Category Archives: Letters from God

A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent.

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Woman with a cross of ashes on her forehead
Dear Daughter,

On Ash Wednesday, if you are in church, the minister will invite you to the observance of a “holy Lent” and mark your forehead with the ashes of repentance.

Let me be very clear about this: I love you so much. I delight in you. I cherish you. For ever.

Here are a few more things I want you to comprehend. Despite what you’ve been taught, “holy” does not mean pure and unearthly. “Sin” does not mean breaking my rules and making me mad. “Penitence” does not mean listing and wallowing in all the ways you’re wrong and bad. “Repentance” does not mean promising to do better to stay out of trouble.

Please think about these words a new way, on Ash Wednesday and every other day going forward.

What if you only sin when you refuse healing and cling to brokenness? When you use those sharp broken edges to hurt yourself and others?

What if holiness is when you choose to be whole, even though you’re terrified? When you embrace and enfold those pieces of yourself you’ve lopped off to fit into others’ molds?

What if penitence is when you see yourself clearly, and know, speak, and live from your heart?

What if repentance is returning to your true self in all her messy glory?

What if, this Lent, instead of focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing?

I was there at the Big Bang, enlivening every particle, atom and molecule. You are made of me, and through me you are connected to everything and everyone.

I am everywhere, my love. You live in me and I live in you. This means, my dear, when you let yourself be healed, your healing heals the world. And when you cling to your brokenness, the world stays a little more broken than it needs to be. Your healing is important and necessary.

You think your healing is selfish. That’s incorrect. On the contrary, your healing is crucial. I’m using that word deliberately, sweetheart. Your healing is the crux – where you and I come together.

This Lent, the only fasts I want from you are these: Fast from distractions that allow you to stay wounded and broken. Fast from believing you’re not good enough. Fast from making yourself small, and nice, and silent. Fast from all judgment, especially of yourself.

This Lent, make space for me to flow into you and through you. Befriend your fear, your anger, and your sadness. They are a deep source of nourishment and strength. Let your love go free. Let your joy be unconfined.

Sweetheart, healing isn’t complicated, and it’s always here for you. All you have to do is tap into it, like a springtime maple tree or an aquifer of living water. You know this. But it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it? All you have to do is let me clear out the dams and the trash, the resentments and identities and old, too-small skins that keep you stuck and stagnant.

Open your heart armor just a little. Let go, child. Breathe and soften. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.

This Ash Wednesday, let those ashes symbolize our unending connection, a connection so easy to forget and so simple to strengthen.

When the priest wipes those gritty ashes on your forehead and says, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” celebrate your elemental oneness with this dear, dirty earth, and with me. I am in those ashes, in the dust, in the stars, and in you.

I need you, my daughter. You’re the only you I created. Please, let yourself be the creation I made you to be.

You don’t need someone outside yourself telling you how to live.

Trust yourself.

Trust your heart.

Trust me. I’ve got you.

All my Love,
God  

(A Lenten gift for you: two free PDF printables from this letter.)

Photo: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash


   

 

A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent

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Woman with a cross of ashes on her forehead

Dear Daughter,

On Ash Wednesday, if you were in church, the minister would invite you to the observance of a “holy Lent” and mark your forehead with the ashes of repentance.

Let me be very clear about this: I love you so much. I delight in you. I cherish you. For ever.

Here are a few more things I want you to comprehend. Despite what you’ve been taught, “holy” does not mean pure and unearthly. “Sin” does not mean breaking my rules and making me mad. “Penitence” does not mean listing and wallowing in all the ways you’re wrong and bad. “Repentance” does not mean promising to do better to stay out of trouble.

Please think about these words a new way, on Ash Wednesday and every other day going forward.

What if you only sin when you refuse healing and cling to brokenness? When you use those sharp broken edges to hurt yourself and others?

What if holiness is when you choose to be whole, even though you’re terrified? When you embrace and enfold those pieces of yourself you’ve lopped off to fit into others’ molds?

What if penitence is when you see yourself clearly, and know, speak, and live from your heart?

What if repentance is returning to your true self in all her messy glory?

What if, this Lent, instead of focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing?

I was there at the Big Bang, enlivening every particle, atom and molecule. You are made of me, and through me you are connected to everything and everyone. I am everywhere, my love. You live in me and I live in you.

This means, my dear, when you let yourself be healed, your healing heals the world. And when you cling to your brokenness, the world stays a little more broken than it needs to be. Your healing is important and necessary.

You think your healing is selfish. That’s incorrect. On the contrary, your healing is crucial. I’m using that word deliberately, sweetheart. Your healing is the crux – where you and I come together.

This Lent, the only fasts I want from you are these: Fast from distractions that allow you to stay wounded and broken. Fast from believing you’re not good enough. Fast from making yourself small, and nice, and silent. Fast from all judgment, especially of yourself.

This Lent, make space for me to flow into you and through you.

Befriend your fear, your anger, and your sadness. They are a deep source of nourishment and strength.

Let your love go free.

Let your joy be unconfined.

Sweetheart, healing isn’t complicated, and it’s always here for you. All you have to do is tap into it, like a springtime maple tree or an aquifer of living water. You know this. But it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it? All you have to do is let me clear out the dams and the trash, the resentments and identities and old, too-small skins that keep you stuck and stagnant. Open your heart armor just a little. Let go, child. Breathe and soften. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.

This Ash Wednesday, let those ashes symbolize our unending connection, a connection so easy to forget and so simple to strengthen. When the priest wipes those gritty ashes on your forehead and says, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” celebrate your elemental oneness with this dear, dirty earth, and with me. I am in those ashes, in the dust, in the stars, and in you.

I need you, my daughter. You’re the only you I created. Please, let yourself be the creation I made you to be. You don’t need someone outside yourself telling you how to live. Trust yourself. Trust your heart. Trust me. I’ve got you.

All my Love,

God

A Lenten gift for you: two printables of this post are downloadable here.

Photo: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

How to feel joy.

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Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance. ~Mary Oliver

This is the piece I was ready to post last week. And then “A letter from God to her daughters who resist joy” showed up and wanted to be shared instead. Here’s my more cerebral, left-brain answer to the question, “Why do we resist joy?”

Two weeks ago I wrote about how to feel sad, and I heard from a few of you who were grateful for the encouragement and instruction. Today I want to encourage us to feel our joy.

Joy. Why would we resist feeling joyful and happy? It seems like a no-brainer, doesn’t it? Pushing away sadness makes sense. Sadness, grief, sorrow – they hurt. Joy doesn’t hurt, right?

Well. Maybe, maybe not. We might not resist joy like we resist sadness. We resist joy in different ways – we might rush past joy, not stopping to take it in.  We might hold on to it with a death grip, grasping and needy, not trusting that there are moments of joy yet to come.

We might believe that if we let joy in, it will only make our inevitable sorrow more acutely painful.

And we’d be right.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Kahlil Gibran

Feelings are unpredictable. Feelings ebb and flow. Feelings arrive, fresh-faced or tear-stained, without words, yanking on our skirts and distracting us from our to-do lists. They require our attention at inconvenient times.

Feeling our feelings, all of them, is a choice. We don’t have to do it. We can numb and distract and talk ourselves out of our feelings until we die. Many lovely people choose not to feel their feelings. You probably know a few of them.

Our dominant culture excels at teaching us to ignore our true feelings.

So, why bother? Why feel at all? Why rock our little human boats that we try so hard to keep afloat and on an even keel? Why make life harder than it already is? Why choose to feel deeply? Why not leave well enough alone?

Why choose to get back in touch with our emotions? Our emotions live in our bodies. When we cut off our emotional lives, we cut off our embodied existence. We live from the neck up, dragging our bodies around like machines controlled by our brains.

You may have vacated your body and moved into your head at some point, probably in self-defense. It was the best strategy at the time. Vacating your body was how you got through the painful stuff.

If so, it’s time to come back home.

Why? Because, when you cut off your embodied feelings, you also cut off your connection to Soul. Our souls and bodies are intertwined. Your soul does not live in your brain or your mind.

Feeling your joy and sorrow is how you reconnect with your body. Reconnecting with your body is how you connect with your soul and your soul’s Source.

Cutting off your body because it hurts too much and you feel uncomfortable is to cut off your connection to God. Refusing to be in our bodies severs our connection to Holiness. Your holiness. My holiness. Earth’s holiness. Holiness Itself.

Besides, it takes so much energy to keep stuffing and resisting our feelings! Just think what you could get done if you just let your feelings move through you and got on with your day?!

If you want a less woo-woo, more sciency reason to feel your feelings, consider the neurobiology adage “Neurons that fire together, wire together.” In the words of Rick Hanson, “Passing mental states become lasting neural traits.” He’s got some good instructions in this 13-minute TED talk.

When we pay conscious attention to joyful moments, experiences, and memories, we heal our brains. A healed brain is more resilient and flexible. A healed brain is more resistant to stress and the cascade of destruction and disease caused by stress.

We inhabit our joy only when we also attend to our sorrow. They walk together.

Mary Oliver:

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider

the orderliness of the world. Notice

something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow cricket

whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,

shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.

Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,

like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn’t long enough for the beauty of this world

and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.

Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

Does this resonate? Want to explore further? Contact me to schedule a free no-obligation conversation. I’d love to talk!

Photo credit: Annie Spratt on Unsplash

A letter from God to her daughters who resist joy

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Smell a rose for me. This is the only worship I require. All my love, God. (Photo of paint-covered smiling girl.)

Dear Daughters,

This letter is for you who resist your joy.

You have your reasons. I get that. I really do.

Joy feels dangerous. Joy feels vulnerable. Joy feels disloyal to those who are suffering. And there’s so much suffering, isn’t there?

You must comprehend this truth. I can only heal you, and others through you, when you’re willing to inhabit joy and allow sorrow.

When you resist sorrow, you resist joy. When you resist joy, you flee your body. When you flee your body, you cut off healing.

I heal you and your world through your body. We connect, you and I, through your flesh. This is what Emmanuel – God with us – means. Me being with you is not abstract. It’s the most concrete thing of all. Every one of your cells is holy. Every single one.

Take a deep breath. That’s me.

Feel your heart beating and your blood moving. That’s me.

Wiggle your fingers and your toes. That’s me, too.

I am always here.

You are sacred. You are holy. You are indescribably dear to me.

Let sorrow flow through you like water. Sorrow  will furrow and deepen and make of you a fresh channel.

Then, let joy flow through you like a river. I promise there will be more than enough. My rivers are full of water.

Let me feed you with my world – bread and wine, sun and rain, sky and dirt, lover, sister, friend. Your delight is my delight.

Let me make you wholehearted.

Let me make you healing and healed.

Let me live in you.

Live your holy life.

My darlings, feel it all.

Smell a rose for me.

This is the only worship I require.

All my love,

God

Photo by Senjuti Kundu on Unsplash

©barbmorris.com

Resurrection

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Nurture. And destroy. Both are holy. Both are required for resurrection.

We’ve domesticated resurrection. We’ve tamed its wildness. We’ve turned resurrection into cute, fluffy sweetness. Picture the typical Easter symbols – frolicking lambs, fluffy bunnies, downy chicks, fluttering butterflies, waving daffodils.

But what if the green blade riseth as a knife?

Resurrection is no gentle thing.

Metamorphosis is inherently destructive. Egg shells shatter as the chick hatches. The caterpillar’s destruction is necessary for the butterfly’s existence.

Beloved, I am sick to death of meekness. Of pleasingness. Of niceness. I crave clarity and focus. I want to be a sharp-edged blade forged in my life’s fire.

Ask yourself: What must die for life to be freed?

What if, on your journey of rebecoming, you have uncovered a warrior within? What then?

Will you embrace this inner warrior, or will you command her to drop her sword and spear? Will you nurture your inner insurrectionist? Will you feed her and clothe her? Or will you send her away hungry and alone?

Will you dare to speak your heart’s desire?

Will you dare to be a weapon in your own hands?

Will you dare to trust your aim?

May we whet and wield our strength. May we see clearly and give voice to truth. May we defend the defenseless. May we walk away from labels and roles that cage us. May we excise from our lives anyone who wants us small and afraid.

May we be faithful to ourselves and each other – our comadres, companions, fellow warriors on the Way.

Embrace conflict as a whetstone that sharpens and hones you.

Trust yourself to throw your spear. Trust yourself to know which suckers need to be pruned so the tree can thrive. Trust yourself to see what needs to be done, and do it.

Most of all, trust the deep Love in whom you live and move and have your being. Remain rooted in her. Live in and from her.  

Nurture. And destroy. Both are holy. Both are required for resurrection.

Ordination

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I consecrated you with blood and salt water at your birth. I bestow upon you daily ordinations. I tell you of your belonging every moment. ~Barb Morris

ORDINATION

You say you’re waiting for permission.

You say you’re waiting for direct orders from an irrefutable voice. A voice from the heavens: This is my daughter, in whom I am well pleased.

Listen to her.

An ancient ritual, laden with pomp and circumstance– Proper form and order.

An ordination with weighty words and codified gestures, performed by men wearing heavy gowns and rings of gold, who seal decrees with wax.

You on your knees on the floor of a long narrow dusty hall ruled by straight lines.

My love, that’s not how this works.

My ordination comes through rock and stars.

This holiness is swimming in the mighty river welling up in you that will not be dammed.

This holiness strips your old tough too-small skin from your body with gentle-edged hands you’ve forgotten you had.

This holiness is living in new thin porous skin permeable to excruciating joy.

I consecrated you with blood and salt water at your birth. I bestow upon you daily ordinations. I tell you of your belonging every moment.

Hear my voice in the piney wind, songs of birds and frogs, and laughter. Feel my hand as butterflies and bees, sun on skin, feet in cold river. See me in seasons’ spiral, cycles of day and night, everyday dying and rising.

Your sweat and tears taste like ocean.

You know my wordless urge and tug in a baby’s cry and the need of a friend. Or a stranger.

Here’s your permission: Daughter, you are here.

You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Breath of my breath. Blood of my blood.

I feed your body with my body.

Anoint yourself with oil and honey.

Stand up, and walk.

Do your work.

©Barb Morris, first published in April, 2017. Stock photo edited on Canva.)

Postscript – God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent

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Dear friends,

God’s letter to her daughters who observe lent has received over 30,000 views in the three days since it was published. I’m astonished by the response. Many readers commented, most expressing gratitude. Some commenters criticized my post, calling my words unbiblical, ungodly, and “evil.”

Although I don’t enjoy criticism, I am learning to handle it. But the criticisms, by extension, are leveled at readers for whom the post resonated deeply. These readers’ comments shared their pain, brokenness, and vulnerability, and they did not sign up for critique. So I’ve turned off comments today, although you can still read the ones previously posted.

Some of you have asked permission to share and quote in sermons and articles. Thank you, and yes.

Now, on to a few common themes expressed in the comments and on Facebook.

Where’s God’s letter to his/her sons?

That’s not the letter that’s mine to write. I am a woman, speaking to women in a patriarchal culture and patriarchal church. As several of you pointed out, the letter’s message applies to men and other genders as well, probably. I can’t speak to that with integrity. If God has given you words for her/his sons, please share them in the comments. I’ll collect your responses for a future post.

My husband, an Episcopal priest, is considering using “a letter from God to her daughters … ” as a starting point for his sermon this Sunday. He may preach about cultural burdens placed on men in the context of Jesus’ temptations in the desert. If he does, I’ll link to the recording here. You can also read a summary of his sermon on his blog.

Thank you to those of you who have asked permission to substitute non-gendered language and repost. I am grateful.

The hubris of “putting words in God’s mouth”:

First of all, this was a literary device. I tried writing this piece several different ways, and the words eventually told me they wanted to be a “letter from God.” This may only make sense to other writers. The device was evidently effective, given the response. Some readers referred to the piece as poetry, which is a good description, I think.

Secondly, I am not delusional. I do not think I am God’s ordained mouthpiece. I do not believe I speak Truth with a capital T. That said, I do believe that, through our soul’s connection to the One and to each other, we receive messages for others as well as ourselves. I don’t think this communication with God is weird or mystical or uncommon. Communion with the Source is what prayer is, and creativity. It’s actually very ordinary. We connect to the Heart of Life, and then we flow with what It gives us. I simply shared what was given to me in a way that worked for the words. Please share what is given to you, as well. I am not special in this regard.

My words are “evil” because they depart from God’s inerrant revelation as given us in the Bible. Therefore, I’m leading people astray.

Ouch. What can I say? I respectfully disagree. I’m not leading anybody. I’m just following Jesus.

I think we are, some of us, following Jesus in a different way. Some of us don’t identify as followers of Jesus at all. We have very different beliefs about the Bible and its interpretation. We have very different beliefs about and experiences of the nature of the soul, ultimate reality, and truth. We will never agree, and that’s okay. As long as we are kind.

I ask that, when we feel the need to point out the error of another’s ways and to tell them how to live correctly, we consider whether our words are compassionate.

To those of you who shared dissenting opinions carefully and thoughtfully, thank you. To those of you who responded to the criticisms carefully and thoughtfully, thank you for stepping in to protect your sisters and defend me.

Going forward, I will delete comments that I judge to be disrespectful and unkind, in order to create a safe and healing space.

Clearly the message in “God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent” was a balm for many of you. I’m glad. May we accept the healing that’s always offered, knowing the Holy One is within us, holding us, and yearning for our wholeness.

I’m wishing you all a blessed Lent.

Peace,

Barb

  • Photo credit: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash