TEXT: Psalm 63
The Cup of
Life
Six years
ago, during the
Lori was
deep in the middle of dissertation work, and I had aspirations for a book I
hoped to get together. So every day we
tried to honor a schedule: between
breakfast and lunch we would position ourselves behind our laptops, meditation
candle burning, in full view of that living room window, and pay our dues. After lunch, adventure! We prowled around back mountain roads and
hiked through more and less identifiable forest trails, breathing deeply,
stretching our legs, and when we were successful, feeling the mist of falling
water full on our faces.
When the
time was spent and the car pointed homeward, we returned with several
souvenirs. One was a memory of
evergreens, rhododendrons and unforgettable views and a host of pictures to
document them, along with a great recipe for mountain fruit cobbler. Another was a manuscript of which nothing
ever came, but also several forward leaps toward a PhD. that was shortly
completed. And, finally, a cup. This cup – made by a
The cup, of
course, has some practical value. You
can drink from it, which is useful to me because every now and then I’ve been
known to drink a cup of coffee. Or
two. But its value is finally more than
utilitarian. I’ll let you in on a
secret. The cup is magic! Somehow – and I can’t
explain it – within its bowl is contained the fullness of that
When I look
at the deep and vibrant blue of its glaze, I see the sky drawn almost near
enough to touch, and that could darken with scarcely a moment’s notice and fill
with rain. When I bring its rim to my
lips I smell not coffee but the crisp, damp, woodsy mountain air and the gentle
scent of hidden but prolific blossoms.
And when I look inside I see reflected in the inky blackness memories
full and colorful and refreshingly robust.
Somehow,
here within this seemingly ordinary cup, is contained the extraordinary essence
of those days. And every time I hold it,
full and steaming, to the extent that it is possible to simultaneously breathe
and drink deeply, I do.
OK, you can
finally get me to agree that the cup is not magic after all. At its best it is a nicely turned piece of
pottery from the hands of a talented artist.
It is what it is: a dish – a
vessel with capacity. But I will assert
that its capacity is not limited by the volume of liquid its bowl can
contain. It is also a symbol: a decidedly tangible object that is capable
of representing – standing for – all those intangible memories and experiences
I shared. In that way, it is more than
what it is. It quite literally – if only
imaginatively – holds for me that precious month of life, in ways the
photographs can only augment, but not replace.
Perhaps
that is part of the reason Joyce Rupp finds the symbolism of cups so
appealing. In her book, The Cup of Our Life, which we are using
devotionally throughout this Lenten season, Rupp invites all of us to pick out
a cup that we can use for our spiritual practice throughout these weeks. It isn’t something to go out and buy. It is rather something to lift out of the
supply of ones we already possess. It
could be a delicate porcelain treasure handed down through family for generations. It could be a “gimme” cup that came in
appreciation for some generosity. It
could be a piece of your everyday dishware – one exactly like the many others
on the shelf. It could be one you pick
because of your fondness for its shape, or the richness of memories connected
with it, or the smile of the one who gifted it to you. A cup that you select and set aside as your
spiritual guide through Lent. I commend
to you that simple assignment. Go home
and pick out a cup.
It is, Rupp
observes, “an apt image for the inner processes of growth. The cup has been a reminder of my spiritual
thirst. As I’ve held it, filled it,
drunk from it, emptied it and washed it, I’ve learned that it is through my
ordinary human experiences that my thirst for God is quenched. In the cup I see life, with its emptiness,
fullness, brokenness, flaws and blessings” (p. 11).
“A cup is a
container for holding something” (ibid).
And it is likewise a vessel for holding.
In that way, perhaps we can allow our imagery to shift, just a bit, from
the object that we have chosen and set aside, to ourselves – the real vessel
about which we are concerned. In our own
way a sort of cup, we will be reflecting on all that fills us, as well as the
emptiness that occasionally echoes in our soul.
Comparing
ourselves to the various cups around us, Rupp comments that “our physical,
psychological, and spiritual shape is unique to each of us. We cannot take someone else’s body, or
spirituality, or personality and make it our own any more than a cup can change
its color and shape to match each person who drinks from it. The cup is a good container no matter who
uses it. It is of value in itself” (p.
25).
Perhaps
that is a good way to begin this season of preparation and reflection: recognizing my own shape and color, my own
capacity for holding not simply life, but the very presence of God – holding
it, and also pouring it out for the nourishment of others. Vessels, with capacity and intrinsic value,
fashioned in our own unique way by a craftsman who molds and imprints each one
of us with something of the artist’s own image.
And
with a sense of our own rim and bowl and color and shape, plus a mindfulness of
our frequent emptiness, make the Psalmist’s words our own…
O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul
thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where
there is no water. So I have looked upon you in the sanctuary, beholding your
power and glory. Because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will
praise you. So I will bless you as long as I live; I will lift up my hands and
call on your name. My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast, and my mouth
praises you with joyful lips when I think of you on my bed, and meditate on you
in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, and in the shadow of
your wings I sing for joy.
And then allow this part of the
Psalmist’s prayer to touch you:
My soul clings to you;
he asserts. And then
this:
your right hand
upholds me.
Throughout this Lenten season, we will
be playing with this imagery – of ourselves as a cup of life. Along the way we will pay more attention to
this notion of capacity, this openness that our lives represent. We will notice our chips and cracks that
allow some of our fullness to leak away.
And we will claim our capacity for blessing.
But
whatever other learnings and insights might come to fill you and warm you
during this season, allow yourself to internalize this precious truth to which
the Psalmist calls our attention, and to experience its precious reality. Be conscious of yourself as a cup – a
precious container of God’s own presence – held carefully and lovingly in God’s
own hands. Give thanks to God that God
has made you as you are – to hold but also to be divinely held. “Your right hand upholds me.”
O God, you are my God,
I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and
weary land where there is no water.