Holy Thursday

I began this day, as always, with a time of meditation and prayer. After my morning prayer, I spent a few minutes listening to a video meditation by John Philip Newell from New Harmony. This series called “Journeying Toward Resurrection has been a vital part of my Holy Week observance. In yesterday’s mediation he says,

“Our sacred sites must not be cut off from the holy temple of the earth. Our sacred sites must not represent enclosed separation from the other peoples and the other creatures of the earth… We must find language, rituals, symbolism that keeps reminding us that the primary context of our sanctuary of our life is the earth evolving and unfolding from God.”

I, then, put on my gardening clothes and went outside to spread pine bark in my garden. Last night one of my yellow irises bloomed and several more are ready to "pop." I continued to work outside with pruning and pulling weeds. Michael came out as well, and spread fertilizer on all the trees and shrubs. After seven years, our gardens are beginning to need only maintenance work—a much better situation than the constant coaxing and pleading for survival of good plants and demise of weeds. We have made our own little Eden, and are now planning to put in a labyrinth in the back garden where we have a fire pit and gravel walkway.

As I worked today, I keep thinking back to Newell’s comments about the earth as sacred. Certainly my Native American ancestors felt that way. Certainly when I am working in my gardens I feel that way. How, then, do I bring that connection to every moment of my day? How do I find language, ritual and symbolism to sustain me especially when I am inside a climate controlled concrete box for the majority of my working hours? Tonight as I write this blog entry, I am listening to the rain pouring down outside. The water will aid the fertilizer to sink into the soil. It will encourage more growth and it will bring a freshness to the world that has been missing in the last several years of drought. I like the idea of the rain as bringing forth resurrection.

Here again are some words for John Philip:

“We are allowing ourselves to imagine what resurrection would look like in our lives and world. A risen Christianity rising to truly bless the earth will occur to the extent that we remember with humility that the wisdoms at the heart of all great religious traditions are given not to compete with each other but to complete each other.”

Tomorrow is Good Friday. It is the second day of the Sacred Triduum. I look forward to seeing the refreshed world into which the green blade springeth. And I look forward to seeing Jesus Christ in the world and in the faces of my sisters and brothers as we celebrate the rising that will truly bless us all.
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Listen to John Philip Newell's meditations on YouTube.com ("Journeying Toward Resurrection"). You can also find recordings by The Smoke Faires there. They sing an awesome version of "Now the Green Blade Springeth."

The Gift of Tears

I cannot begin to imagine the Israelites’ horror when the snakes came. I have experienced many times when I’ve thought “the only good snake is a dead snake” and apparently that’s right in line with Celtic spirituality since it is reported that St. Patrick ran all the snakes out of Ireland. Of course, no one who loves great stories wants to admit that there never were snakes in Ireland, and as long as they are at a distance or behind glass, I have to admit that I do find some snakes mysteriously beautiful.

Of course, these thoughts about snakes come because of the readings at the Liturgy today. The Israelites were in the Wilderness for forty years, and after a while, they got weary of wandering, and pretty much told God they were aggravated about the whole situation. That’s when the snakes came along. One can read all kinds of symbolism into those snakes: a guilty conscience that stings us, bad things that happen in this physical life, or even discipline from a God who is too much like the image of some earthly fathers. I have a hard time buying any of these explanations.

I think one of the reasons that kind of theology is difficult for me is that it takes a part of God’s holy and wonderful creation and heaps a whole lot of bad stuff onto it. Who are we to say that just because a snake bites with venom that it is evil? Obviously, that made sense to those early Hebrews, but with our broadened sense of science and our current knowledge of the animal kingdom, we surely realize that the snake is no more or less capable of good and evil intentions, than say, a tiger or a crocodile.

After hearing those lessons in church and sitting through the rest of the Liturgy, I had an experience that I can only call holy. I went to communion, returned to my seat, and began to weep. I have had this experience any number of times, yet I have always been a bit mystified when it occurs. The tears just begin flowing, and though I’m not feeling sad about anything in particular, I weep. There’s nothing verbalized in this weeping; the tears simply stream down my face, and I have no control over them whatsoever. I suppose the reason I have tried to keep this gift of tears to myself for so long is that we live in a society that is built on reason and objective analysis of everything that happens to us. So often, there is simply no room for what seems irrational, and yet I know that when I weep like I did in church this morning, it is so different from when I weep out of sadness or frustration or fear. The tears flow, but there is no sobbing, no extreme sadness, and sometimes there is even joy in the moment.

As I sat in my pew waiting for the tears to stop so that I could walk safely out of the church, I witnessed something amazing. A wonderful woman in our church named Mary is confined to a wheel chair with MS. She comes regularly to services brought on Sundays by one of several volunteers who get her and take her home. When Marian came to wheel her out of the church she left the side door that opens onto the front patio of the church open. I sat there for some minutes looking at the light playing on the branches of the cherry tree, whirling blossoms carpeting the floor of the walkway, and scooting across the threshold into the narthex. Various people were walking out to their cars, and the rain from earlier had cleared and left a freshness to the breeze blowing into the sanctuary. A deep sense of peace flooded over me, and I realized that I had a whole new awareness of the beauty before me and the community that I had just worshipped with.

So, how do I tie all this to the snakes? “In a celebrated passage, from Isaac the Syrian, the bishop of Nineveh is asked: ‘What is a compassionate heart?’ He answers, ‘The heart that is inflamed in this way embraces the entire creation—man, birds, animals and even demons. At the recollection of them, and at the sight of them, such a man’s eyes fill with tears that arise from the great compassion which presses on his heart. The heart grows tender and cannot endure to hear of or look upon any injury or even the smallest suffering inflicted upon anything in creation. For this reason such a man prays increasingly with tears even for irrational animals and for the enemies of truth and for all who harm it, that they may be guarded and be forgiven. The compassion which pours out from his heart without measure, like God’s, extends even to reptiles.’”

Tears are a sign of compassion and love for creation and a recognition of the wonder and beauty that is this world. They are a path to joy, recognition that God is present in every moment of our lives, and the giver of good gifts. May those who sow in tears, reap with shouts of joy.

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See http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/ReptilesAmphibians/NewsEvents/irelandsnakes.cfm.
K.M. George, The Silent Roots: Orthodox Perspectives on Christian Spirituality (Risk book series) (Geneva, WCC Publications, 1994) 62-65.
Psalm 126:5

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.
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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.