Shirin McArthur

prayerful pondering


Wealth and Hurricanes

A few days ago, I read this rather startling observation: “Jesus has more to say about money than about any other topic, including prayer.” I admit I was surprised to read this—and it goes to show how “down to earth” Jesus’ teaching really is. He understood where we would find ourselves tripping up, in the spiritual life—less often in our communication with God and more often in how we lived out our relationship with God in our daily lives.

IMG_6293 moneyIt does indeed seem that we need regular reminders about the potential and power of money to wreak havoc in our lives—and the risks inherent in making money into our reason, goal, security net, excuse…we all do it, in one way or another.

I have a client who is also a freelancer—in a different field. He sometimes comments, very wisely, about how we end up focused on our “first-world problems,” like not having enough hours in the day to get our personal website work done because we’re so busy with our paid work. He’s right. So many people around the world are focused on whether there will be enough food on the table tomorrow, or if there will be electricity tonight. Our websites would have absolutely no meaning if there was no electricity to power them; they literally would not exist.

How far we have come, it sometimes seems to me, from the very earthy images that Jesus uses to reconnect us with our Creator God. Perhaps that is why I often find myself returning to images of nature for my daily Instagram posts. Mother Earth has so much to teach us—including how little we can rely on our wealth.

Consider for a moment two events in this past week: Hurricane Maria and the earthquake in Mexico City. Both of these natural disasters had no regard for wealth or poverty. They shook us to our foundations, regardless of where we stand. Water flowed everywhere, power lines were whipped about, anything was picked up by the wind and flung down anywhere else. Natural disasters don’t care how much money you have.

At our best, we also don’t care how much money you have when it comes to responding to natural disasters. We see images of people gathering to help dig trapped people out of buildings in Mexico City and clear waterlogged debris in the Caribbean.

Wealth comes in many forms—not all of them material. And with great wealth—and here I would definitely include the great fortune of not being impacted by disaster—comes great responsibility. We who are living with our first-world problems have a responsibility to reach out to those who suddenly find themselves in third-world situations.

My husband Henry is a retired priest. He’s leaving on Tuesday to spend a couple weeks as a volunteer chaplain in Houston, which is still in the beginning stages of recovery from Hurricane Harvey. He has been invited to minister with people who are living in a pair of hotels, unable to return to damaged or destroyed homes, and to the FEMA staff who are working with them. He is called to listen, pray, encourage, and support them, in whatever ways the Holy Spirit reveals to him, and to them.

He’s also been asked to bring toiletries with him—these are evidently very difficult to come by at this point—but the primary wealth he’s bringing is his own groundedness in God. He is wealthy beyond measure, in this situation: he has a home in fine shape, enough money and a car to drive to Houston, and plenty of time available to give to those less fortunate. And God has called him to be a good steward of those resources, in part by sharing them with others.

What are your many forms of wealth? How are you called to share them?



Profoundly Creative

I’m leading a group on the Enneagram at my church these days. It’s been enriching for me to delve more deeply into the work. I’m learning more about the various personality types and enjoy helping people both understand themselves more deeply and see the significant differences between us, in terms of our perspectives, capacities, challenges, and gifts.

In the process, of course, I’m being reminded about aspects of myself as well. One of the paradoxes of my particular type is that we can be profoundly creative at our most healthy—and struggle to create when we let our emotional coping mechanisms take over.

For example, I’ve previously mentioned those many writing ideas I’ve had. I will be attending the Women Writing the West conference here in Tucson in late October, and have a brief opportunity to meet with an agent or editor to pitch a project. I am finding myself feeling paralyzed when it comes to choosing a project to pitch. Should I aim for a selection of these blog posts, focused on a particular Western-oriented theme, given the nature of the conference? Should I gather together some of my poetry, following the same idea? Should I pitch something that will likely require inclusion of my photographs, understanding that this makes for a much more expensive printed book, or use the opportunity to learn about electronic publishing so I might include my photography? Do I worry about which of these might be most lucrative, or focus instead upon what I believe to be most valuable for potential readers?

DSC_8744 twirlI am writing this post at 4:30 am because I’ve let these questions, and more, keep me awake. Naturally, this is probably not the best or healthiest way to proceed. Some days are like that. Accepting this fact is part of having compassion for myself. And, learning how to be a healthier version of myself can allow me to better handle these questions—to avoid taking them into the territory that I call “spinning,” where I mentally go in circles, returning to the same questions again and again, without finding answers.

Which is why I am sitting at my computer, typing this at 4:30 am. I have learned that the best way to stop spinning is to get up and do something different. If I am still feeling wide awake when this is done, I will probably edit a client project for a while, then return to bed and hope to sleep in, or take a bit of a nap later. (One advantage of the freelance life is that afternoon naps are sometimes possible!)

Self-understanding is helpful in many aspects of life—most definitely including the spiritual. Much of my work is inherently spiritual—the content, my perspective, my reliance on the wisdom of the Holy Spirit to guide me and those with whom I work. That can lead me, in less healthy moments, to take my relationship with God for granted. When I find myself awake at 4:30 am, it’s also a reminder that I need to make time for God in my rhythm of life—no matter the hour.

Maybe, before diving into client work, I’ll go hang out with God for a bit.

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More Psalm Flights

Last October, I introduced here the concept of Psalm Flights, where I’m riffing poetry off a line or two of each psalm. I’m still slowly making my way through the psalter in this fashion, generally guided by what I encounter on Sundays, but not always. This week, I thought I would share a couple more of my poems. Another of them has already been published by Ordinary Mystic, and you can find it here.

Psalm 27, verses 5–6: One thing have I asked of the LORD; one thing I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life; To behold the fair beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple.

Lord of Justice,

What has happened to

Sanctuary, to

Passionate, powerful pilgrims

Declaring your temple

Place of Refuge?


I covetDSC_0005

Hanging out in

Beautiful buildings,

Hearing ancient echoes of

Holy songs,

Sipping sustenance from

Sun-shot stained glass,

Filtering footsteps from

Within chilly walls.


Would you let me stay, or

Would you drive me into


Declaring need for

Sanctuary on street-corners,

Sustenance in courtrooms,

Holy hallowing of skyscrapers?


 Psalm 46, verse 11a: Be still, then, and know that I am God.

Be still and know

Be still and trust

Be whole in heart

Because you must

Hold open flame

Within the dark

In hopes to

Generate a spark.


Be true and act

Be true and sound

Be filled with love

For world around

Because you must

Hold high the flame

Embrace us all

In Jesus’ name.

 © Shirin McArthur 2017


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Embracing Liminal Space


Recently I was driving to meet with my spiritual director and found myself thinking about liminal space. The word “liminal” comes from the Latin word for threshold or doorway, marking a transitional moment between one phase of life and another. Classically, liminal space was the middle stage of a religious ritual, when someone had passed beyond the old way of being but had not yet fully embraced or integrated the new.

Definitions of liminal space talk about disorientation and ambiguity, and it was that element of ambiguity that had really claimed my attention. When I shared having felt like I was in liminal space, driving to meet her, my spiritual guide asked how I would describe liminal space. What came forth was a sense of being at the threshold between the known and the unknown.

I was feeling liminality in the car—45 minutes is a long drive to meet someone, but also a good opportunity to reflect upon my life and my relationship with God—but I was also feeling it at that moment in my life. I was inhabiting a space, in those 48 hours, between our granddaughter’s visit and my departure for ten days in Colorado, which would include my stint as a spiritual director for Weird Church Camp. While I had both daily chores and freelance work to fill those hours, I still had a sense of dwelling in that doorway, between the now-known experience of our granddaughter’s visit and the anticipated, but yet unknown, time in the mountains.

As I sat with my spiritual director, I found myself wondering if Jesus inhabited liminal space on a more regular basis—in that sense of consciously recognizing the doorway between the known and the unknown, the old and the new. What would it be like, to wake each day, holding the past as “known” and the future as “unknown,” being consciously aware of the gift of standing at the threshold with every activity, every encounter, every conversation? It felt to me like an exciting opportunity, to conceive of life this way on a more regular basis.

I thought also of a Lenten poem I wrote last year, about the Dalai Lama’s ability (as I’ve heard it expressed by others) to be fully present to whatever conversation he inhabits. What if we treated every conversation as liminal space—in that sense of welcoming the unknown, embracing the ambiguity, rather than presuming we know where the conversation is going or spending our mental time figuring out what we will say next rather than listening to what is actually being said by the other? What if we treated every encounter as a doorway into a new stage of our own life? It would allow dialogue to be truly transformative—as so many of Jesus’ conversations were. I would like to believe that Jesus brought that perspective, that liminality, to each encounter, and that we can too.

Certainly that’s one element of the attitude and perspective I want to take with me to Weird Church Camp. As I write this, Camp is in the future. As you will read it, Camp will be in the past. Liminal space. Already, but not yet—which is also one of the ways that Christians like to talk about Jesus’ understanding of the Reign of God.

How do you think of liminal space—or, if this is a new concept for you, how are you thinking of it now, based on this reflection? Where/when/how have you encountered it in your life? How might God be calling you to embrace liminality in your own life?