beholding and making friends with time...

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.