Covered By Prayer

I am not a crafty person. I don't knit or crochet (like my grandmother did), nor do I sew except perhaps to repair a hem or reattach a button now and again. Imagine, then, my mild sense of panic when a dear friend called to ask me if I would make a prayer shawl for her sister. This friend is someone I would do anything for—but admittedly—I didn't "know" how to make a prayer shawl. Between the moment she asked me to do this task and the time she explained what was involved, I did the only thing I knew to do which was to whisper a prayer for help to God who I knew would not lead me down a path where I was not following divine guidance. And so, I answered honestly, and I said while I was willing to do anything to help, I didn't have a clue how to do what she was asking of me.

There was a certain sense of urgency in this request because my friend planned to go visit her sister the next day, and the prayer shawl needed to go with her. And, so I said yes, not out of a sense of hubris because in that moment all I was feeling was fear and lack of confidence. What my friend assured me of was that the process of “making” the shawl was simple; the important part was the prayer. I knew, at least, that I could pray, and so I was mostly relieved.

When she arrived, she showed me a beautiful piece of fabric that was soft and warm. She told me it reminded her of her sister. Then she showed me how to cut the ends and tie the knots. She told me that as I cut each strand I was to pray on it, then as I tied the knot I was to also pray. I left the fabric on my table for the majority of the day because I needed to sit with God a little before I actually set out to put that kind of intercession into something that a person would wear around her shoulders as she recovered from a very invasive surgery.

After a nap, I felt ready, and I sat at my table cutting the strands. From time to time I stopped and buried my face in the fabric and prayed. I prayed for the doctors, for the nurses, for the specialists, for the anesthesiologist, for the technicians, for the others who were praying—and I also prayed for another friend’s sister with the same name who finally went to God because of the same illness. I prayed over and over for my friend's sister—for her recovery, for her prognosis to be better than expected, for her dad, her husband, and for my friend who cares so much for her sister.

Intercession is not easy work; I was exhausted when I finished the task to which I had committed my afternoon and evening. Tomorrow, I will need to rise early to take the shawl to my parish church in order to get our priest to bless it between services and have it back here at my house so that my friend can leave on her journey to see her sister.

When my friend's sister wears her shawl, it will be full of God's healing power. Whether she recovers from her illness or not, I know that I have done what God and my friend needed me to do: I was both available and vulnerable. As I step out in faith each and every day, that is what I seek: to embrace the opportunity to grow in grace and relationship with the Christ who is my Lord.

In Peace Will I Lie Down

I have always thought Compline to be one of the loveliest of the liturgical offices that we do in the monastic rounds. While I have most frequently used the Book of Common Prayer for this service, recently I have begun using the daily Complines of the Northumbria Community. There is one of these services for every night of the week. On a retreat that I took with the Residents of Armagh this past weekend, we used the Boisil, Patrick and Ita Complines. One can find these liturgies on the Community's website: http://www.northumbriacommunity.org/pray-the-daily-office/complines.

This office is such a fitting and special way to end each hurried day. It is brief, and said by all present. At the retreat, we used it to bring the day to a close after which we entered into the Great Silence. Once we said the final blessing, we sat in silence in the chapel, then one by one we left to retire or to read until sleepy enough to go to bed. The house was in total silence, and yet it seemed to resonate with the words and music of the Compline prayers. The altar was graced with numerous candles which provided our only light in our make-shift chapel. The names of those for whom we were offering intercessions were there on slips of paper in the middle of the altar surrounded by the lights and our prayers.

I would encourage each and every one of my readers to consider using a form of Compline during Lent. Doing so is a quick and easy discipline, but it has rich rewards in helping one to focus on the God of Light and Love. May we with all who offer their prayers at night join in saying,

In peace will I lie down, for it is You, O Lord,
You alone who makes me to rest secure.
Be it on Your own beloved arm,
O God of grace, that I in peace shall awake.
Be the peace of the Spirit
mine this night.
Be the peace of the Son
mine this night.
Be the peace of the Father
mine this night.
The peace of all peace
be mine this night
+ in the name of the Father,
and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

   

The Insignificant Ones

During the Liturgy today, Fr. Tom, our visiting priest, focused on the story of Naaman, a man who suffered from leprosy—and pride. Naaman was sent to the king of Israel by the King of Aram to be healed of his leprosy, and because the King sent him on to Elisha at the prophet's request, Naaman also found healing for his pride. Naaman had to make an effort to receive the healing of both of his diseases, and he probably would not have received healing for either without the voice of an insignificant servant. This servant said to him, "Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, `Wash, and be clean'?"

Of course, I find it interesting that Naaman expected Elisha to come out and greet him—or wave his hand over him and heal him. That didn't happen. Instead, another insignificant and unnamed servant was sent to tell Naaman what to do. I have known people who all too often react that way. We humans want to be recognized for our accomplishments and for our abilities. We want to be addressed according to our status. Naaman was a man affected not only with a skin disease, but also with the disease of pride. He wanted Elisha to come out and greet him—to recognize him as an important person who deserved the services of the prophet of Israel. Instead, Elisha sent a message to him to go to the river and bathe seven times. Naaman was upset that the prophet would not come out to him and address him on a one-on-one basis. Elisha was asking Naaman to have faith. In this case, faith was counter to Naaman’s pride. He needed to listen to direction, to do as instructed, and receive the cleansing that came from washing in the Jordan River seven times.

How often in our lives do the seemingly insignificant ones have messages for us to which we need to listen? How often does a child, for example, say something that turns out to be profound, or another person provides us insight though we hold them with slight contempt because they seem a little lower on the social strata than we think we are? Do we have times when we want to be recognized for our intelligence, wit, or good works when we actually need to wash in the river and be clean, humble, and focused on the other and not ourselves. Listening to the insignificant ones, God’s anawim, can provide just that moment we need to see that we need to follow God faithfully, knowing that God provides for us in our need, and as the Psalmist asserts, will turn our mourning into dancing:

7
While I felt secure, I said,
"I shall never be disturbed. *
You, LORD, with your favor, made me as strong as the mountains."
8
Then you hid your face, *
and I was filled with fear.
9
I cried to you, O LORD; *
I pleaded with the Lord, saying,
10
"What profit is there in my blood, if I go down to the Pit? *
will the dust praise you or declare your faithfulness?
11
Hear, O LORD, and have mercy upon me; *
O LORD, be my helper."
12
You have turned my wailing into dancing; *
you have put off my sack-cloth and clothed me with joy.

Putting On Christ

A recurring theme here in my writing is how we should strive to become Christ—that our purpose here on earth is not so much to imitate the life of Jesus, but to actually be Christ—the anointed one.


I have danced around this idea because it seems, well, somewhat heretical. And, yet, this idea is not new at all in Christian thought. In the years 949–1022 AD a Byzantine Christian monk and poet who was one of the last saints canonized by the Eastern Orthodox Church wrote the following poem:



We awaken in Christ's body
as Christ awakens our bodies,
and my poor hand is Christ, He enters
my foot, and is infinitely me.

I move my hand, and wonderfully
my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him
(for God is indivisibly
whole, seamless in His Godhood).

I move my foot, and at once
He appears like a flash of lightning.
Do my words seem blasphemous? —Then
open your heart to Him

and let yourself receive the one
who is opening to you so deeply.
For if we genuinely love Him,
we wake up inside Christ's body

where all our body, all over,
every most hidden part of it,
is realized in joy as Him,
and He makes us, utterly, real,

and everything that is hurt, everything
that seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,
maimed, ugly, irreparably
damaged, is in Him transformed

and recognized as whole, as lovely,
and radiant in His light
he awakens as the Beloved
in every last part of our body.

Symeon, the New Theologian expresses the idea of becoming Christ so clearly in this poem. He makes us utterly real. What an amazing idea—that by being Christ (not Christ-like) we are made real. A childhood story that expresses this idea as eloquently is The Velveteen Rabbit. In this favorite story from my children's childhood, the rabbit is cast into the rubbish heap after his young owner contracts scarlet fever, but a fairy comes along and turns the rabbit into a real bunny. Before this wonderful event takes place, however, the Velveteen Rabbit has the following conversation with The Skin Horse:

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Who would have thought that the Velveteen Rabbit and Symeon the New Theologian had so much in common? When we put on Christ—become Christ—you cannot be ugly; rather, you are transformed into a lovely, whole, and radiant being who is named Beloved.

I want to choose this way of thinking—to see myself as Christ, the Beloved One, especially on mornings when I awaken not feeling as well as I would like to feel. When I imagine moving my hand, and knowing that I am wonderfully in Him and of Him, then like The Skin Horse, I can smile, for I will have become all of Christ. I will have become utterly real.
____________________________________________________________________________
Williams, Margery. The Velveteen Rabbit: Or How Toys Become Real. New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1922.

Poetry Chaikhana: Sacred Poetry from Around the World. http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/S/SymeontheNew/WeawakeninCh.htm. Translated by Stephen Mitchell.

Paradox and Retreat

This morning is a day of coming and going here at The Canterbury Retreat Center. Most of our Northumbria Group has departed, and another group is coming in to set up for their program. I came over to breakfast early, then had time to sit on the patio and watch the morning unfold. There is something very important about water--whether it's a placid lake, a roiling mountain stream, or a meandering tidal river. I touch the surface of this lake with my eyes and watch the surface undisturbed except by the occassional jumping fish. The upside down reflection of trees is softened by the shifting morning light. Birds call to one another; squirrels chase each other in frenzied fever. It's warm enough to wear a t-shirt and shorts at 8:00 a.m. Spring is already here in Florida.

What have I experienced here in this sacred space--this space held sacred by each of us who has come together to form community? Well, I've picked up a couple of tips for my own work giving retreats. Norma and Sarah are very masterful yet unobtrusive in their guidance. I've been affirmed in my feeling that it is okay to be the quiet one; that I am comfortable with saying only the one (or two) things that matter. And I've learned that paradox is at the root of all that is Christian. Every place I look: scripture, prayer, community, sacraments--all is paradox, and I find I am okay with that concept. The water that borders this property creates a paradox in that it certainly supports life and makes the green space while it also provides the desert. There is solitude here, the wisdom of the desert bursts forth, and even in community, we can experience the solitude that helps us find the way to our heart.

I am looking forward to my journey to Northumbria this summer. It will be my first visit to the Community, though I've been interested in the group for a number of years now. I look forward to more time to be able to answer the questions. I want to experience the heretical imperative in new and more meaningful ways, and I want to continue to be made ready to listen and follow the pilgrim route.