A new/old narrative is re-emerging from within contemplatives of all stripes, sizes, hues and spiritual traditions - and that is good news for all of us who take the journey inward/outward seriously. A recent meme posted by Center for Action and Contemplation: Radical Grace put it like this: WHERE IS THE ICON OF THE MYSTIC WITH ONE BABY ON HER HIP, A TODDLER CRYING AT HER FEET, COOKING DINNER WITH ONE HAND AND TRYING TO FINISH HER WORK ON A LAPTOP WITH THE OTHER? BECAUSE THAT'S MY REAL LIFE! Richard Rohr recently wrote: "After recently visiting Mexico and some of the refugee centers along the Texas border and seeing so many children and babies with their parents, I was reminded that contemplative Christianity’s rather monastic, solitary, silent approach just can’t be adequate to describe contemplation for most people." That is, the time has come to confess that this form of spirituality - long celebrated as the essence of authentic contemplation - is not only just one of the ways we can meet sacred, but a highly privileged and elite practice affordable to the rare few. (The old way simply can't be the only way)or many of God’s children could never know God. Contemplation (must be re-framed as) simply our openness to God’s loving presence in “what is” right in front of you— which is what I saw these parents do. This presence to Presence can be cultivated in many ways that don’t require sitting on a mat for twenty minutes. Don't misunderstand: the solitary and silent expression of prayer and trust is precious and will always be true. I have always been attracted to the monastic way of being and find that now, in my retirement from church work, I can live into this practice more thoroughly. But Rohr and others are right: "If we expect the same disciplined practice of twenty minutes of silence twice a day of every one — for example, busy parents of young children — I think we’re setting ourselves up for delusion. (Rather) when you keep allowing love to flow toward you and toward others, that is a contemplative life. It is not as easy as it seems. Many laypeople are far more mature in the spiritual life than those of us who have all the accouterments of celibacy, quiet, and protected solitude." Last night, for example, not only did I experience a few transcendent moments while playing music in a New York bistro, but there were times when the eclectic crowd did, too. Sometimes it looked like dancing, others times ecstatic applause after a particularly rousing guitar or harmonica solo. And there were times of deep concentration that evoked compassion for the vulnerable and anger at the culture of greed that currently shapes our politics. Emily Sailers of the Indigo Girls and Carlos Santana have told similar tales both about their own encounters with music as contemplation as well as what those gathered to engage their music have discovered as strangers become connected in a sacred secular community in the song.
To be sure, there are those of us who need - and have the context that permits - solitude and silence. But as Rohr concludes: Hidden away in the middle of Parker Palmer’s recent book, On the Brink of Everything, is a wonderful, simple definition of contemplation: “Contemplation is any way one has of penetrating illusion and touching reality.” I think that's brilliant. There are things that force you toward a contemplative mind (for example, your mother’s death), because they force you to face reality, and that can free you from lot of illusions. I’m still grateful to the monastic and Buddhist teachers. But sitting in silence isn’t the whole enchilada. Life is the whole enchilada. My spiritual director in Cleveland - a wise, old saint - used to tell me over and again: "Go slow. One step at a time. Light one candle each day consistently rather than make promises you can never accomplish. A little light is the best we can hope for." Fr. Jim was right - and 30 years later I know it to be true. Not that I always get there, but I know it to be true. And salvific. And sacred. Take it slow...
A few days ago I attended a retirement party for my former colleague and church secretary. It was a stunning summer day - perfect for a backyard banquet of finger foods and fond words of gratitude. I had not seen nor spoken to most of the guests for 18 months. On one level, it was fun to reconnect and chat with a few old friends especially on the occasion of honoring a dedicated servant of God. At the same time, it was also an affirmation that my connection to this faith community was complete. Oddly enough, within minutes of arriving, I was bantering with a friend about our recent benefit concert noting. "I haven't been in that Sanctuary in 18 months." To which I was told, "Neither have I." After a quiet minute pregnant with question marks passed, she asked, "How did you know it was time to go?" What followed was a kitchen conversation about discerning the still speaking but almost always silent invitation of the Holy in our lives. "Was it something like St. Paul's encounter on the road to Damascus?" Well, not as dramatic, but still vivid and life-changing. "You see, I can still remember the day, but maybe not the exact date, when I was called into ministry." It was July 1968, two months after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. has been assassinated. About 30 high school students and I had been on a two week sojourn with our church to see some of the various ways our part of the Body of Christ was caring for the world. It was called a mission caravan and we traveled in a convoy of cars from Connecticut to Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Washington, DC and Baltimore. With four adults and our youth pastor, we stayed at a rural church orphanage, met with community organizers in the hills of Appalachia, slept and visited with leaders of African American churches in DC and Baltimore and worshiped with Potter's House ministry team from the Church of the Savior. Some know the Potter's House to be a coffee house/bookstore/gallery founded by Gordon and Mary Cosby. After WWII a number of seekers were searching for a way of doing church that was not shaped by suburban sameness. "The vision for The Potter’s House was born when Gordon and Mary Cosby spent the night above a noisy tavern in New England. Surmising that Jesus would have been more at home there than the staid church they had just visited, they began to imagine a place that would welcome everyone, Christian or not, to explore life’s big questions." (http://potters housedc.org/history) Our visit to Wednesday night worship was transformative for me: not only did I sense the importance of doing church beyond my tradition, but I was energized by the way artists, civil rights activists, anti-war organizers, early feminists, neighborhood folk, street people and alienated young adults all gathered together in a safe, creative and loving place to discuss what made life meaningful. I cannot say for certain what else happened on that Wednesday night in July except to note that throughout our worship I was in a trance. Lifted beyond the limits of that exquisite little coffee house to a numinous place, all I heard within my heart was the quiet assurance that "you (meaning me) could do this, too." Like the Blessed Virgin Mary, I held this experience and pondered it in my heart for the better part of a week before sharing it out loud. On our ride home back to Connecticut, in the back of a powder blue 1967 Mustang convertible, one of the adult chaperone's asked, "So what did this trip mean to you?" My buddies and I shared a few surface level reactions before I mumbled, "Well, I think I sensed a call into ministry." Talk about a conversation closer! The car went silent for a few minutes before the adult said something like, "Oh, I don't think that was real!" I was, after all, the dumpy bass player in a teenage rock'n'roll band who was an uneven student from a less than wealthy family. Her dismissal felt like a shot to the heart and I fought back my tears. (Even then my tears were prayer partners.) And then, as if offering a gift of confirmation, I heard Aretha Franklyn singing on the radio: "You better think... 'bout what you're trying to do to me! Oh, freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom!" And I knew. Damascus Road? Not really, but I'd take the Potter's House and Aretha Franklyn any day!
As I told this story, including the fact that I fought following my call for nearly 10 years, doing everything else I could besides ministry - including organizing with the farm workers, Head Start and working as a custodial care giver in an institution for children with intellectual disabilities - my friend asked, "How did you know, then, it was time to let it go?" To which I replied, "I can remember to the day when that call came, too." At first I was uncertain; I didn't know that just as one can receive a call into ministry, you can receive a call out of it, too. And my invitation out of traditional ministry happened while on sabbatical in Montreal. At first it manifest itself in the gradual realization that we had been away for two months and never once felt a need to go to Sunday worship. As that began to sink in - and I reveled in my new identity as the old jazz bass player who spoke shitty French (and not the minister) - I found myself reading Jean Vanier and Henri Nouwen. In time, we eventually went to Taize worship and I was moved to tears by what I called the "geography of worship." The human parts of that worship were all horizontal. No hierarchy. Everyone sat on the floor. Everyone shared the readings, the music and the silence. And it was all directed vertically to the one within and beyond us all. As we left worship that night to hit one last jazz club, Dianne said, "You aren't finished with ministry yet, man. It will just happen in a new way." And she was right. The anxiety attacks I had in the middle of the night during our last week away were clear signs that I dreaded returning to the old way. We had left for sabbatical with the understanding that it would be renewing for another 5-7 years. And what happened was a total surprise: I was renewed, I was "reborn" but not for the status quo. It took almost three years to negotiate, plan and implement my departure - and it wasn't always simple or kind - but 18 months ago it came to pass. And my serenity has been as affirming as Aretha Franklyn's song. So too with my time at L'Arche Ottawa.
When I had finished that part of the story, my friend shook her head quietly and simply said, "Thank you." There was more silence before we shared a few words about the importance of learning to listen to our lives. I couldn't help but think of Frederick Buechner's words: “Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” I am glad we went to Sunday's retirement garden party. I am grateful for seeing a few old friends and bringing to a close a few other unresolved relationships. I am also thankful for the gentle sense of completion. And as if this insight needed to be embodied, when we got home, I finished up building our garden terrace and getting our plants into the ground. To everything there is a season... turn, turn, turn. (NOTE: today's pictures are from my study and garden.)
The wise, gracious and challenging poet, Joy Harjo, has long been a favorite to me. She was recently named poet laureate of the United States. In a beautiful irony, given these times and the politics of the current regime, it is good to note that Ms. Harjo is the first Native American to hold this honor. Her 1994 poem, "Perhaps the World Ends Here," resonates with my deepening quest to not only unplug from a lifetime fretting, stewing and striving but also reclaim the necessity of rejoicing. (For more information on Joy Harjo, please go to: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/joy-harjo) The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Br. David Steindl-Rast recently invited those connected to the Gratefulness network to join one another in an eight day encounter with the ordinary blessings of summer. What a lovely and gentle affirmation. Br. David writes: “Blessing, rightly understood, is the invisible bloodstream pulsating through the universe–alive and life-giving.” So I'm going to do it.
Today I find myself full to overflowing with gratitude for we finished setting our summer garden in place. I spent the last few weeks building, tearing apart and rebuilding two small garden terraces before we did any planting. It was an exercise is patience and learning from my mistakes. In was also a process for remembering more than I wanted to know about my impatient shadow to say nothing of my organic klutziness. Still, perseverance and going slow became the by-words and they are now complete. Our deck is filled with our favorite herbs. And the only place with consistent sunlight is now home to cucumbers, two types of pumpkins, dill, tomatoes and soon "moon beans" (a legume from Tucson's Native Seeds that Di named for them about 20 years ago.)
As this day comes to a close I will join with local poets to hear their reflections on matters of the heart. I'll spin a few tunes before the gig to set the tone and then act as ersatz DJ for the gap in-between readings. Joshua Redman, Bill Frisell, a hip-hop remix of old RnB tunes and a funk CD will be my guide. And tomorrow it will rain. Joy Harjo offers this prayer of gratitude for it all.
Praise the rain;
the seagull dive The curl of plant,
the raven talk— Praise the hurt,
the house slack The stand of trees,
the dignity— Praise the dark, the moon cradle The sky fall, the bear sleep— Praise the mist, the warrior name The earth eclipse, the fired leap— Praise the backwards, upward sky The baby cry, the spirit food— Praise canoe, the fish rush The hole for frog, the upside-down— Praise the day, the cloud cup The mind flat, forget it all—
Praise crazy. Praise sad. Praise the path on which we're led. Praise the roads on earth and water. Praise the eater and the eaten. Praise beginnings; praise the end. Praise the song and praise the singer.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain. Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
These words from Jean Vanier have been swimming around my head and heart as both blessing and challenge over these past few days. Somewhere (within) we are hiding our weaknesses. And yet weakness is an important part of our reality. We are born weak. We needed unconditional love... We all have a deep fear of our own weaknesses because my weakness is what makes it possible for someone else to crush me... There was a little boy with a disability who was making his first Communion in a church in Paris. After the liturgy a family celebration of tea and coffee took place. The little boy's uncle went over to the mother and said, "Wasn't it a beautiful liturgy? The only sad part is that he didn't understand anything." The little boy heard and with tears in his eyes said, "Don't worry, momma, Jesus loves me just as I am." (That is what Jesus teaches.) It's OK just to be myself... And we are called to meet people just as they are and to know that each one of us is precious and important. (Jean Vanier, "The Vision of Jesus," in Living Gently in a Violent World, with Stanly Hauerwas, pp.68-72) It is my deepest conviction that Vanier is right about both the calling and the meaning of following Jesus: we are invited to meet people just as they are and love them. Not change them. Not fix them. Not anything else with or for them: just meet them and be with them.
As you might expect, this upends most of my theological training and all of my social activism. Not that the quest for liberation and real social and economic justice is wrong. Not at all. The current regime is living proof that advocacy, organizing and politics matter. Yet, as I look backwards, even the most stunning victories pale in comparison to the bounty realized by living into and celebrating the gift of grace made flesh in the way of Jesus. Vanier continues: Jesus came to change a world in which those at the top have privilege, power, prestige and money while those at the bottom are seen as useless. Jesus came to create a body. St. Paul in I Corinthians 12 compares the human body to the body of Christ and says that those parts of the body that are the weakest and least presentable are indispensable...We must not get caught up in the need to have power over the poor. We need to be with the poor... and it looks crazy because being doesn't look like a plan to change the world. But maybe we will change the world if we are happy. Maybe what we need most is to rejoice and to celebrate with the weak and the vulnerable. Maybe the most important thing is to learn how to build communities of celebration - and then, maybe, the world will be transformed when we learn how to have fun together. Maybe what our world needs more than anything is communities where we celebrate life together and become a sign of hope for the world.(p. 71) We who yearn for justice KNOW how to organize for power. We know how to advocate, govern and exercise control, too. But most of the time we don't know how to simply be. How to celebrate. How to rejoice and be glad. The same is true for conservatives. I have been doing organizing of one type or another since 1970; first, in opposition to the Vietnam War, later with Cesar Chavez and the farm workers, and later still with folk in rural Mississippi, the border lands of the desert Southwest and most recently among people living in the shadow of a de-industrialized New England. Important accomplishments have taken place. But our communities remain glum, depressed emotionally, spiritually and economically to such an extent that Jaco Hamman coined an appropriate description for our area: the place where steeples cry. My heart now trusts that beyond all our advocacy and organizing, the time has come for us to reclaim a commitment to rejoicing. We have become human do-ings rather than human be-ings. So in whatever days I have left, I am actively unplugging from organizing. And politics. And a life of fretting. And stewing over what still needs to be accomplished. Not that I am any GOOD at this, mind you: I am still addicted and caught up in the whirlwind, the intrigue and buzz of this over-stimulated and too demanding culture. But Jesus was neither cynical nor burned out when he told his friends, "You will always have the poor with you, but not me!" (Matthew26: 11) This wasn't a prediction or prophecy. And it certainly was not an endorsement of trickle-down economics or any socially conservative fiscal agenda. No, what Jesus was teaching had to do with knowing when the feast was the most important act of resistance we could experience. I remember the late Elie Wiesel writing that sometimes all an aching soul could do was dance. To everything there is a season, right? Could it be that this is our season for celebration? And being? And conversation? And meeting one another in love with laughter and love? After wrestling with the theology of my Reformed tradition for 40 years - and learning to let most of it slip away - let me unequivocally confess that Thomas Merton got it right. Like many mystical Roman Catholics who live a sacramental theology that honors the flesh and creation, Merton teaches that Jesus asks us to see one another as God does: not as broken, flawed or wounded, nor needy or sinful. But as beloved. At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely ... I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere. (Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander)
A totally cloistered day for me: I finally fixed and rebuilt the first small terrace for our garden this morning and then laid out the foundation for the second. After some tea and a shower, it will bread baking and bass practice time as a gentle rain begins to fall. Probably a wee nap, too. This past Lent I sensed it was finally time for me to check out of watching TV news as a spiritual practice. For decades I faithfully watched a variety of news programs with an open heart. Mostly it was an exercise in lament - and my commitment to grieving over the brokenness remains. As Walter Brueggemann so wisely teaches: grief and lament are one of the prophetic charisms that evoke both a broken heart and a deeper trust in God's grace. But as the late Jean Vanier realized, taking in the TV news once a week is enough; on a daily or hourly basis, it assaults us with more despair than we can tolerate. And because most of the sorrow portrayed is beyond our ability to touch and heal, the news only reinforces our impotence and fear. Like Ruth Moody of the Wailin' Jennys said in concert, "Worry is like praying for something bad to happen!" So, I began a Lenten fast from TV news. One of the gifts of fasting from food, news, the Internet, etc. is that our fast creates space for other things to take place that bring value to our being. In my case, I replaced TV news with movies and programs that I have wanted to see for ages but never made the time. I roared through all five seasons of "Breaking Bad" and loved them. One friend hit the nail on the head: it is a contemporary America King Lear. I've have watched some of Cynthia Bourgeault's on-line lectures re: Centering Prayer. And for Summer 2019 I am starting a film noir encounter. The visuals of noir films have long fascinated me. Same goes for their groove, too. There is something seductive, troubling and melancholy about these movies that speaks to my shadow and gives it a measure of shape and form.
In an on-line essay, "The Dark Themes of Film Noir and Why They Matter Today," one critic cut to the chase: All noir films deal with at least a few of the following themes: Existential crises torment the main character, self-destructive actions are a compulsive necessity, alienation from other people in society, feminine betrayal in one form or another is more or less inevitable, sexual thrills come with a cost, the impossibility of escaping one’s character or fate, a universe of moral ambiguity, where good often loses to evil, bad results usually come from good intentions. (for more: https://qcurtius.com/2015/03/08/the-dark-themes-of-film-noir-and-why-they-matter-today/ Like my taste in music, the first thing that always grabs me is the mood - the feeling the visuals and the sounds evoke within me - the groove. In music I will listen to - and appreciate - compositions and songs that don't touch my soul, but it will be a purely intellectual act. If the music doesn't somehow reach up and grab my attention, I rarely revisit it. It can be subtle or dramatic, it doesn't matter: somehow the music has to move something within me if I am going to move into it deeper. This composition by two of my favorite jazz artists, Bill Frisell on guitar and Ron Carter on bass, perfectly conjures what I need in any type of music: soul, grit, angst, commitment, compassion, integrity and artistic beauty. Carter, master of the upright bass, only plays two freakin' notes for almost seven minutes while Frisell, a master in his own right, does things with the horn players and drummer that always energizes and intrigues me ... The same groove applies to film noir. The very first time I saw "Double Indemnity" or "The Maltese Falcon" I was hooked. My friend-mentor-one time English professor-and current long distance spiritual conversationalist, Martha Baker, turned me on to watching films with a critical and artistic eye during my freshman year of college. Let me assure you, there is no better way to watch Bergman than in the middle of a bitterly cold Wisconsin winter at night. Pure magic. Since then I've been hooked.
I realized, however, that for some reason, I have been avoiding films for the past few years. The last two movies I watched were "Moonlight" and "Song of the Sea." I loved them both but haven't been willing to give film my time or attention of late. Perhaps in a sign of the times, I have felt too rushed to open my eyes, heart and soul to a film - or too emotionally and spiritually worn out I know that in popular culture fewer and fewer people are reading. I hear from many of my peers that they don't have the time or energy to devote to a book. Or a magazine article, for that matter. Perhaps this sense of being jammed and squeezed for time is why subscription TV has become so popular. Whatever the reason for me, however, I need to unplug from my culture's obsession with busyness at a deeper level. And so... noir seems to be calling me. Two other insights have been mixing it up within, too. The first comes from the writer, Quintus Curtus, who noted that: Noir continues to be relevant today because we are dealing with the same themes described above: alienation, being trapped by Fate, moral ambiguity, and the perverse pleasure of self-destructive acts. Every person is forced to grapple with these dark ideas during his life. No one is exempt. And in some strange way, how noir characters deal with their struggles can be inspiring. Many of them have a stoic resolution, and an ironic detachment, which is often the only way to deal with an impossible situation.
The other is Matthew Fox in his current series on art as prophetic revelation:
M.C. Richards tells the story of being at a beach in North Carolina and awakening to racism when she saw segregation at the water fountains standing in contrast to the light that shone on everyone and everything, such as the waters, equally. She exclaims: "How can we not see what our eyes behold? As our perceptions become more and more coordinated, we grow in justice." By deepening our perceptions art sensitizes us to the suffering of the world.
We're going to be around for most of the summer. I'll be playing gigs for the next five weeks, doing gardening and visiting with my family as well. It is a perfect time, it seems to me, for me to open my heart and soul a little bit to the reality of this tragic and beautiful era. I am collecting on-line lists of the best of noir and will start after I get my bread a'baking. Send me your favs, too. (Now I need to listen to the quintessential Miles Davis track that synthesizes the noir aesthetic into five minutes of pure blue...)
In two unrelated blogs that I read regularly - Richard Rohr and Matthew Fox - each have been exploring separately the sacred feminine and the divine masculine. These two foundational archetypes are too often segregated; but when they embrace, they comprise a healthy whole. This unintended parallel was for me yet another encounter with what Jung called synchronicity: a variety of separate events that when seen as a whole evoke both deep personal meaning and reveal a small slice of the order of grace built into the universe. Over time, and in conversation with Albert Einstein, Jung became increasingly convinced that the sacred coordination of coincidence was a part of "the theories of relativity and quantum mechanics." Jung believed life was not a series of random events but rather an expression of a deeper order, which he and Pauli referred to as Unus mundus. This deeper order led to the insights that a person was both embedded in a universal wholeness and that the realization of this was more than just an intellectual exercise, but also had elements of a spiritual awakening. From the religious perspective, synchronicity shares similar characteristics of an "intervention of grace". Jung also believed that in a person's life, synchronicity served a role similar to that of dreams, with the purpose of shifting a person's egocentric conscious thinking to greater wholeness.(https://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Synchronicity) Like many North Americans, I had never heard of synchronicity until The Police released an album of the same name in 1983. The youth group at my first church in Saginaw, MI played nothing else that summer and soon the sound and ideas captured my imagination, too.
Prior to Jung, meaningful coincidence was treated as a squishy sub-genre of the spiritual life. Mystical experience has long been held at arms length by religious institutions for its subjectivity. Clearly with no observable, objective standards to evaluate the inward journey, some choose well-defined dogma over revelation because the wisdom of the heart takes time to comprehend. Small wonder that G.K. Chesterton quipped that "coincidences are spiritual puns." Albert Einstein wrote that "coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous." That many still denigrate the revelations revealed by synchronicity is a fact of life. Currently, some claim that chaos theory renders the insights born of the intentional coordination of coincidence as untrue. But after 50 years of listening and honoring these gentle, subtle and unexpected clues, I have found they help me live into my deepest truths. Indeed, I trust that what some call coincidence are more often that not invitations into grace and wholeness.
A text that I return to over and again from the Hebrew scriptures is Psalm 85: 10-11: "Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. Faithfulness will spring up from the ground and righteousness will look down from the sky." My hunch is that one of the multiple insights within this verse has something to do with what we can experience when the radical and restorative unity of life's polarities are married. This Hebrew prayer/poem uses nuanced words to evoke what it feels like to encounter the embrace of yin with yang, light with dark, trust with reality, and all the rest. I tend to rework the text like this to tease out the mystical truths: When individuals and societies nourish compassion (hesed) and also cultivate a commitment to honesty (emet) solidarity (tsedeq) is born: right relations (tsedeq) and social harmony (shalom) will kiss one another with passion. And their embrace will give birth to a sacred balance within creation as dignity is restored to the earth and divine love inspires us from the heavens. Matthew Fox has written in his major work, A Spirituality Named Compassion, thatWestern understandings of justice all too often look to a law and order, crime and punishment tableau when it comes to justice; and treat mercy as pity and peace merely the absence of physical violence. But this ode to spiritual integration celebrates the fecundity of compassion's marriage with right relationships: not only are our differences embrace, but the result gives birth to joy and tenderness. When the Sacred Masculine is combined with the sacred feminine inside
each of us, we create the 'sacred marriage' of compassion and passion in ourselves.... (Remember) Compassion is not pity ... compassion never considers an object as weak or inferior. Compassion, one might say, works from a strength born of awareness of shared weakness, and not from someone else's weakness and from the awareness of the mutuality of us all. (Matthew Fox) In his reflections on the divine feminine, Rohr reminds us that conscious love is rooted in solidarity: we need partners, lovers, friends, family, and mentors to guide us beyond ourselves into relationships of trust. Rohr writes that many of us have been taught to love others as an act of the will. But it can't be sustained any more than a dry-drunk can bring about a life of sobriety. Many pastors and priests have done the people of God a great disservice by preaching the Gospel to them but not giving them the tools whereby they can obey that Gospel. As Jesus put it, “cut off from the vine, you can do nothing” (John 15:5). The “vine and the branches” offer one of the greatest Christian mystical images of the non-duality between God and the soul. In and with God, I can love everything and everyone—even my enemies. Alone and by myself, my willpower and intellect will seldom be able to love in difficult situations over time. Many folks try to love by willpower, with themselves as the only source. They try to obey the second commandment without the first. It usually does not work long-term, and there is no one more cynical about love than a disillusioned idealist... Until we love and until we suffer (for love) we try to figure out life and death with our minds; but afterward a Larger Source opens up within us (after we experience love and grace from within and from others) and then we “think” and feel quite differently: “until we know the Love, which is beyond all knowledge” (Ephesians 3:19)
The Greek word translated as "know" (γινώσκω (ginóskó) is experiential. It means to perceive, to encounter, or to be sexually intimate as in Luke 1:34: "Mary (the virgin) said to the angel, 'How will this be since I do not know (ginṓskō - with sexual intimacy) this man?" This spiritual knowledge is intimate and holistic, it brings together the polarities of creation, it honors the embrace of compassion and right relationships. And it is profoundly attuned to the clues some still dismiss as mere coincidence.
Cynthia Bourgeault writes in her book, The Meaning of Mary Magdalene: Discovering the Woman at the Heart of Christianity, that Magdalene was the first disciple to hold all the love of Christ in her heart while also giving it bodily expression. She both knew the love of Christ - that is, experienced it within her being - and shared it consistently in her living. She alone remained faithful and present with Jesus not only as he was taught throughout Israel and Palestine, but she was the only disciple who stood her ground through the passion, the betrayals, the crucifixion and the resurrection. For this, she has been called "the apostle to the apostles." Yet her witness - and testimony- has systematically been erased by misogyny and culture. Still, Mary is the one who promises to restore balance, as well as give shape and form to disciples in the 21st century. "Who is an apostle?" asks Bourgeault.
The answer is simple and bold: the one who does the work... of purifying the unconscious. Magdalene is the one from whom seven demons have been cast out... She has tamed the inner beasts, confronted the passions that hold human being enchained to the powers of the world. The fruit of this work is not only psychological wholeness, but the capacity to see. Her clear heart is her intimate channel into the fullness beyond time... (She is the one) who lives in continuous communion with the Master in the imaginal meeting ground through the power of a pure heart, so that 'Thy kingdom come" is in fact a living reality.(Bourgeault p. 68)
My heart was awakened by the synchronicity of reading both Rohr and Fox on the same day. Once again, they invite me to hear the call of the holy within the ordinary events of living and loving. And just so that I would hold no argument, later that evening during our benefit music and poetry concert, my friend Patricia Mason-Martin, read this poem:
Mary Magdalene gods and goddesses watched as she pulled the sword out from her back and held it up to the sky..........
Excalibur....
from the deep recesses of flesh that long denied a memory too hot to hold.. a memory that burned and scorched the waking cells in her heart.. scorched the waking cells in her heart and in her brain...........
and in the very depths of her soul.. a memory of love that felt more like pain.... The love felt like pain.. as she learning to love herself.... she’s learning to love herself... She’s loving herself now............
And the curve of her back.... and the curve of her lips........ and the curve of her hips and belly.. as they rose and fell with the heat of her breath.... they rose and fell on the night when the clouds raced across the moon.. to see which would collide with the horizon... clouds racing across the horizon.. while Mary Magdalene combed her hair and prepared the oil to wash her Beloved’s feet
Father's Day is slow in our house - quiet and reflective - as our adult children are living fully into their own families and their own ways of marking this time. It was especially quiet this year as it fell right after our benefit concert on Saturday night. To be honest, I was totally wiped-out after this show. Delighted but exhausted and very pleased that we raised nearly $800 for our local homeless shelter. So it felt restorative to simply sit back and think over what being a father - and now a grandfather - has meant to me. My own dad has been gone four years now; we had a confusing love that was all too often combative or competitive. My affection for him abides always, albeit these days it feels bittersweet. Walking the field to place a small rock that she has painted on his grave, my daughter asks me if he knows that he is dead. The rock is painted with a butterfly, red lines for wings, small dots for yellow eyes, blue strings for legs. Before I have a chance to muster an answer, Nina calls out, Happy Father's Day to silent air. And we beat a path homeward through dry, eye-scratching weeds.
("The Uncut Field" by Laura Foley)
Today, therefore, was given over to errands: shopping, cleaning, yard work, cooking, and a trip to the library. After the focus, demands and intensity of our recent rehearsals, I needed to "catch up" on the ordinary things. Sweeping the kitchen floor reminded me of how much I adore slow days set aside for quiet thoughts and simple tasks that fortify the equilibrium of living.
While checking out two new/old mysteries, the librarian smiled at me as she said, "Man that hair is getting long!" We laughed a bit before she asked if I missed ministry now that I am so obviously retired. "Not a bit" I replied in a heart beat. She was startled - and for the next five minutes (there was no one else waiting in line to check anything out) we spoke of call and commitment, the movement of the spirit in our hearts, and how I discerned my time for engagement in the church was over. How did Jesus put it, "The Spirit/wind blows where it will...?" (John 3:8) I find that sacred conversations erupt all over the place when I take the time to listen and go slow. Before leaving, I added, "You know, I am still living into the love of Jesus these days. Doing music. L'Arche. Family. Tending the yard. Is all holy ground to me - is just moves at a slower and sustainable pace." She smiled wistfully. I wonder what was going through her heart? Maybe we'll pick all of this up again in two weeks when I get two more mysteries. Or it may just stand alone. I know that I thought about it while cutting the grass and whacking the weeds later in the afternoon. What do I miss? The clearly defined rhythm of the liturgical calendar shared in community is the big one. Singing hymns and sharing prayers together is right up there too. But I get to do that now both at the church my family attends in NYC as well as at L'Arche Ottawa.
Really there's nothing else that is different now except these days most people don't know me as clergy. I am James the musician. Or the sound guy at the poetry reading. Or that old guy with long hair who loves fresh herbs and garden flowers. The big difference for me is that I am living into my faith without the constraints of another's expectations. And it is liberating. It made me think of a line from Naomi Shihab Nye's poem, "Half and Half."
You can't be, says a Palestinian Christian on the first feast day after Ramadan. So, half-and-half and half-and-half. He sells glass. He knows about broken bits, chips. If you love Jesus you can't love anyone else. Says he.
At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa, he's sweeping. The rubbed stones feel holy. Dusting of powdered sugar across faces of date-stuffed mamool.
This morning we lit the slim white candles which bend over at the waist by noon. For once the priests weren't fighting in the church for the best spots to stand. As a boy, my father listened to them fight. This is partly why he prays in no language but his own. Why I press my lips to every exception.
A woman opens a window—here and here and here— placing a vase of blue flowers on an orange cloth. I follow her. She is making a soup from what she had left in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean. She is leaving nothing out.
These days I, too pray in no language but my own right. But pray - and worship - and love the Lord I do, only now without title or influence. What a blessed gift!
One of the joys I have experienced over the course of my various ministries is staying in touch with a few people from each of the four congregations I have served. Proper and respectful boundaries are always in order, of course. At the same time, the affection, respect, and depth of encounters we have shared over time can never be erased. Nor should they. Sometimes we fall out of touch, as is true for many friends, only to find new ways to reconnect. It is a privilege to still have friendships with folk from Saginaw, Cleveland, Tucson and Pittsfield. Last night many of my dearest friends - and many of my favorite local musicians - gathered together in the Sanctuary of my last ministry and rocked out to raise funds for the local homeless shelter: Barton's Crossing. There was a wonderful mix of songs and poems - some original tunes, some favorite cover songs - all shared with gusto. In many ways it felt like a healthy family reunion - and this was true for members of the church as well as for the musicians and those who came to celebrate the music. For over ten years we regularly played different benefit concerts in that hallowed hall including our annual Thanksgiving Eve gig. One among us literally grew up as a young man and musician. In August he is enrolled as a full-time music student at the Hartford School of Music. To have him join the band one more time - and have him rock out boldly and beautifully - was a treasure for us all. The same goes for the vocalists and other instrumentalists as well. I said to one old friend, "One of the reasons I cherish doing these shows is because there are NO egos involved. Every single player is there for the love - and it shows."
I was asked by the current interim minister (who played keyboards, bass and guitar with us in the band) how did it feel to re-enter the Sanctuary after nearly two years? Earlier in the week, I had wondered about that, too. After a short pause, I replied, "It feels right. Grounded. Tender. A lot of beautiful things took place in this place during the ten years I was here. And right now I feel a deep sense of gratitude for it all. There will always be small things that pissed me off, but mostly they have faded. And what remains is a profound love." I heard similar words from the people who spoke to me after the show. The common thread? "You have to do this again! And here! And we'll help out! It really fed our souls to have you bring this musical family back together to care for the wider community." I agree - and we've already been approached by two other local organizations for benefit shows in the coming year. Most of last night's players signed on for a November gig to support the shelter that protects women leaving abusive relationships. And a gig to create seed work for a local Sanctuary church is in the works, too. Fascinating. It has long been my conviction - and last night's show confirmed it - that I was called by the sacred to bring people together in music-making and poetry to serve the common good. Within the family of musicians, we share a love that was always soul food for me - in addition to truly ecstatic songs. And I believe the affection and respect we share with one another as performers is contagious. It even models a way of being tender that incarnates a balm for our weariness. And, it uses the God-given and human cultivated gifts of excellent writers and musicians to strengthen the web of local relationships in pursuit of compassion.
Frederick Beuchner once wrote: "Our calling is the place where God asks us to embrace our deepest gladness with the world's deepest need." Not everyone gets that - especially those with a narrow sense of religion. Still, when we strive to find that holy ground of gladness and need, I believe hope and healing take place. I told the players before the show last night as well as those from the wider community who gathered to rock and roll that "this time will be the union of Bob Dylan's 'Rolling Thunder Review' and Jean Vanier's wisdom. It will be wild and eclectic. And it is built on the foundation that sharing small, non-heroic acts of love is how we meet God." I was even so bold as to say: "Vanier taught us that the antidote to despair, especially in times like our own, is to share love with those who live merely 10 feet away from us. They are the only ones we can really touch anyway. Getting caught up in the angst of suffering beyond our ability to act is a dead-end. Hope comes from living into the 10 foot rule." And time and again I have experienced that wisdom in spades.
So, in a mode of beholding and honoring the blessings God is already bringing to my life as it currently unfolds, in addition to sharing time and love with my dear friends at L'Arche Ottawa come the fall, it looks like some local community music-making is on the horizon. Same, too, with a deeper connection with the local poetry community. What a gift for Trinity Sunday when the diversity of the holy dances together in tender jubilation.
Pentecost Sunday, one of my favorite liturgical holidays, and we were able to share it in the company of children and grandchildren in Brooklyn. It was holy ground for me as we walked through Central Park on Saturday: sailing boats in a pond, taking in a jazz ensemble, and racing through a new playground. There was time to laugh and listen, feast and be foolish, all in beautifully 70F weather. It was equally sacred to be in the sanctuary of St. Paul's Chapel in Manhattan where 4 infant baptisms, 3 confirmations of baptism, and Eucharist were celebrated in the Liturgy for Children. Grandson, Louie, sang in the choir lifting up a South African freedom song as well as "All Things Bright and Beautiful." What a grand time to be alive. Clarence Jordan, founder of Koinonia Farms and fount from which Habitat for Humanity sprang, once observed that the essence of Pentecost is being so touched by God's love for us that our experience empowers us with both the desire and ability to overcome human divisions. The true gift of tongues, Jordan preached, was the desire, creativity and grace to communicate and connect with people who looked, felt, sounded and often acted different from ourselves. At Pentecost, the early followers of Jesus finally encountered God's grace in much the way Mary Magdalene had while Jesus lived - and it compelled them to leave their fears behind and share the blessing they now knew to be at the heart of creation. Cynthia Bourgeault notes that Magdalene has been called the "apostle to the apostles" for she alone stood watch over Jesus through his passion, his crucifixion and then his resurrection. The men of the Jesus movement are likewise enlightened by God's spirit of grace at Pentecost and move into the world much like Mary. They are all wildly open to God's love and eager to figure out ways to multiply the miracle.
Jordan writes that God's grace inspired the apostles to get over themselves: St. Paul called this becoming "all things for all people." So, if you are called to touch the hearts of young investment bankers on Wall Street, you need to know how to speak Wall Street. If you're energized by connecting to hipsters, you have to know how to groove. If you want to cross the racial divide, you damn well better learn the real history of racial oppression in the US of A. If you want to live in solidarity with women, that sexist crap has got to be crucified. And, if you want to talk and minister to children, you have to practice speaking simply, honestly and directly about the love of Jesus that you know directly - not abstractions - but from your experience. Too often little ones in worship are treated like props in an adult religious pageant. Or the message is dumbed-down but still irrelevant. Or the sermon becomes a poorly edited, crudely truncated version of what you really wanted to say to the adults at 11 am. After 40 years of trying all of these dead-ends - and more - I have come to trust that children's worship must truly be for children. I have found that it is best not spend a lot of time crafting a theologically sophisticated sermon for this liturgy. There is a time and place for sophisticated thinking, but not in children's worship. Rather, give up trying to be cute and just share a well-considered, concise, and tender-hearted conversation about God's love. No need to entertain or impress. Just be loving and open and listen to who is at the heart of these liturgies. I love that St. Paul's Chapel welcomes all the children to gather around the altar for Eucharist - and some of the celebrants even invite them to share in the blessing on the bread and wine, too - it is simple, brilliant and real. It is participation that tears down all artificial walls of church hierarchy while authentically welcoming our little ones into the feast. This calls to mind what Matthew Fox recently wrote about the archetype of the Grandfather. Classically this is the sennex, the elder male called by God to share wisdom with children and young adults through an open, gentle and joyful heart. Wisdom is never passed on by grouchy old men or bewildered, bumbling fools. No, it is the old timer who listens, loves and laughs with the children, wrapping them in a protective shield of compassion, who passes on truth and tradition to impressionable hearts, minds and bodies. Fox writes: When we become freed from the daily burdens of work, career and raising of children we become more like we were when we were young–our time is more our own, and our heart can focus more on what matters. On what remains...Elders are often neglected in US society, which tends to value people for their consuming power (“I buy therefore I am”). Older men have a tremendous amount to share with younger generations. Time and experience, laughter and a certain detachment from everyday life—all that wisdom can be shared between the oldest and the youngest in society. But this wisdom does not spring forth of its own accord: for elders to play their rightful role they need to stay alive and stay in love with life.
For three days we were blessed with living into the deepest truths of Pentecost for grandparents as we sat with our little ones and listened to their stories. And laughed at their jokes. And walked with them in the park. And sang songs and hymns with them in worship. And celebrated the gift of love with their momma and daddy at meal times. And just savored their presence without any agenda. Anna, who will be two later this summer, already knows how to communicate in a combination of sign language, English and Spanish. Talk about Pentecost! And Louie sings, moves, fantasizes, and then engages in such creative ways that it often feels like we're in the midst of tongues of fire. On the way home from worship, we started laughing so hard on the R Train that we almost lost track of our stop. We were given the gift of time with these precious children so that we could hear and learn their language. And we are the richer for it all. Thanks be to God.
This week was essentially one of solitude. To be sure, there was a rehearsal on Wednesday evening that was full, fun and raucous. We're working up a wildly grunge version of Neil Young's "Keep on Rockin' in the Free World" as well as a haunting, close harmony acoustic interpretation of David Crosby's "Lay Me Down." Of course, I needed to be on the Internet a few times each day to keep track of on-going commitments. But after all has been said and done, it was a week spent doing small tasks simply in the company of Dianne and Lucie. There was lots of yard work, a bread disaster (it never rose), practicing bass riffs and finger picking on the guitar, and lots of quiet reflection time upon the works of Heuertz, Bourgeault, Vanier and Nouwen. Sometime this week I read that the way of Jesus is most often small, personal and quiet. This has been my deepest conviction for decades yet it flies in the face of the social analysis that shaped my public life. It has only been on retreat, sabbatical, and now retirement that I feel empowered and safe enough to live into the charism of my deepest calling: presence. Listening, loving and being quiet with another has been the cry of my heart, where I find my deepest joy and most authentic rest. Still, for most of my adult life, this cry has been sidelined in order to be a part of movements that challenge systems of oppression. Social sin was how my era defined authentic engagement with the world - and anything less than radical, structural change was called sentimental pietism. Truth be told, I was often caught up in the energy of social change movements, the big issues of my day spoke to my conscience, but also trapped me in ways I could never have imagined. My heart wanted to simply be present with those I have been called to love by Jesus and leave the rest to God. But the intensity of judgment and guilt articulated by many social justice activists evoked enough shame that I caved and lost touch with my true contemplative calling. "If you aren't part of the solution, you are part of the problem."
Isn't that odd? How movements for social liberation and cultural change have always made intellectual and moral sense to me. Yet, at the same time, my participation in those actions/movements felt like I was being squeezed into a public mold that didn't really fit. In an upside-down way, the words St. Paul wrote rang true to me: "Do not be conformed to the ways of the world, but rather be transformed by the renewal of your mind." While working on my doctoral dissertation, I read how young Bob Dylan experienced much the same angst from the social justice tzars of his day. In fact, he was regularly cowed by the commissars of radical culture into writing more and more songs for "the movement." So much so that by 1964 he was contemplating quitting the music business. Then, on an unstructured trip across the USA by car, Dylan heard the Beatles singing "I Want to Hold Your Hand" - and everything changed. He loved the energy of the song. The creative chording and harmonies, too. And right then and there he knew that he was called to make wild and deeply personal music like the Beatles except his songs would be grounded in Americana. What came pouring out was "Bringing It All Back Home," "Highway 61 Revisited," and "Blonde on Blonde." St. Bobby ended his romantic affiliation with his Old Left woman friend and began a sojourn into freedom that continues 55 years later.
That is certainly one of the reasons I have been so drawn to Jean Vanier and Cynthia Bourgeault of late. Within the context of contemplative Christianity, they have learned how to be faithful, creative and tender-hearted in ways that touch individual human lives. For over a year, we have been meditating, watching, listening, and contemplating what God has already brought into our lives as the deep clues about where our next steps may lead. Calling it "a year of beholding" in the manner of Mary who beheld the glory of the Lord and held it in her heart, we have been trusting that at the right time new insights would be revealed. In this time we have gone inward. We have eliminated a lot of expenses and extraneous commitments so that we could be still and present with one another. And our hearts. And the land. And the stirrings of the Spirit within. Vanier was insightful for me saying that people of faith must learn to "become friends with time." Nothing important happens overnight. It moves slowly. Mysteriously and often silently. And, when the time is right, new wisdom, love or blessing is revealed. Stanley Hauwerwas but it like this in a dialogue with Vanier published as Living Gently in a Violent World.
I think that L'Arche says to the church: slow down. Just slow down. L'Arche embodies the patience that is absolutely crucial if we are to learn to be faithful people in our world... (I have come to believe) that the politics of peace is a politics of time... For at the heart of L'Arche is patience, which is but another name for peace... We have all the time we need to do what needs to be done.(pp.45-47)
I suppose that is why bread-baking has become one of my spiritual practices: there's a LOT of waiting involved. If I hurry, as I sometimes do, it never turns out right. (NOTE: a friend recently asked if my last attempt at baking created croûtons or a sandwich loaf? Confession is good for the soul, so let me say that I was too distracted to pay careful attention and that loaf never rose!) Gunilla Norris puts it like this in a poem/prayer from Becoming Bread: In this darkness the minutes shrink us, the seconds dry us out. Time is an enemy. When will this suffering be over? When will it finish? You are there, helpless. My hand goes out but does not bring relief. I am there, helpless. Your eyes fill with tears and you cannot help me. The pain lives in us. It is our particular pain. Necessary pain. We wait on it. When will it be done? When will it be finished? The minutes bake us. Dry time, mini-seconds times-as-it-ticks time. It forges us. We wait on it and long for God's time -- Time within time. Vanier and Hauerwas are right: to live with tenderness we must become friends of time and let it work within and among us in trust. Not easy nor simple. But always true. And after beholding all of these things and holding them in our hearts, who knows? "Just Like a Rolling Stone" may be born! It has happened before and will likely do so again. So, at Chez Lumsdemott, the beholding continues as we work the soil, cherish the flowers and listen (albeit imperfectly) for whatever is to be born next.
A new/old narrative is re-emerging from within contemplatives of all stripes, sizes, hues and spiritual traditions - and that is good news for all of us who take the journey inward/outward seriously. A recent meme posted by Center for Action and Contemplation: Radical Grace put it like this:
Don't misunderstand: the solitary and silent expression of prayer and trust is precious and will always be true. I have always been attracted to the monastic way of being and find that now, in my retirement from church work, I can live into this practice more thoroughly. But Rohr and others are right: "If we expect the same disciplined practice of twenty minutes of silence twice a day of every one — for example, busy parents of young children — I think we’re setting ourselves up for delusion. (Rather) when you keep allowing love to flow toward you and toward others, that is a contemplative life. It is not as easy as it seems. Many laypeople are far more mature in the spiritual life than those of us who have all the accouterments of celibacy, quiet, and protected solitude."
