His insight and admonition came because I had told him that I had quit doing Centering Prayer (again) and was using the poetry of Rumi and a Cat Stevens song as my prayer. "Nothing wrong with that," he smiled, "both Rumi and Yusuf are holy guys. But it seems to me that you (meaning me) are wanting a sensation during prayer. An encounter. Maybe a consolation (a feeling of tender grace) or an affirmation. Right?" When I nodded silently, he added saying: "Consolations have their place and we all want and need them. But you won't go deeper into grace just by searching out experiences. You need to 'be still' and learn to rest humbly in the presence of the Lord."
I knew he was right and still wanted to do prayer my own way. So, predictably, in a month, I had changed to a George Harrison song. And then a Mary Chapin-Carpenter song, and then a Taize song before quitting quiet prayers altogether. NOTE: "Isn't It a Pity," "Jubilee" and "Bless the Lord, my Soul" are ALL great prayer songs. I still let their beauty and wisdom speak to me. But at that time they were a diversion to keep me busy and seeking experiences for myself when what I needed was deeper rest, trust and silence. Less of me and more of God. Don't misunderstand: I will always trust music as my first language for prayer - personally and in public worship - as it was the way the holy embraced me at the start of consciousness. But, to all things there is a season.
This reminds me of a story Rabbi Harold Kushner told about a liturgy group that was charged with rewriting the ancient Rosh Hashana/Yom Kippur prayers in one of the synagogues he served. They studied the old texts and parsed the origins and meaning of the old words. Then they rewrote the ancient prayers using contemporary expressions of poetry and music. When the high holy days arrived the new prayers were received enthusiastically. "They truly touched our hearts" was the near unanimous verdict that first year. The second year, the new words were shared again. And this time they evoked a more modest, albeit positive, reaction. "They worked well," was how most people responded, "but maybe a little less potent than they were last year - but still good." On the third year, when the new prayers were brought out in anticipation of worship, the liturgy team suggested they be rewritten again because now the old contemporary words sounded flat. Hackneyed. After trying to find better new words, the team went back to the old prayers and discerned that it might be wiser to use them once more. When the high holy days were over, the synagogue all agreed that the old words worked the best.
Scholars of fairy tales and folk songs know that our old words have been time-tested. They have been dragged through the sand of history so that their rough edges are worn off. The fluff has been scraped off too so that only deeper truths remain. I like to share this story with couples who are eager to write their own wedding vows: "We can do it," I assure them, "and the process can have real meaning. But first, take a little time to listen to the old words. They have stood the test of time." And more often than not, they almost all agree to celebrate their love using words that have blessed countless generations before them.
For the past three years I have been wrestling with God's call to go deeper into the sacrament of tenderness. As I have listened to this calling, it has always been accompanied by an invitation to befriend the silence. Like Fr. Richard Rohr and the Rev. Dr. Cynthia Bourgeault note: God's promise of peace begins within us - with a living encounter with grace - it starts with discipline and matures into silence. Without a living reservoir of inner peace, we only know the chaos of culture. Sometimes we'll be up, other times down, but always we will find ourselves being tossed about rather than grounded or centered in the peace that passes understanding. Ephesians 4 is useful here:I want you to get out there and walk—better yet, run!—on the road God called you to travel. I don’t want any of you sitting around on your hands. I don’t want anyone strolling off, down some path that goes nowhere. And mark that you do this with humility and discipline—not in fits and starts, but steadily, pouring yourselves out for each other in acts of love, alert at noticing differences and quick at mending fences. (It's time to say out loud that there must be) no prolonged infancies among us, please. We’ll not tolerate babes in the woods, small children who are an easy mark for impostors. God wants us to grow up, to know the whole truth and tell it in love—like Christ in everything. We take our lead from Christ, who is the source of everything we do. He keeps us in step with each other. His very breath and blood flow through us, nourishing us so that we will grow up healthy in God, robust in love. (The Message)
Whether an invitation or a command, the call into tenderness requires that I mature in the practice of silent prayer. The testimony of Jesus is clear: we all start as infants - and Jesus loved the children and blessed them. He told us that we cannot live into the realm of God unless we become as a child, too. Trusting. Open to discipline. With hearts free to love and experience the joy and sorrow of life thoroughly. At the same time, Jesus warned that refusing to grow up is not an option for those who seek to live in love. We cannot remain stagnate. "Pick up your pallet and walk" he commanded the healed paralytic. "Leave your nets and follow me" he instructed his disciples. "Take up your Cross, put your hand to the plow and never look back, seek ye first the kingdom of God" he told those who would mature into the new Body of Christ.
Cynthia Bourgeault is on to something when she writes that those who would follow Jesus and seek the kingdom of God must "put on the full mind of Christ." "The Kingdom of Heaven is Jesus’ way of describing a state we would nowadays call “nondual consciousness” or “unitive consciousness.” The hallmark of this awareness is that it sees no separation—not between God and humans, not between humans and other humans- these are indeed Jesus’ two core teachings, underlying everything he says and does." To put on the full mind of Christ is not about right doctrine or mastering the outward manifestations of religion. Rather, it is about right practice - orthopraxis instead of orthodoxy - wherein spiritual maturity is about how the words of grace become flesh.
What Jesus practiced, what the early mystics learned, and what the fathers and mothers of the desert embraced was the discipline of waiting and trusting God in silence. St. Paul spent three years in the desert with elders who helped him move out of himself. Speaking experientially, the apostle wrote: "When I was a child I spoke like a child, I acted like a child and sounded like a child... but in time I had to put childish things away. As an adult, I ripened and matured in grace so that now I know that I see as through as glass darkly, but trust that later I shall see face to face." (I Corinthians 13) Towards the end of this days, St. Paul penned these words: "We will all struggle and have ups and downs, sisters and brothers," he begins, so know that:
... our suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because hope is God’s love being poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us... (That is why) I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and mature. (Romans 5 and 12)
A growing consensus of mystics are clear that most of Western Christianity has forgotten its roots in right practice. We have not been taught how to put on the full mind of Christ. We have adopted best business practices and tons of words but forsaken silence and communion with the holy. Bourgeault writes:
For the better part of the past sixteen hundred years, however, Christianity has put a lot more emphasis on the things we know about Jesus. The word “orthodox” has come to mean having the correct beliefs. Along with the overt requirement to learn what these beliefs are and agree with them comes a subliminal message: that the appropriate way to relate to Jesus is through a series of beliefs. In fundamentalist Christianity, this message tends to get even more accentuated, to the point where faith appears to be a matter of signing on the dotted lines to a set of creedal statements. Belief in Jesus is indistinguishable from belief about him. This certainly wasn’t how it was done in the early church—nor can it be if we are really seeking to come into a living relationship with this wisdom master. Jim Marion’s book returns us to the central challenge Christianity ought to be handing us. Indeed, how do we put on the mind of Christ? How do we see through his eyes? How do we feel through his heart? How do we learn to respond to the world with that same wholeness and healing love? That’s what Christian orthodoxy really is all about. It’s not about right belief; it’s about right practice.
Cynthia Bourgeault is on to something when she writes that those who would follow Jesus and seek the kingdom of God must "put on the full mind of Christ." "The Kingdom of Heaven is Jesus’ way of describing a state we would nowadays call “nondual consciousness” or “unitive consciousness.” The hallmark of this awareness is that it sees no separation—not between God and humans, not between humans and other humans- these are indeed Jesus’ two core teachings, underlying everything he says and does." To put on the full mind of Christ is not about right doctrine or mastering the outward manifestations of religion. Rather, it is about right practice - orthopraxis instead of orthodoxy - wherein spiritual maturity is about how the words of grace become flesh.
What Jesus practiced, what the early mystics learned, and what the fathers and mothers of the desert embraced was the discipline of waiting and trusting God in silence. St. Paul spent three years in the desert with elders who helped him move out of himself. Speaking experientially, the apostle wrote: "When I was a child I spoke like a child, I acted like a child and sounded like a child... but in time I had to put childish things away. As an adult, I ripened and matured in grace so that now I know that I see as through as glass darkly, but trust that later I shall see face to face." (I Corinthians 13) Towards the end of this days, St. Paul penned these words: "We will all struggle and have ups and downs, sisters and brothers," he begins, so know that:
A growing consensus of mystics are clear that most of Western Christianity has forgotten its roots in right practice. We have not been taught how to put on the full mind of Christ. We have adopted best business practices and tons of words but forsaken silence and communion with the holy. Bourgeault writes:For the better part of the past sixteen hundred years, however, Christianity has put a lot more emphasis on the things we know about Jesus. The word “orthodox” has come to mean having the correct beliefs. Along with the overt requirement to learn what these beliefs are and agree with them comes a subliminal message: that the appropriate way to relate to Jesus is through a series of beliefs. In fundamentalist Christianity, this message tends to get even more accentuated, to the point where faith appears to be a matter of signing on the dotted lines to a set of creedal statements. Belief in Jesus is indistinguishable from belief about him. This certainly wasn’t how it was done in the early church—nor can it be if we are really seeking to come into a living relationship with this wisdom master. Jim Marion’s book returns us to the central challenge Christianity ought to be handing us. Indeed, how do we put on the mind of Christ? How do we see through his eyes? How do we feel through his heart? How do we learn to respond to the world with that same wholeness and healing love? That’s what Christian orthodoxy really is all about. It’s not about right belief; it’s about right practice.
As I have discerned the next step for me in these later years of life, I have found that I must relearn the early Church's wisdom and go deeper into grace and silence. To help me I started to collect some of the observations the late Henri Nouwen shared about his own struggle. He too experienced an on-again /off-again rhythm with trust. Like him, I am slow to act. I need lots of time, fretting and reflection before I can take the next step. In my hesitation, Nouwen's vulnerability has been a blessing for me:
For most of my life I have struggled to find God, to know God, to love God. I have tried hard to follow the guidelines of the spiritual life—pray always, work for others, read the Scriptures—and to avoid the many temptations to dissipate myself. I have failed many times but always tried again, even when I was close to despair. Now I wonder whether I have sufficiently realized that during all this time God has been trying to find me, to know me, and to love me. The question is not “How am I to find God?” but “How am I to let myself be found by him?” The question is not “How am I to know God?” but “How am I to let myself be known by God?” And, finally, the question is not “How am I to love God?” but “How am I to let myself be loved by God?” God is looking into the distance for me, trying to find me, and longing to bring me home.
Nouwen came to know in his heart that he could not remain compulsive about needing sacred affirmations to keep him on track. Rather, he had to trust a holy stillness before he could consistently know a grace that was real both inside and out.
(My) false self is the self that is fabricated, as Thomas Merton says, by social compulsions. “Compulsive” is indeed the best adjective for the false self. It points to the need for ongoing and increasing affirmation. Who am I? I am the one who is liked, praised, admired, disliked, hated, or despised. . . . If being busy is a good thing, then I must be busy. If having money is a sign of real freedom, then I must claim my money. If knowing many people proves my importance, I will have to make the necessary contacts. The compulsion manifests itself in the lurking fear of failing and the steady urge to prevent this by gathering more of the same—more work, more money, more friends. These very compulsions are at the basis of the two main enemies of the spiritual life: anger and greed. They are the inner side of (our broken) self, the sour fruits of our worldly dependences.
After trying every trick in the sacred arsenal, imploring every living saint from Mother Theresa to Jean Vanier about a way into God's deep and abiding peace, after going to monasteries as well as liberation theology missions, teaching in the most prestigious theological seminaries of the USA, and writing deeply moving spiritual reflections about his own incomplete journey of faith only to find he still came up short: Nouwen went to live and work at L'Arche Daybreak. During this sojourn, he fell in love, but his love was not returned. This rejection broke his heart, throwing him into an emotional and spiritual breakdown that required three years of therapy, prayer and silence. Only when he was clearly on the other side of darkness could a recollected Nouwen, a humble Nouwen, a genuinely wounded healer Nouwen, could he confess:
When God has become our shepherd, our refuge, our fortress, then we can reach out to him in the midst of a broken world and feel at home while still on the way. When God dwells in us, we can enter into a wordless dialogue with him while still waiting on the day that he will lead us into the house where he has prepared a place for us (John 14:2). Then we can wait while we have already arrived and ask while we have already received. Then, indeed, we can comfort each other with the words of Paul (Philippians 4:6–7): There is no need to worry; but if there is anything you need, pray for it, asking God for it with prayer and thanksgiving, and that peace of God, which is so much greater than we can understand, will guard your hearts and your thoughts, in Christ Jesus.
Like the prophet Elijah before him - or Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane or St. Peter during Christ's passion or Saul of Tarsus after being blinded on the road to Damascus or St. Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus - busyness, tricks, words and compulsions didn't work. They never do. So like Elijah and all the rest who came to know from the inside out, God's loving voice came to Nouwen in the stillness after the mountain, the wind, the fire and the earthquake had all passed away. (I Kings 19: 11-13) Brother Henri wrote:
It strikes me increasingly just how hard-pressed people are nowadays. It’s as though they’re tearing about from one emergency to another. Never solitary, never still, never really free but always busy about something that just can’t wait. You get the impression that, amid this frantic hurly-burly, we lose touch with life itself. We have the experience of being busy while nothing real seems to happen. The more agitated we are, and the more compacted our lives become, the more difficult it is to keep a space where God can let something truly new really take place. The discipline of the heart helps us to let God into our hearts so that God can become known to us there, in the deepest recesses of our own being.
In the silence, all things have a place: fear and grace, emptiness and abundance, heaven and earth, spirit and flesh, life and death, male and female, young and old, alpha and omega, old and new. This is what Jesus means at the deepest level when he prays in St. John's gospel "that all may become one." So my journey continues: this morning I found myself returning to the old prayers that first guided me into contemplation some thirty years ago in my oldest prayer book, Prayers for the Domestic Church, by Fr. Ed Hays:
O Lord my God, a new day has come to my door, fresh and full of life. With gratitude and a sense of wonder, I greet this day and You, my God, The sacrament of sleep has healed my heart and granted strength to my body. My cousins in creation - trees, birds, fish and four-legged creatures - are arising with a song of adoration. I desire to join my prayer with theirs. May my simple praises be in harmony with the songs of the wind and the earth, as I now enter int the prayer of stillness.
Serendipitously, I've been working on a song for our upcoming gig in Millerton, NY on March 2, 2019: "Get Behind the Mule" by Tom Waits. The chorus confirms my discernment: you gotta get behind the mule in the morning and plow. Waits says that the father of the iconic early blues genius, Robert Johnson, said that, "Robert would still be alive today if he'd learned to get behind the mule in the morning and plow. He needed to learn how to get up and grow up." But he lusted after the fast life - and wound up dead at the age of 27. Seems that the jealous husband of a woman Johnson had been flirting with poisoned a bottle of whiskey. Be still my soul indeed!
O Lord my God, a new day has come to my door, fresh and full of life. With gratitude and a sense of wonder, I greet this day and You, my God, The sacrament of sleep has healed my heart and granted strength to my body. My cousins in creation - trees, birds, fish and four-legged creatures - are arising with a song of adoration. I desire to join my prayer with theirs. May my simple praises be in harmony with the songs of the wind and the earth, as I now enter int the prayer of stillness.
Serendipitously, I've been working on a song for our upcoming gig in Millerton, NY on March 2, 2019: "Get Behind the Mule" by Tom Waits. The chorus confirms my discernment: you gotta get behind the mule in the morning and plow. Waits says that the father of the iconic early blues genius, Robert Johnson, said that, "Robert would still be alive today if he'd learned to get behind the mule in the morning and plow. He needed to learn how to get up and grow up." But he lusted after the fast life - and wound up dead at the age of 27. Seems that the jealous husband of a woman Johnson had been flirting with poisoned a bottle of whiskey. Be still my soul indeed!
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