beyond our differences in the resurrection...

I like the work Fr. Richard Rohr and others are doing re: the universal wisdom and presence of Jesus. Rohr recently posted this - and it rings true to me. He is talking about spiritual formation and notes that in our era, for a variety of good and often complicated reasons, "most folks do not seem to think they need (a road) map, especially when they are young." The Jesuit priest, James Martin, writes much the same thing in his book, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. There are solid intellectual reasons for resisting traditional spiritual formation as well as valid cultural, emotional, historical and psychological ones, too. At the same time, both Martin and Rohr suggest that without focus, direction, training and interaction with a faith community, most of us will remain spiritually immature - or stagnant.

This isn't to denigrate a faith journey - shaming through theological arrogance has no place in the community of Christ's compassion. In true tenderness and vulnerability, it remains true that no one matures and ripens without guidance. St. Paul put it poetically: when I was a child, I thought, spoke and acted like a child; but now that I have matured I must put childish things away. (I Corinthians 13) James Fowler, using a broad outline suggested by Erik Erickson's stages of psychological development and amplified by Piaget, posits a comparable overview in his Stages of Faith. 

To be sure, Fowler's overview has been used mechanically by some in a manner much like the rigidly linear applications some have applied to the stages of grief first articulated by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross - causing unnecessary stress, pain and judgment - but I believe that there is still wisdom to be mined from Fowler's work. If nothing else, it clarifies the need for creative spiritual formation. (For more information, please go to: http://www.psychologycharts.com/james-fowler-stages-of-faith.html)

Consider what Rohr posted about Easter: "Nowadays most folks do not seem to think they need that map, especially when they are young. But the vagaries and disappointments of life’s journey eventually make us long for some overall direction, purpose, or goal beyond getting through another day."

All who hold any kind of unexplainable hope believe in resurrection, whether they are formal Christians or not, and even if they don’t believe Jesus was physically raised from the dead. I have met such people from all kinds of backgrounds, religious and nonreligious. Personally, I do believe in the physical resurrection of Jesus because it affirms what the whole physical and biological universe is also saying—and grounds it in one personality. Resurrection must also be fully practical and material. If matter is inhabited by God, then matter is somehow eternal, and when the creed says, we believe in the “resurrection of the body,” it means our bodies too, not just Jesus’ body! As in him, so also in all of us. As in all of us, so also in him. So I am quite conservative and orthodox by most standards on this important issue, although I also realize it seems to be a very different kind of embodiment post-resurrection as suggested by the Gospel accounts.

James Martin, writing in the Jesuit magazine, America, stated something similar in his post-Easter reflection. "I believe that Jesus Christ rose from the dead on the first Easter Sunday. I do not see that as any sort of parable or metaphor. This is, frankly, the very heart of my faith."

Theological approaches differ, but, in essence, some theologians offer the story of how, as the disciples came to reflect on the life and death of Jesus Christ, he became “present” to them in a new way, through the Spirit. This, in turn, empowered them to proclaim the good news of his Gospel. Some theologians offer this as a more credible or contemporary way of understanding the “resurrection.” But there is a problem with this idea of the resurrection as the after-effects of a “shared memory.” ... Only something as vivid, dramatic and, in a word, real as the multiple appearances by the risen Christ could have moved the disciples from abject fear (cowering behind closed doors) to being willing to give their lives for Jesus. Nothing else can credibly account for the transformation of terrified disciples into willing martyrs. (America, https://www.

americamagazine.org/faith/2019/04/23/literal-flesh-and-blood-resurrection-heart-my-faith)

Personally, my faith has been shaped and refined by my trust in the mystical and physical resurrection of Jesus. Like Martin and Rohr I trust - but cannot explain - that the glorified body of Jesus was one of "radical newness, a complete novelty, the unrepeatable quality of what the disciples were experiencing (was a revelation.) As the glorified body is something no one had encountered before—or has since." At the same time I hold the paradoxical belief that other encounters and understandings of Christ's resurrection are valid, too. I know that I do not have a monopoly upon wisdom. Neither do the Roman, Orthodox, Anglican, Reformed or Evangelical faith traditions. "Now we see as through a glass darkly," said St. Paul, "later we shall see face to face." And how many times have I had to learn this truth!?!

It is, for me, much like the various tradition's competing understandings of Eucharist: consubstantiation, transubstantiation, memorial meal, ordinance, commandment or mystical encounter beyond the limits of time and space? My hunch is that Eucharist is all of the above - and more - turning our limited truths into complimentary poems rather than competing doctrines. All I know is that whenever people of good will of any tradition - or none at all - come to receive something of Christ's body and blood at Holy Communion, they come in awe, reverence and openness. This experience leads me to apply the same generous mystery to Christ's resurrection.  Rohr adds:

In the resurrection, the single physical body of Jesus moved beyond all limits of space and time into a new notion of physicality and light—which includes all of us in its embodiment. Christians called this the “glorified body,” and it is similar to what Hindus and Buddhists sometimes call the “subtle body.” This is pictured by a halo or aura, which Catholics placed around “saints” to show that they already participated in the one shared Light. This is for me a very helpful meaning for the resurrection of Jesus, which might be better described as Jesus’ “universalization,” a warping of time and space, if you will. Jesus was always objectively the Universal Christ, but his significance for humanity and for us was made ubiquitous, personal, and attractive for those willing to meet Reality through him. Many do meet Divine Reality without this “shortcut,” and we must be honest about that. Only “by the fruits will you know” (Matthew 7:16–20). People who are properly aligned with Love and Light—“enlightened”—will always see in holistic ways, regardless of their denomination or religion.

Now it is time to get back to my garden. It is one of my learning places these days - a quiet center of holy renewal - that speaks to me of love, beauty and trust beyond all words. Yesterday, while taking down dead branches, I noticed a few hyacinths were in blossom And today the once shy daffodils are sharing their beauty throughout the yard. All shall be revealed at the right time, right?

i need the symbols of this season to reset my heart: easter reflections

Christ is risen - he is risen indeed! We are home in the quiet solitude of the rolling Berkshire hills. Spring is truly making her appearance known as I uncover more and more tiny blue flowers called "glory of the snow." After a full and joy-filled Holy Week in the city, caring and being cared for by loved ones in Brooklyn including feasting with our family and the intensity of worship within the cycle of the Triduum, it is time for reflection.

The season of Easter is all about searching for and celebrating life in all its wonder. In my small part of creation, the daffodils are aching for a little more sun before they share their glory. Soon their vibrant shades of yellow will bless us, banishing the grays of winter for a season followed by tulips, lilies, and lilacs. The Easter proclamation of my tradition, "Christ is risen," is not triumphal, but rather an invitation to honor all the places where life is breaking through the tombs of cynicism and despair. Easter asks us: where do we see love and creativity bringing hope to birth? In this culture? In our body? In each moment?  Fr. Richard Rohr recently put it like this:

Easter isn’t celebrating a one-time miracle as if it only happened in the body of Jesus and we’re all here to cheer for Jesus... but it is the message most Western Christians have been told. When Christianity split into East and West in 1054, both sides lost a piece of the puzzle... (with Western Christianity celebrating) Jesus walking alone out of the tomb carrying a white flag, as if to say, “Look at me! I made it!” (Our) theology) declared “Jesus rose from the dead” as an individual... The Eastern Church saw the resurrection in at least three ways: the trampling of hell, the corporate leading out of hell, and the corporate uplifting of humanity with Christ... (In the mystical Orthodox tradition) Jesus pulls Adam and Eve, symbols of all humanity, out of hell... (which is) a hopeful message that is not only about Jesus but about society, humanity, and history itself. Brothers and sisters, if we don’t believe that every crucifixion - war, poverty, torture, hunger - can somehow be redeemed, who of us would not be angry, cynical, hopeless? No wonder Western culture seems so skeptical today. It all doesn't mean anything, it’s not going anywhere, because we (don't have a) wider and cosmic vision of Jesus’ resurrection. Easter is not just the final chapter of Jesus’ life, but the final chapter of history. Death does not have the last word. For Christ is not just pulling Adam and Eve out of hell. He’s pulling creation out of hell. (https://cac.org/the-death-of-death-2019-04-21/)

In many cases, new life appears in fragility. It is small and vulnerable. Like the crocuses in my garden, the new life of Easter needs time and nourishment to mature. That is why the liturgical season of Eastertide is fifty days. We need time to practice and enter the mystery. It is far easier to notice only the gray, mottled leaves of winter still covering parts of the garden. For years I was too distracted by chores, tasks, and my various obsessions and addictions to pay attention to what lies just below the surface. Without the time, space, and desire necessary for real contemplation, I missed the subtle presence of the new life all around me. I suspect I am not unique in this: feeling overwhelmed, responsible, cynical, and exhausted blinds us to the cosmic renewal inaugurated at Easter. That is why I find the worship cycle of the Triduum restorative: it brings silence, critical reflection, confession, absolution, and grace into my heart. And as Henri Nouwen has written: "Purity of heart allows us to see more clearly, not only our own needy, distorted, and anxious self but also the caring face of our compassionate God." 

In our milieu the word heart has become a soft word. It refers to the seat of a sentimental life. Expressions such as “heartbroken” and “heartfelt” show that we often think of the heart as the warm place where the emotions are located in contrast to the cool intellect where our thoughts find their home. But the word heart in the Jewish and Christian tradition refers to the source of all physical, emotional, intellectual, volitional, and moral energies. From the heart arise unknowable impulses as well as conscious feelings, moods, and wishes. The heart, too, has its reasons and is the center of perception and understanding. Finally, the heart is the seat of the will: it makes plans and comes to good decisions. Thus the heart is the central and unifying organ of our personal life. Our heart determines our personality, and is, therefore, not only the place where God dwells but also the place to which Satan directs his fiercest attacks. It is this heart that is the place of prayer. The prayer of the heart is a prayer that directs itself to God from the center of the person and thus affects the whole of our humanness. The prayer of the heart... gives us eyes to see the reality of our existence. This purity of heart allows us to see more clearly, not only our own needy, distorted, and anxious self but also the caring face of our compassionate God. When that vision remains clear and sharp, it will be possible to move into the midst of a tumultuous world with a heart at rest. It is this restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life. When we have found our rest in God we can do nothing other than minister. God’s rest will be visible wherever we go and to whomever we meet. And before we speak any words, the Spirit of God, praying in us, will make his presence known and gather people into a new body, the body of Christ himself.

Nouwen's words, "it is a restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life" rings true for me. Not only have I been attracted to those who are grounded in grace, especially when I have been at loose ends, but I have found that when I, too am grounded, people find me. Not because they want to be proselytized or converted, but rather because they seek a moment of shelter from the storm. A chance to explore with another person new options without judgment. A living being with whom to share some of their story in safety. To be listened to and heard is a great blessing at any time, but it is especially sacred when our hearts are unsettled and we feel beaten down by our hyper-productive, noisy, intrusive and judgmental culture. 

The Triduum - the worship cycle during the three days before Easter - helps me reset my heart. In the poetry, music, silence, activity, and metaphors of these gatherings, I find a way to clear away the inner clutter. These gatherings facilitate spiritual spring cleaning for my soul. And what fascinates me is how the images, symbols, metaphors, music, and prayers of these ancient liturgies take on new and more satisfying meanings the longer I open myself to them. They are not stagnant. They, too experience new life on the journey from Lent into Easter, Pentecost and the Ascension.

+ Maundy Thursday: Can there be a better embodied example of what the upside down kingdom of God means in real life than foot washing? Bourgeois believers resist the humility and vulnerability of this liturgy, but I know of no better way of opening the heart to the essence of Jesus' love than trusting another to wash my feet. Chanting "Ubi Caritas," the ancient affirmation that when love and charity are present, God is surely among us, clarifies the whole tradition. Candle light, Eucharist and the stripping of the altar/communion table sets the stage for a time of solemn stillness. Maundy Thursday clears away all the clutter and asks me to get honest with myself and God.  

+ Good Friday: the only worship gathering where Eucharist is not celebrated. Nor is the Resurrection present. But this is not a "funeral service for Jesus," but rather a sober meditation upon the Cross and all of its various meanings. My grandson, Louie, asked me what does the Cross symbolize? So we talked about the pain many people experience, poverty, war, hatred: that is part of what the Cross means. It also is the place where Jesus died and prayed to God that all people be forgiven. And, given Easter, we know that the empty Cross reminds us that God's love was stronger than death. So the Cross means a lot of complicated things all at once. "Oh," he paused, "like a combination." Exactly like a combination - and then he said, "So there is bad and good happening on the Cross and God makes goodness out of what is bad." Hearing the Passion of St. John's gospel chanted this year - and moving to kneel and touch the cross in my own time of prayer - helped me let go of the sins that clings so closely and trust that God will make good what has been bad. Leaving in emptiness gave me time to let the whole encounter sink deeper.

+ Easter Vigil and Sunday morning: the Easter Vigil starts in darkness, moves into the light of a new flame, passes this light to all who gather with candles and then sings its way to the proclamation that God's love is greater than death. Eucharist returns. Baptisms take place. Light and instrumental music return to the community. And celebration is the rule of the day. Flowers adorn the Cross as the community confesses: "Christ is risen. He has risen indeed. Alleluia!" All the imagery, music and symbols point us in the direction of new life: where is God bringing new life from within the tombs of our world? 

There is precious little fundamentalism in the gospel stories of the resurrection: all we can say for certain is that Jesus was raised in a spiritual body and no longer resided in the tomb. Now he is strengthening his friends to live in the world as he did. Jean Vanier of L'Arche notes in his commentary on St. John's gospel that after Christ's death on the Cross, Jesus' encounters with his friends are not dramatic. First he comes to Mary Magdalene in the morning and simply calls her by name. "Go back and tell the brothers I will meet them." In this, she becomes the first evangelist. Two truths arise: First, Jesus doesn't speak of the disciples as "those who betrayed and deserted me;" he simply calls them the brothers. And second, the brothers do not take Mary seriously. Once again, the one who is faithful and small has been given the evangel, but it is ignored by those who think of themselves as strong, wise and in control. Small wonder that when Jesus reconnects with the brothers later in the day, they are terrified. Their brokenness is all too real to them.

Notice what the Easter gospel takes pain to clarify: when Jesus appears to the disciples - including Thomas - he does so to show them that even one who is wounded can be resurrected. Weakness, pain, suffering and confusion will not keep God's love away from those whom God loves. There are NO barriers to this love: not gender, race, class, ethnicity, walls, tombs, broken hearts, confused minds, sinful souls. God's love in the Easter story moves through all barriers to strengthen love and compassion. And when the story is over, we are invited to go out into our lives and share some of the love we have received.

Over the years I have needed to update how I understand these symbols. I have incrementally let go of literalism and let the metaphors mature and ripen in my heart. And somewhere in this journey I always find myself weeping - for myself, for my family, for my sins, for the state of the world and for the amazing tenderness of God who still shares Jesus with me. This year I wept as my grandson, Louie, sang about God's love that raises Jesus beyond the tomb. As is often the case, Richard Rohr's words bring it all back home:

I’ve often said that great love and great suffering (both healing and woundedness) are the universal, always available paths of transformation because they are the only things strong enough to take away the ego’s protections and pretensions. Great love and great suffering bring us back to God, and I believe this is how Jesus himself walked humanity back to God. It is not just a path of resurrection rewards but a path that now includes death and woundedness. Or as I teach our Living School students, the sequence goes order —> disorder —> reorder!

Jesus the Christ, in his crucifixion and resurrection, “summed up all things in himself, everything in heaven and everything on earth” (Ephesians 1:10). Jesus agreed to carry the mystery of universal suffering. He allowed it to change him (“resurrection”) and, it is to be hoped, us, so that we would be freed from the endless cycle of projecting our pain elsewhere or remaining trapped inside of it. This is the fully resurrected life, the only way to be happy, free, loving, and therefore “saved.” In effect, Jesus was saying, “If I can trust it, you can too.” We are indeed saved by the cross—more than we realize. The people who hold the contradictions and resolve them in themselves are the saviors of the world. They are the only real agents of transformation, reconciliation, and newness.

it can feel schizophrenic, yes?

From time to time, my friend Pam evokes the words of Dickens when reflecting upon the state of the world: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." (Tale of Two Cities) I often feel much the same way - especially after reading through my morning news resources. For Lent I turned off TV news for good - including PBS - because it has become a vulgar exercise in manipulation and sensationalism. Today, however, there is such a melange of discrete and troubling updates that I feel compelled to restate the apocalyptic insight Frida Ghitis posted on CNN after the Notre Dame fire: it feels as if:

... We were watching a metaphor, a prelude, a warning... Our times feel so fraught, as if through our animosity and divisions we are destroying the foundations of civilization.

At the same time - in the very same moment - I am preparing to be with my precious family for the finale of Holy Week. My grandson, Louie, will be singing with his children's choir on Easter Sunday. My grand daughter, Anna, is running and spreading joy wherever her feisty 18 month body will carry her. We will feast with those who fill our hearts with love and hope. I am also engaged with a cadre of musical soul warriors who are committed to bringing light into the darkness - and after yesterday's rehearsal I feel invigorated. And soon I will have the chance to celebrate the marriage of two of my oldest friends as we travel into the sunshine of a California spring. It can feel schizophrenic, yes?

On the third day of Holy Week, this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye speaks to me:

We Did Not Have Drinking Water in the Middle of the Ocean

Essentially, that would be the metaphor for my entire life.
I immigrated to the land of the free,
but my people weren't free.
Tried to speak up, little droplets of words,
to a tidal wave powering over me.
Homeland trampled, ripped in pieces,
often by people who weren't there.
How dare they?
They had their own interests.
They couldn't see us.
We were tiny as pebbles to them
that you push with the toe of your shoe. What kind of people
do that? I remember the ship I came to the New World on,
how rough it was, stormy sea and sky,
deck heaving, people sick on the floors at night,
but the size of our stupid hope some mornings
as we looked across calm water and thought,
Now it will be good.

Tomorrow is Holy Thursday - there will be choir practice and foot washing - and then Good Friday, cross and the emptiness of the tomb.  It is the best and worst of times, indeed.

in the end, only kindness matters...

"In the end," we used to sing, "only kindness matters." It is time to resurrect that small, haunting song - and make it a shared anthem for all of us who are full to overflowing with grief yet still choose to trust that love is greater than death. 

Those who sense that tenderness and tears have become the new public agenda, born of broken hearts and the resolve to live beyond cynicism and emotional manipulation, know we must change our direction. This is now the dawning of the age solidarity, not Aquarius - an era of embodied compassion not sentimentality - our season for sacrificial love rather than politics as usual. The old ways have completely outlived their usefulness. As my mentors in the 12 Step movement confess: insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. 

Frida Ghitis, a former CNN producer and correspondent, who now serves as a world affairs columnist, wrote some clarifying words yesterday as the embers were dying at Notre Dame: "This conflagration brought a feeling of helplessness and foreboding - reminiscent of the devastation on 9/11, in some ways, and perhaps that was part of the effect for some people: the sense, real or imagined, that we were watching a metaphor, a prelude, a warning." The implied warning is not explicit in most of her essay, nor is the tragic metaphor unpacked until the very close. So let me be a spoiler: we of the post-industrial West are addicted to the lie that we are control. Since September 11, 2001, we have known this to be untrue, but we have chosen denial over hard truths. Addicts always do, not forever, of course; but for as long as we can get away with it. Ms. Ghitis carefully builds the case that our unnamed and unwanted addiction is causing our world to unravel:

The spire tumbling down in a blaze, the flames shooting out behind the familiar façade of Notre Dame Cathedral in the heart of Paris, made our throats close in anguish. French President Emmanuel Macron said his thoughts were with "all Catholics and all French people," but in fact, it felt like the entire world was in pain watching the 800-year-old building turn into a blazing inferno, on its way to becoming ashes and stones. When the Notre Dame spokesman said "everything is burning, nothing will remain from the frame," it felt like a stab in our collective soul. In a time of inflamed political, religious and sectarian divisions, somehow, a fire in a Catholic church, a cathedral in France, managed to melt away the animosity -- if only for a moment -- and bring people together in shared sorrow. Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jew, or atheist; in France, India, Argentina, everywhere, Notre Dame's doom brought personal pain. How can the demise of a building, technically a religious structure, pack such a powerful impact?The massive, majestic cathedral looked like it had been there forever, and would remain until the end of time. If only for a moment, Notre Dame ablaze reminded us that we all share this world; that human history means everyone's past. If only for a moment, the notion of a "World Heritage," which UNESCO formally bestows on places that we, as humanity, ought to care for and cherish so that we can pass them to future generations, seemed exactly right. 

The close of this lament cuts too close for many - especially those in denial re: the collapse of the status quo: "Our times feel so fraught," she writes, "as if through our animosity and divisions we are destroying the foundations of civilization." But that is precisely what we are doing: destroying the foundations of civilization.

We all hurt over the loss of Notre Dame:  the pangs we felt watching the flames consume the ancient beams, threaten the mystical rose windows, destroy the irreplaceable pipe organ, brought to mind recent man-made tragedies on French soil: the truck attack in Nice, the Bataclan massacre; not because this might have been another terrorist attack, but because our times feel so fraught, as if through our animosity and divisions we are destroying the foundations of civilization. France has become the site of a series of church desecration and arson attacks, and of a terrifying spike in antisemitic attacks, including desecration of Jewish sites, harassment, and murder of Jews.

I am a man of faith. For me and for millions of others who seek to follow Jesus as Messiah, we call this week Holy: it is our annual remembrance of the passion of Jesus. This week will also bring us the festival of Passover on the Jewish Sabbath wherein the One who is Holy hears the cries of the oppressed and acts in history to set the enslaved free. In this context, I was moved to complicated tears of assurance and renewal upon seeing the first interior photographs of Notre Dame as shared by Reuters: in the midst of our rubble and ashes, in the presence of our sorrow and confusion, the Cross remains with a penetrating clarity. I have read the sophisticated explanations about wood burning faster than gold. I get that. And, by faith, I choose to see hints of grace in the midst of tragedy. Sister Joan Chittister once said: Faith is learning to see the eagle within the egg. I think she was right.

And upon seeing this picture, and the Rose Window intact, my heart went back to the words of Fr. Mychal Judge, the Franciscan chaplain to New York City's firefighters, who was the first martyr at the Twin Towers. It is a small prayer for a hard time, but small is holy: Lord, take me where You want me to go; Let me meet who You want me to meet; Tell me what You want me to say; And keep me out of Your way. Amen. In the end, dear friends, only kindness matters. Christian kindness. Jewish kindness. Islamic kindness. Buddhist kindness. Zen kindness. Sikh kindness. Atheist kindness. Only kindness. May you multiply some kindness today and strengthen the emerging revolution of compassion.

baking bread as part of my holy week prayers...

Entering the wisdom of Holy Week requires a significant measure of quiet: it must not be hurried. Church professionals, of course, rarely have a chance to let the small mercies of this week wash over them with cleansing and refreshment. Back in the day, I took a mini-retreat between Palm Sunday and Wednesday of Holy Week. The solitude was essential if I was going to listen to the story. And feel the bounty of its hidden generosity. And reconnect with its sorrow wrapped in love. Without sufficient walking around stillness, as the late Johanine scholar Ray Brown used to say, the climax of Lent would feel flat and obligatory rather than renewing.

Now, in this unchurched era of living as a mostly undercover monk - my version of Frere Jacques, if you will - I find there is sufficient stillness for my soul to be open to Holy Week. Yesterday, Palm Sunday, was given to listening to the songs and prayers of Christ's Passion. They called me to weep freely as the only fitting response. A hymn by the 12th century monk, Bernard of Clarivaux, put it like this in"O Sacred Head Now Wounded." 

Be Thou my consolation, my shield when I must die;
Remind me of Thy passion when my last hour draws nigh.
Mine eyes shall then behold Thee, upon Thy cross shall dwell,
My heart by faith enfolds Thee. Who dieth thus dies well.

Today I find a few insights from Henri Nouwen give shape and form to my prayers. The first speaks of the downward trajectory of Christ's ministry - the upside down kingdom - where the last shall become first and those who know emptiness shall be made full. In this, Jesus embodies his mother's early song that we know as Mary's Magnificat: "My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; because He has regarded the lowliness of His handmaid... God has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart, put down the mighty from their thrones and has exalted the lowly. God has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty." (Luke 1: 46-55)

The late Henri Nouwen wrestled with "downward mobility" for most of his life. He knew the movement of his savior called him into a life of hidden acts of tender love, but his ego ached for recognition. Success. Importance. Thanks be to God that brother Henri shared his conflicts with us. In this we see that our own desires to be honored are natural albeit upside down to the world of Jesus. And thanks be to God that brother Henri experienced the grace of God's redemption towards the close of his life. Encountering both the mysterious love of God when he was at his lowest - as well as the constant presence of key friends who gave made God's presence during those desert days - empowered him to write: 

Indeed, the one who was from the beginning with God and who was god revealed himself as a small, helpless child; as a refugee in Egypt; as an obedient adolescent and inconspicuous adult: as a penitent disciple of the Baptizer; as a preacher from Galilee, followed by some simple fishermen; as a man who ate with sinners and talked with strangers; as an outcast, a criminal, a threat to his people. He moved from power to powerlessness, from greatness to smallness, from success to failure, from strength to weakness, from glory to ignominy. The whole life of Jesus of Nazareth was a life in which all upward mobility was resisted…The divine way is indeed the downward way."

Paradoxically, it was when Nouwen truly hit bottom professionally, personally, spiritually and emotionally that he was able to confess:

Our salvation comes from something small, tender, and vulnerable, something hardly noticeable. God, who is the Creator of the Universe, comes to us in smallness, weakness, and hiddenness. I find this a hopeful message. Somehow, I keep expecting loud and impressive events to convince me and others of God’s saving power; but over and over again I am reminded that spectacles, power plays, and big events are the ways of the world. Our temptation is to be distracted by them and made blind to the “shoot that shall sprout from the stump.”

When I have no eyes for the small signs of God’s presence – the smile

of a baby, the carefree play of children, the words of encouragement and gestures of love offered by friends – I will always remain tempted to despair. The small child of Bethlehem, the unknown young man of Nazareth, the rejected preacher, the naked man on the cross, he asks for my full attention. The work of our salvation takes place in the midst of a world that continues to shout, scream, and overwhelm us with its claims and promises. But the promise is hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump, a shoot that hardly anyone notices.

Liberating, yes? Redemptive, too. Yet the invitation into a downward mobility is in constant battle with my false self, that broken part of me that wants to be celebrated and recognized as valuable, that very real part of me that tends to resist silence. And that's why living into a spirituality of Holy Week requires stepping away for a time. Going to a quiet place to listen to the war within and recommit myself to trusting God's hidden presence. In an oblique way, the poet Billy Collins says something similar in this poem. 

Solvitur Ambulando
"It is solved by walking."

I sometimes wonder about the thoughtful Roman
who came up with the notion
that any problem can be solved by walking.

Maybe his worries were minor enough
to be banished by a little amble
along the paths of his gardens,
or, if he faced a tough one––
whether to invite Lavinia or Pomponia to the feast––
walking to the Coliseum would show him the one to pick.

The maxim makes it sound so simple:
go for a walk until you find a solution
then walk back home with a clear head.
No problem, as they used to say in ancient Rome.

But one night, a sticky one might take you
for a walk past the limits of a city,
beyond the streetlights of its suburbs,
and there you are, knocking on the door of a farmer,
who keeps you company on the porch

until your wife comes to fetch you
and drive you and your problem back home,
your problem taking up most of the back seat
and staring at your wife in the rear-view mirror.

And what about the mathematician
who tried to figure out some devilish
mind-crusher like Goldbach’s conjecture
and taking the Latin to heart,
walked to the very bottom of Patagonia?

There he stood on a promontory,
so the locals like to tell you,
staring beyond the end of the hemisphere,

with nothing but the cries of seabirds,
waves exploding on the rocks,
clouds rushing down the sky,
and him having figured the whole thing out.

It is time for me to bake some bread. For one who loves walking, bread baking is a good indoor, rainy day substitute. It affords me about four hours of being still. I must pay attention to the water and yeast if I am going to get a dough that will rise. I have to give myself over to living in another time zone that is not at all rushed, but built upon waiting - and waiting - and waiting. These closing words from Nouwen cut to the chase of what this week means to me.

The resurrection of Jesus was a hidden event. Jesus didn’t rise from the grave to baffle his opponents, to make a victory statement, or to prove to those who crucified him that he was right after all. Jesus rose as a sign to those who had loved him and followed him that God’s divine love is stronger than death. To the women and men who had committed themselves to him, he revealed that his mission had been fulfilled. To those who shared in his ministry, he gave the sacred task to call all people into the new life with him. The world didn’t take notice. Only those whom he called by name, with whom he broke bread, and to whom he spoke words of peace were aware of what happened. Still, it was this hidden event that freed humanity from the shackles of death.

credits: these pictures were taken today as the rain brought a type of waiting color to the early spring.

palm sunday spirituality takes a life time...

Palm Sunday spirituality takes time - a life time of participation, reflection and quiet relinquishment, I suspect. It is not immediately obvious how to extract meaning from this complex and challenging story. It takes time. So this morning as we took in the Procession of Palms and the Passion Narrative at St. Paul's Chapel in NYC via the technology of the Internet, I became profoundly aware that it has been my privilege to sit with this liturgy and story for over 40 years. And it always evokes unexpected tears. Sometimes I weep in gratitude, other times in shame. I have known tears of aching sorrow on Palm Sunday as well as tears of anger, impotence and relinquishment. I am never able to fully complete singing "O Sacred Head Now Wounded" without a hearty cry. Nor can I get through the Passion Narrative without weeping.

What language shall I borrow 

to thank thee, dearest friend, 

for this thy dying sorrow, 

thy pity without end? 

O make me thine forever; 

and should I fainting be, 

Lord, let me never, never 

outlive my love for thee.

Today I returned thanks to the Lord for my tears. They are tiny gifts that I can never take for granted. They link my heart and life to Jesus. The wisdom of the Palm Sunday liturgy reminds me how fickle I can be. To use Fr. Richard Rohr's words, it exposes me to my false self and convicts me with the beauty and promise of my truest self. But there's no rushing this story nor short cuts to the end. To paraphrase The Supremes, "You can't hurry love - especially during Holy Week." Before God's blessings arrive, I must endure the truth of my false self. I must pass through Palm Sunday to Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday before the Feast of the Resurrection is mine.  For while it is never God's intention to cause me - or anyone else - pain, the good news of grace has a sting before it becomes salvific.

After worship, it was time to return to the task of clearing our land of winter's debris. We are halfway there. Dianne is discovering that during the decade when we were too busy to notice, the ground cover spread to mask beautiful rocks. A host of lilies and tulips have been hidden, too. And while raking up the remnants of autumn's leaves, the first crocus of spring made an appearance. To uncover the beauty of this place, takes time, too. That's another reason we're not planning on moving any time soon: we need to enter, experience and honor the promise of this place. My old back can only take 45 minutes at a time, so it is a very slow process indeed, but now is clearly the time for taking it slow.

The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, put it like this in a conversation with one of my favorite authors, Marrilynne Robinson. When asked about how to reclaim the gift of going slowly, he replied:

We need a range of disciplines of time taking. We need to encourage one another—encourage the rising generation—probably to do more gardening and more cooking. And then maybe you’ll save the world by gardening and cooking, in the sense that there are some things which are good only if you take time with them. Because we tend to assume, “Well, the quicker the better,” we don’t understand that the good of this activity is the time taken. (The Christian Century)

Today we have worshiped, prayed, shared Eucharist and sung the hymns. We have gardened, raked, gathered dog poop and discovered a crocus. Soon we will shower and rest, rework the guest room to better serve Dianne's on-line teaching gig, and then I will prayerfully prepare Shepherd's Pie. It only seemed fitting to cook a shepherd peasant's meal on the feast day of the servant shepherd king. 

spirituality and survival: love of theotokos and mother earth...

This week was an emotional roller coaster: in addition to the news of Wiki-Leaks founder, Julian Assange, being arrested; Steve Bannon's mentoring the neo-fascists of Europe; the never-ending saga of Brexit; the emerging Constitutional crisis between the Democratic House of Representatives and the Trump regime over undisclosed tax returns; the re-election of Bibi Netanyahu in Israel; and the smear campaign being waged against Ilhan Omar; I spent time with my friends in L'Arche Ottawa, did yard work, discussed ways to deepen connections with the area's creative poetry experiments, and began writing a new song about the Blessed Virgin Mary and Mother Earth. 

What intensified my reactions to all of this came from an interview I heard on CBC Radio at the start of my six hour trek home from Canada. RANT ALERT: Without any reservation, Canadian talk-radio surpasses everything we attempt in the USA. Our pale excuse for serious radio reporting, NPR, is only somewhat better than the rest of the noise pollution on American air waves. Instead of rigorous analysis and a commitment to insightful conversation that is both eclectic and meaningful, public radio in our realm has become a chatty, anemic, dumbed-down exercise in news-lite. QUALIFICATION: there are a few US alternatives like WBAI in NYC or KXCI in Tucson. Amy Goodman's "Democracy Now" is always informative if sometimes heavy-handed. And the Pacifica Network (https://www.pacifica.org) has a long history of cutting through the fluff to report the truth. RANT CONCLUDES. The program that grabbed my attention, Tapestry (https://www.cbc.ca/
radio/tapestry/spirituality-and-survival-1.5086414) devoted a full hour to "Spirituality and Survival." 

In addition to a moving, in-depth conversation with a survivor of the Rwandan genocide, there was another interview with Philip Clayton of Claremont School of Theology. Clayton is passionately committed to linking spirituality and religion to our quest for sustainability. The show began like this:

It was while taking in a university lecture, that Philip Clayton was suddenly struck with a need to overhaul his priorities and to devote himself to fighting climate change. "I was sitting in a classroom with this famous professor named John Cobb and we were doing a session on faith and the future of the planet," said Clayton, a philosopher at the Claremont School of Theology, a graduate school in southern California.

"He was probably 85 at the time and this brilliant professor said, 'Well the following kinds of systems will collapse' and I said, 'So how many people do you think will die?' Cobb, a prominent theologian at the Claremont School who focuses on environmental activism, told him that the number could be in the hundreds of millions, if not more.

"I remember walking out into the night and thinking that changes my world," said Clayton. In 2015, Clayton helped lead a group that became the Institute for an Ecological Civilization, which tries to use theology to fight against an environmental crisis. 

I am not one who usually responds to hyperbole. My BS detector is well-honed. Neither am I persuaded by doomsday prophets. Like Clayton, I not only trust that the rhythm of God's creation includes darkness and light, but that new life was built into the reality of death.  The Paschal Mystery informs and guides my ethics. But I had never before heard anyone quantify the magnitude of death and loss that is likely to become ours given climate change. "(Most of our) systems will collapse' ... how many people do you think will die?' The number could be in the hundreds of millions, if not more." (Listen to the whole show @ https:// www.cbc.ca/radio/tapestry/spirituality-and-survival-1.5086414/climate-change-is-a-test-for-humanity-that-we-may-not-pass-says-philosopher-1.5087025)

Towards the close of Tapestry, Clayton framed the current challenge of climate change in a way that touched my heart - and appealed to my gifts:

"Science says that (our current actions are) too little too late. We actually need to sequester huge amounts of carbon back in the earth by 2028 and be zero emissions by 2042... And we don't have that technology yet. If we're unable to address climate change either individually or collectively, Clayton said that this crisis will reveal a lot about human nature: "We're in a battle to see whether we're fundamentally an altruistic species who will act for the good of the species or fundamentally a selfish species that will that is so irrational that we'll be driving a car toward a wall... I'm optimistic about human nature. That's the fundamental philosophical or spiritual commitment that I think we have to make."

I began to sense a new song/poem simmering within me that links the devotion many people of faith have towards the Blessed Virgin Mary with a comparable love of Mother Earth. It is Clayton's conviction that when loving the earth is embraced as part of our spirituality, then sustainability will become an act of trust. An embodied prayer. A way of being in the world much like St. Francis and St. Clare incarnated. Further, given the well-developed commitment to Mary as Theotokos - Mother of God - Dei Genetrix - that has matured in Eastern Orthodox prayer, I am listening for a simple musical expression that can celebrate the transformative feminine spirituality of Mary by embracing a bold caring for Mother Earth. Perhaps because some of us are about to enter Holy Week, I hear a connection between the words of Jesus on the Cross in St. John's gospel and a new charism for the 21st century: 

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

To follow Jesus, to love creation as he showed, is to take Mary into our homes and hearts and care for her as she cared for Christ. It is to cultivate a new respect and even adoration of the sacred feminine that moves beyond any sanitized and sentimental Marian piety. It is to reclaim for the Reformed world a living relationship with the Blessed Virgin whose trust and commitment brings Christ to birth within and among us. It is to join with the broken of the world who cherish the Black Madonna, who find solace and strength in Guadalupe, and who embody Mary's life-giving compassion in our ordinary lives. 

Do you know of any poems, prayers, chants or songs that make this type of linkage intentional? Any clues in scripture (beyond the Magnificat) that might help? I am not rushing to force this song - or this connection - but rather, like Mary, I want to behold these things and ponder them in my heart as I slowly collect hints of lyrics, insights and melodies. Fr. Richard Rohr's column from earlier this week was encouraging when he wrote::

The human need for physical, embodied practices seems universal. Across Christian history, the “Sacraments,” as Orthodox and Catholics call them, have always been with us. Before the age of literacy started to spread in Europe in the sixteenth century, things like pilgrimage, prayer beads, body prostrations, bows and genuflections, “blessing oneself” with the sign of the cross, statues, sprinkling things with holy water, theatrical plays and liturgies, incense and candles all allowed the soul to know itself through the outer world—which we are daring to call “Christ.” These outer images serve as mirrors of the Absolute, which can often bypass the mind. Anything is a sacrament if it serves as a Shortcut to the Infinite, hidden in something that is very finite.

(https://cac.org/the-sacrament-of-anointing-2019-04-09/?utm_medium= email&utm_campaign=2019-04-13%20DM%20Weekly&utm_content=20190413%20DM%20Weekly+CID_893c6981eea4a211f27d6260a5a6034d&utm_source=Campaign%20Monitor%20Google%20Analytics&utm_term=Tuesday)

As this week of Christ's passion unfolds, one of my prayers will be to sit with the beauty and power of Rachmaninoff's "Rejoice, O Virgin, Theotokos"  for it is sublime.

making a sacrament of time: l'arche ottawa during lent 2019

One of my deepest joys takes place every time I visit my community at L'Arche Ottawa: I get to know a friend a little deeper. Some of these friends are people with intellectual disabilities, others are part of the family of core members, a few are assistants within the community, and still others are community servant leaders and/or those who have remained connected with L'Arche as volunteers for decades. It is a rich cadre of colleagues all of whom are learning how to live more tender and authentic lives. In so many ways, the L'Arche community helps me become my best self - and share my gifts without reservation.

Do not think for a moment that I romanticize or idealize this community. There are problems. There are challenges. There are disagreements and hurts. L'Arche is human and all humanity is beautiful and flawed, creative and confused, holy and wounded, vibrant and exhausted all at the same time. L'Arche often reminds me of the words Phillips Brooks, Episcopal clergy person at Boston's Trinity Church, wrote in 1868 after visiting Palestine: "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight." ("O Little Town of Bethlehem") Hopes and fears, as well as joys and sorrows and serenity and struggle, are alive and well here. What makes this community sacred for me is their commitment to live into the promise of each moment - not perfectly, not consistently, but honestly and tenaciously - so that time itself becomes a sacrament. That is key: time itself becomes a sacrament.

Paradoxically, the sacramental nature of practicing this spirituality takes time to absorb and honor. Like trust, it requires patience and presence and cannot be rushed or manufactured. In unhurried moments around the dinner table - or in passing a candle around a circle and speaking what is in our hearts - we slowly reveal ourselves to one another. We laugh. We weep. We hold another in silent respect. And over time we find ourselves loving one another. Not all at once, but incrementally. This has been my experience and I am not unique: as I have come to love my friends at L'Arche, I have experienced their love for me and a willingness to love those parts of me that I rarely consider lovable. Love begets love. Jean Vanier describes this in one of his most insightful texts, Community and Growth:

Those who come close to people in need do so first of all in a generous desire to help them and bring them relief; they often feel like saviors and put themselves on a pedestal. But once in contact with them, once touching them, establishing a loving and trusting relationship with them, the mystery unveils itself. At the heart of the insecurity of people in distress there is a presence of Jesus. And so they discover the sacrament of the poor and enter the mystery of compassion. People who are poor seem to break down the barriers of power, of wealth, of ability, and of pride: they pierce the armor of the human heart builds to protect itself.

L'Arche communities have discerned that God's grace is both hidden and revealed in the small, ordinary moments of our lives. That means we must claim a new relationship to time. What is considered ordinary - events like setting the table, cooking a meal, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, sharing a birthday party, gong to a funeral, being angry and having an argument - become places where Christ can be born within and among us. You see, this is a spirituality that is incarnational, embodied encounters and experience, rather than a collection of abstractions or dogma. Sometimes our encounters are painful. Often they are unplanned and unexpected. Frequently they are joyfully and humorously humbling. And always, the revelation of the holy within our humanity invites us to trust God's love more deeply and let this love increase our capacity for compassion. 

It is slow going. The poison of our culture's addiction to various bottom lines - pristinely balanced budgets, multi-tasking, sanitized beauty, professional success, wealth, power, prestige - is insidious. It egularly threatens to seep into the slow pace of living that L'Arche communities require. How could it be otherwise, right? We are surrounded and saturated with pressure to succeed. To become big. Important. Powerful and useful. To which L'Arche says: there is another way to live. It is counter-cultural. It is slow. It is small. I think of it as the embodied spirituality of tenderness. St. Paul spoke of it as the foolishness of the Cross where we choose to die to darkness and selfishness so that we might be renewed in compassion.

The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are become whole, it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” Where is (there authentic, life-giving wisdom?) Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? Look, since... the world did not know (and trust) God through knowledge, God decided, through the foolishness of the Cross, to bring true health those who believe. (Some) demand signs and (others) desire intellectual power, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to some and foolishness to others, but to those who are the called, Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God. And God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength. Just look at yourselves, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are...

In traditional theological terms, this is the Paschal Mystery. Fr. Richard Rohr has recently been calling it the rhythm of creation wherein death brings about new and resurrected life. The 12 Step movement speaks of it as a serenity born of knowing how to accept what cannot be changed in our lives and changing what is possible. Jean Vanier put it like this:

Little did I know that I was on the road to an amazing discovery, a gold mine of truth, where the weak and the strong, the rich and the poor would be brought together in community to find peace, where those who were rejected could heal and transform those who rejected them.

Unplugging from the late, great American Dream machine is essential. Turning off the insistent advertising and noise of the consumer culture is crucial, too. And making peace with silence and tension helps. Vanier noted: "There is nothing more prejudicial to community life than to mask tensions and pretend they do not exist or to hide them behind a polite façade and flee from reality and dialogue. A tension or difficulty can signal a new grace. But it has to be looked at wisely and humanly. It must be talked about with a third person or an external authority." This takes practice. And self-awareness. Too easily we project our fears and angers onto others when we need to clean up our own mess. How did Jesus put it in Luke 6: 42? "How can you say to your neighbor, ‘Friend, let me take out the speck in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your neighbor’s eye." Writing about his own transformation at L'Arche Daybreak, Fr. Henri Nouwen said:

Why all (of my inner) resistance? Why the powerful attraction to the

darkness? Jesus says, “Everybody who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, to prevent his actions from being shown up; but whoever does the truth comes out into the light, so that what he is doing may plainly appear as done in God” (John 3:20–21). That is an answer to my own question. I do often prefer my darkness to God’s light. I prefer to hang on to my sinful ways because they give me some satisfaction, some sense of self, some feeling of importance. I know quite well that moving into God’s light requires me to let go of all these limited pleasures and no longer to see my life as made by me, but as given by God. Living in the light means acknowledging joyfully the truth that all that is good, beautiful, and worthy of praise belongs to God. It is only a truly God-centered life that will pull me out of my depressions and give me hope. It is a clear path, but a very hard path as well.

Over the past few years of being connected in loving friendship with a few dear souls at L'Arche Ottawa, I have been able to name some of my own inner darknesses. I have experienced being loved beyond those wounds, too and given the chance to share my love as well. I know it would be 100 times more challenging if I could be in community more than a few days each month. But, as the Serenity Prayer has taught me, I must accept what cannot be changed. And certainly for the time being, my rhythm of life is just as it should be. When I am at L'Arche, it often seems as if St. Paul were speaking directly to me:

Love never ends... prophecies, they will come to an end; speaking in tongues, they will cease; knowledge (and what you think of as wisdom), it will come to an end, too. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

As I move reluctantly and with hesitation towards Holy Week and Easter, having sensed that I wasted a lot of time during Lent rather than resting in silence, my time at L'Arche gave me a new perspective. This year's Lent was not very prayerful. But it was filled with love - and what's better than love? Love never ends. Love is the alpha and the omega. Love is what Lent is all about. Driving home after three days that became clear - and I am so grateful. Next week we will head to Brooklyn to celebrate the Trisagion with our family. And that is the right way to be, too.