance of more today, but above you see what's in our neighbor's yard as of yesterday. I caught the photo on the way back from our first official training walk for the June half marathon we've signed up for. Crocuses (croci?) mean hope for spring, even if the forsythia buds are still hiding tight and tiny next to bare branches.

And I'll rejoice at signs of hope any day they show up!