Paying Attention to Detail

There is a ripple on the waters—enough to move the water lilies around a bit—as the wind blows. The air is crisp and clean, and the sun is warm when I make a point to be in it. I’ve come with Michael and the dogs to a place I’ve never been before. Oh, yes, I’ve driven by it millions of times since it’s on the way to places I go frequently, but I’ve never even pulled into the gates—never slowed down long enough to give more than a passing glance at Lake Cunningham.

This lake, like all lakes in South Carolina, is man-made, serving as a reservoir for the Greer water system. This park, however, is set aside for recreation, and while I have many, many times, taken off for points west and north on a Saturday, I now realize that I have an intimate setting right here practically in my own back yard. We walked on the dock where fishermen put their boats in, and as I stood there looking at the water, I thought I might actually enjoy getting into a canoe and paddling around on the water—something I never thought I’d give consideration to doing. The trees, still full of their autumn colors, are wild and thick near the water, and more spaced out in the actual park area. The dogs seemed just as excited about discovering a new place as I did. We then walked over to the other side of the park where there is another dock extending far out into the lake. There are benches and a gazebo-style covering, and it is just a peaceful place to sit and gaze on the water, the sky, the shoreline. On the way, we passed picnic tables and a shelter.

I write about our trip to Lake Cunningham simply because I was struck by how often I overlook the treasures that are right under my nose. As I walked down the dock, I asked myself, “How many other things have I overlooked that are in my life on a daily basis?” Why do we allow ourselves to become so de-sensitized to beauty or to its opposite. Why do we prefer to walk in darkness instead of the light?


I think, all too often, we find ourselves looking at the big picture. We bemoan world hunger and poverty, or we say our prayers for those who are affected by the many wars being fought in the world. The big picture is all well and good, but it’s the details that are often so much more important. The same is true of our environment. It’s the one red leaf that I picked up to look at instead of the entire forest. It’s the one lily pad with the yellow bud instead of the entire lake full of water lilies. It’s the one child in my classroom who needed to tell me about his run-in with the law instead of the entire class of twenty-three that I was about to dismiss for the weekend.


My challenge to myself this coming week is to pay attention to the details. I challenge you to do the same. Look at the face of the person who comes to you at your business. Pray specifically for someone who is in need—by name and by intention. And when you walk outside, look at the leaves instead of simply admiring the trees. Pay attention to the wonder that’s around you everyday. Let God’s creation fill you with love and the assurance that we do walk in the Light.

Availability and Vulnerability

I'm exploring what it means to be available and vulnerable these days. That's the dual vow of the Northumbria Community, a Celtic community in England and dispersed throughout the world. Being available is a difficult practice in today's society. It just doesn't seem like there is enough time in our fast-paced schedules to be available—especially if we already are in service vocations like teaching or chaplaincy or even medicine. And what if my availability ends up hurting me? What if I feel crucified by those to whom I make myself available—crucified by their indifference or lack of gratitude that I was there for them?

Ah, but there's the rub! That attitude is a definite indication that my being available really wasn't for the other, but rather for some narcissistic act that I thought perhaps would make me feel good; that would only massage my ego. Jesus gave us the ultimate model of availability when he submitted to death on the cross. I am reminded of that vulnerability when I think of Jesus at his most human moment. In John’s Gospel there is no great outpouring of agony at being abandoned by God as there is in the synoptic Gospels. His death is recorded simply as “When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit” (v. 30). Jesus is available and vulnerable all in the same moment, and he goes to God knowing he has shown us what it means to live as Christ. There really seems to be no need for subsitutionary atonement when one realizes that something very different went on in those days in the First Century in Palestine.

God is infinite in goodness and mercy, and that goodness and mercy is revealed to us in Jesus. John Scotus Eriugena says, “ He who made of God a human being makes gods of men and women. And dwelt among us, that is, he took possession of our nature so that he might make us participators in his own nature.” To me, this means that we simply follow Jesus and become Christ. That’s the same thing as saying we’re Christ-like, and hardly anyone could argue with that being one’s goal as a follower of the Christ!

Another Celtic theologian, Pelagius, in his Letter to Demetrias, says “Do not let your mind be seduced by theological speculation; the human mind can never grasp the supreme glory of God. Simply follow Jesus wherever he leads.”

What this boils down to is that God’s presence is among us in the world. We are all invited to use our spiritual eyes and ears to seek that presence in the sick, the downtrodden, the poor, and those in prison. We are invited to be available and vulnerable, risking our lives like God risked his life in Christ to know the fullness of human life from birth to death. In doing so, God gave us the model to follow, and Jesus is both our path and our destination.

Moving Slowly

Turtles have always fascinated me. When we go to see my mom in the Low Country, there is a certain place near Bamberg where the Edisto backs up into a swamp along the side of the highway. There is always an abundant menagerie of turtles sunning themselves on fallen limbs in this area, and I have to slow down to count them and say hello. Turtles live a long time, so it's very possible I've been greeting the same ones for years now of traveling to and from the black water region of South Carolina to the foothills near the North Carolina border where we now live. Turtles are a great model from the animal world on living the contemplative way—a way which by it's very nature calls us to slow down and take more of our surroundings in.

There are many ways in which we can move slowly. We can choose to be in a contemplative, meditative place in our lives, and metaphorically slow down in our moving in order to pay attention to what is going on around us. We can move slowly from the increasing joint pain that inflicts us as our wisdom hopefully increases. We can also move slowly from fear, inhibitions, indecisiveness, or practicalities. Whatever the reason, the turtle is an apt symbol for slowing down, basking in the sunshine, and sharing life in community.

According to Ted Andrews in Animal Speak the turtle is "associated with longevity. Long life and groundedness within life is part of what is associated with the turtle. It does not move fast. It is as if, on some level, turtle knows it has all the time in the world. Turtle medicine can teach new perceptions about time and our relationship with it."

In a single day last autumn, I saw three different turtles. These sightings were unusual not just for the sheer force of the number three, but also because of the circumstances in which I saw the turtles. I saw the first one crossing Highway 101 near our house. I was amazed as I pulled my car up behind a stopped truck whose driver got out at the same time a driver of another truck coming from the opposite direction stopped and got out (holding up traffic) to rescue the turtle and move her to the side of the road. Later that same day, I was with my husband and we were traveling along Locust Hill Road where I saw another turtle just trotting along the side of the highway, safely off in the grass, but nonetheless very noticeable with her high-held head. Finally, that evening, I had the sad sighting of a dead turtle that was apparently crushed under the wheel of a careless driver, it's shell cracked and splayed open.

These turtles all had a message for me. The first turtle reminded me that sometimes I get myself into tight spots—especially in my hurry to live life to the fullest. At times like that I need to return to myself, to withdraw into my shell so that I can return to a balanced life. Turtles remind us to think circumstances through carefully before acting on them. The second turtle who seemed happy to me reminded me of Mother Earth—and, in fact, in Native American mythology the turtle's shell was used by the gods to form the foundation for the Earth. There is definitely a connection between groundedness (being close to the earth) that is protective, nurturing and sustaining. The final turtle reminded me of sacrifice and missed opportunities. It also reminded me of how we need to take better care of our home, the Earth, and how we should try to be cognizant of all creatures even when we are driving our automobiles. We all share "this island home" for good or ill.

Thoughts on Autumn (for Karen)

The day has turned off cool this morning. The clouds are pervasive and the wind blows through the shrubs and pushes the patio umbrella around. Still, I decide to sit outside to say Celtic morning prayer. A simple chant spontaneously rises up from my heart and passes whisper-like over my lips: "Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy." Actually, this day is not unlike that day four years ago when I visited Lindisfarne with the cloud cover and chilling wind off the North Sea and drizzly rain falling off and on. My lasting memory is riding away on the bus and looking back at the pilgrim pathway already covered with the creeping high tide.


Inside, Michael prepares breakfast. He has become quiet efficient at frying sausage, scrambling eggs, and timing his toast so that it's ready when everything else is prepared. This morning, I throw him a curve and ask him to include me in his preparations; I usually have oatmeal or yogurt, but today I want some "Southern" sustenance in the form of grits and sausage and eggs. It's almost like I feel the cold, lean days of winter coming, and I'm taking advantage of what's available now.

There's a hint of color in the maple trees, and the mums—golden, purple, and bronze—are in bloom. Our new garden spot is lovely, and St. Francis has taken up residence there. The birds constantly drain the feeders in the yard. They, too, are beginning to hunker down for what may be a long winter here in the foothills.

The day mimics my inner world. It is autumn. I am in an autumn state of mind. I long for time to just be—to be available to God and available to those who need me. For now, my students continue to need me, and I am grateful for my teaching position. One day, I will grow too weary of teenage angst and simply want to be at home where I can write, read, and perhaps paint a little. I realize that teaching is God's holy call on my life, but one day, I know that will be laid aside even for the God who called me to it. For now the journey is calling me to move more and more into my contemplative nature, closed in by sky and mountains, and comforted by all that is in Creation. God is mine, and I am God's own.

DAY IN AUTUMN

By Rainer Maria Rilke 1875–1926
Translated By Mary Kinzie

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.
As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

Source: Poetry (April 2008).

Reconciliation

Today, Michael and I rode up the watershed road to Saluda, North Carolina, had lunch at the Wildflour Bakery, and browsed a little in the quaint shops there. I bought a teapot to add to my collection. It’s a Celtic teapot because it has a cloverleaf design on it—at least I’d like to think of it that way. I now have a teapot from Oxford, one from Highlands, NC, and one from Tennessee. There are others in my collection given to me by various loved ones, and I cherish the memories they evoke.


Teapots are one of those items that are both functional and beautiful. It’s not a far stretch, I think, to compare them to our sacred liturgy. Okay, I can hear some of you thinking, “Huh?” Well, our liturgy is functional in that it connects us to the Holy, and it’s beautiful in that the words and the actions re-enact the divine life. Yesterday, I attended Liturgy to see two dear friends ordained as deacons in the Episcopal Church. I certainly felt connected to the Divine as I watched the beautiful Eucharistic liturgy unfold.

But what about the other sacraments that we hold in our tradition? Can we classify them as both functional and beautiful? Certainly, we can do that with Baptism, Confirmation, and even the Anointing of the Sick. And yet…

I know of very few Catholics and Anglicans—even devout ones—who take the practice of Sacramental Reconciliation seriously. Confessing one’s sins to another Christian, especially one’s own priest, is something that seems just too gut-wrenching. We’d rather pay a therapist trained to help us with life’s difficulties than accept the free grace of God from a brother or sister in community. I have to ask myself why that is so—especially when the end result can be a feeling of lightness and joy.

I think the answer lies in the controlling and manipulative way the confession is written and in the way it has been traditionally used by the hierarchy in the Catholic tradition to control the laity. Even in the Book of Common Prayer, while the liturgy talks about God’s mercy and the confessor asks for the prayers of the penitent, the words fairly well slam the penitent with all sorts of indictments including equating him/her with the Prodigal son. While I know I am subject to darkness and evil, I find it very difficult to identify with the Prodigal Son. This approach may seem logical, but it is not the most loving approach to restoring inner harmony disturbed by wrongdoing. A more loving approach may be to remind the penitent—the one making the confession—that he or she is filled with God’s light, the light given at Creation. Perhaps something as simple as adding the phrase “have mercy on us and forgive us; free our light from the darkness that we may walk in your ways…” would bring the sacrament closer to our hearts and practice.

If we look seriously to the Celtic tradition of spirituality, it is not long before we discover the practice of the anamcara. Although the Celtic Church devised its own form of sacramental confession, it was more of a private exchange between penitent and confessor, and often the confessor was a spiritual friend. Confession wasn’t something that happened once before death or even something a person dutifully attended to once a year. And it certainly wasn’t done in a Reconciliation service. Confessing one’s sins was a normal practice. In fact, all of life was considered sacramental, and life was interwoven with practicalities and mystery.

If sacramental confession is ever to become a normal part of Christian practice again, it has to be seen as the teapot. It has to be beautiful and functional. There’s a vast difference between perfunctory and functional. When confession is seen as a way to access the inner grace, to own that the light is there deep in our hearts waiting to be lived into, instead of a way to get rid of inner darkness, then it will serve a beautiful purpose. Then we will acknowledge a just and good God who wants us to know the Holy as the Holy knows us. We will learn to listen with the heart and in so doing, we will live sacramentally. My prayer for all of us—my readers and myself—is that God will allow us to listen carefully in order to gain wisdom and live fully.

The Cracked Jar

Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. (John 4:28)


Thanks to feminist criticism, many more positive ideas have been espoused about the Samaritan woman than negative ones in recent years. For example, she is the first person to whom Jesus openly declares that he is Messiah (the anointed one). She, in turn, becomes a witness to his messianic mission saying to the people in the town, "Come and see...".

I try to imagine what life must have been like for her up to that momentous conversation with Jesus. Obviously, she was a bright woman, especially considering the times in which she lived. Thinking theologically was not difficult for her, and she was not above challenging Jesus and the Jewish attitude about the place of worship in the life of devout people. Yet, she was confined in her role, and castigated by those she lived around because she did not fit the model of a "good" woman. When she met Jesus, the jar of her soul cracked open; it could no longer contain her journey.*

In listening to Jesus, the Samaritan woman found something that stretched her to the very core of her being. She was moved to spread the news and share her discoveries with her community. She was broken open, and made ready to move beyond walking the expected path to walking a more arduous and perhaps more inward and more contemplative way.

Her life was turned around by an encounter at a well; at the well, her jar cracked open for it could no longer contain who she was. Her jar couldn't carry the rules and regulations of her society—the rules of proper behavior of a good Jewish woman. She was set free to become Christ just as the man who spoke to her at the well was Christ.

This weekend, I gave a retreat at The Snails Pace entitled Dreams: A Way to Listen to God based partly on the book of the same title by Morton Kelsey. God is as close to us as the dreams we dream each night. The women who attended the retreat openly shared their dreams, and we worked on understanding their meaning. For some of these women, the container of their God concept cracked open, and they were invited to leave that container at the Snail as they moved on to a deeper understanding of who God is in their lives.

I, too, had a dream that confirmed my new passion and focus in life. My dream focused on my past purpose of supporting and holding many people at events. In the past, I have enjoyed being helpful and providing opportunities for people to explore new spiritual experiences. At the same time, I disliked always having to be strong for other people; my persona, my mask, wore thin, and I now yearn to have the support of others in my journey in a way that is spontaneous and free and part of the community. I disliked being stuck in one place in my life and in my ministry, and I feared that I would fall apart from always being the supportive one. What I have desired, and what I am now actively seeking is to be left alone with some space around me to do some inner healing work and to begin to practice the next phase of my life.

I do know something of what that phase includes. It is obvious to me that I love working with small groups as a retreat leader and teacher. I enjoy the intimate circle of like-minded friends who want to explore their spirituality and relationship with the Holy One. I want to make opportunities for that to happen on a regular basis. I'd like to think the process of stability is occurring at the core of my being. Someday I'll be ready to pick up another jar to carry, but for now, I know the work I have to do.

May your journey contain pots that crack open and be left behind on the trail.
___________________________________________
*From a conversation with Jerry Wright

Jesus and the Fig Trees

This morning, I discovered another fig on my fig tree in the back garden. What a cause for celebration, because I think my husband and I would have fought over who got to eat the one fig that we found last week! We have nurtured that fig tree for three years now, and finally, finally, there are at least two figs on it. What seemed to work was Black Cow fertilizer and lots of water—or maybe it was just the “mystical” three years as seen in Luke’s Gospel. There are around thirty references to the fig tree in the Bible and even more references to “a vine” which, I suppose, are more likely grapes. Whether we talking about figs or grapes, I think Jesus was probably teaching us about productivity or the lack of productivity in the life of his followers and of his people, Israel.

None of the stories tells about productivity better than Luke 13: 6-9:

6 Then he told this parable: ‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. 7So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” 8He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. 9If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.” ’

I find this passage striking because of my own experience with the fig trees in my garden, and with my experience with life’s projects and goals. So often, we become frustrated when a project or goal we have set about achieving doesn’t come to fruition. We think we’re on the right track, and we keep looking for the fruit to appear on the branch or vine, but to no avail.

What is it then in our human nature that suddenly makes us want to cast a project into the fire? Is it fickleness, lack of commitment, lack of patience, or is it intuitive insight?

I actually have no answer to the preceding question. I think that perhaps because we’re human—just as Jesus was when he cursed another fig tree—that it might be any combination of these reasons. There was actually a second fig tree in our yard. It withered and died this year, and there is nothing remaining of it. It got the same care as the one that survives, but obviously, that wasn’t enough. Given the soil with which we are dealing, and the time and energy we have for gardening, what makes it and doesn’t make it seems to be pretty much of a crap shoot.

The inner life does not have to be such a game of chance. There are other stories in the Gospels about soil and pruning. I believe Creation is a gift that teaches us in many ways the need to nurture growth, celebrate the fruitful moments, and to move on from those moments where there are more thorns than blooms. It is in the full-flowering of love and persistence—of fertilizing and watering, and sometimes returning to the desert—that we get the results we seek.

The photo of the fig leaves is from Matson_Photograph_Collection,_ca_1925-1946