my garden mentor...

Yesterday, on our Sabbath, our spiritual cousins ushered in Year 5780 of the Jewish calendar with Rosh Hashanna. We returned thanks to God in our garden. As I was building and digging a new mini-terrace for next year's vegetables, I could not help but consider the organic refreshment that comes from starting the new year in autumn - at least for those of us in this hemisphere. Don't get me wrong, the Christian calendar is equally insightful by placing the start of our new year in winter: the arc of the Advent story reminds us that even in the bleak midwinter, when there are no obvious signs of life, God's mysterious grace is still present just beyond our ability to grasp it. Likewise, setting the Jewish new year within the season of fall's harvest offers another story: one of sacred abundance. Both and all offer us a portion of sacred wisdom - genuine blessing - if we have eyes to see and ears to hear.  

That's a big IF given the multiple distractions, fears, anxieties, joys and sorrows of this era. Cynthia Bourgeault teaches that all spiritual wisdom regardless of their origins insist upon "bridling the imagination." That is, practicing staying grounded in trust beyond the ebb and flow of our passions and feelings. "Before it is safe to enter the deeper waters of visionary seeing where the currents of divine passion run hard and deep," she writes, "the imagination must be contained between the twin banks of attention (teaching it to stay grounded) and surrender (letting go of all phenomena as they occur.)" (The Wisdom Way of Knowing, pp.88/90) In this season of life, such wisdom resonates with me, even as I confess that I resisted it as a younger man. Which isn't to say that I have mastered living between these two banks. Far from it! I simply want to spend more time moored there rather than bouncing around on the waves of my feelings and the abundant distractions of this consumer culture.

Such is my challenge - one St. Paul knew well. The older I get, the more space I want to offer the apostle. He, too, got it wrong just as often as he got it right. And his witness has been used for oppression by biblicists who insist upon squeezing the words of love into the violence of race hatred, misogyny, and homophobia. But when he got it right - he was sublime:

We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming. But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love. (Ephesians 4: 14-16)

The promise of practicing the inward/outward journey of faith is that we will learn how to rest in God's peace incrementally. It is not something we can purchase or consume or rush. Even after St. Paul's Damascus Road experience - where he encountered the risen Christ confessionally, he was struck blind by grace so that he might own his need for human compassion from his one-time enemies - and still needed another three years after that for solitude and training in the desert before he was mature enough to go public. My working hunch is that I should not expect better than Paul. 

Jesus and his first disciples, including St. Mary Magdalene, taught that we start as children in this journey: "Unless you change and become as a child, you shall never enter the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 18: 3) Note that the word change - strephó/στρέφω - means to twist or turn and alter our direction. It is akin to repent in that we're challenged to do an about face. Quit trying to be in charge and learn to trust living into the grace of God inside and out. St. Peter articulated this in his first pastoral letter:

Rid yourselves, therefore, of all malice, and all guile, insincerity, envy, and all slander. Like newborn infants, long for the pure, spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow into salvation (that is healthy and holy living.)

The 12 Step folk teach that we should "fake it till we make it." We can act like spiritual adults even when we're mere adolescents. We can stop reacting to our grudges when we feel life revenge. We can practice acceptance when we want to fight. And we can be quiet when everything inside us wants to rage and sputter. With enough time, encouragement, and quiet, we slowly discover that we are living beyond malice, insincerity, envy, and all the rest.  At least that's what I continue to learn with my limited experience.  

I was thinking about this challenge yesterday in the garden: how easily I can be distracted by entertainment and how valuable it is for me to step back and into the garden. In the quiet, I can  recall some of the ways these distractions derail me. And the more I realize where I am likely to get lost, the better prepared I am to step away and do an about face. But I have to anticipate and nourish such a change because it is clearly the road less traveled. The narrow gate that I can so easily miss. 

One of my garden practices is to consciously, creatively, prayerfully, poetically, and practically wonder about how I can: a) care for the earth with this garden; b) care for other people; c) give back to creation some of her abundance; and d) pace myself. These four touchstones come from Jessi Bloom's workbook, Everyday Sanctuary: Designing a Sacred Garden Space. Embracing her suggestions has lead me to start learning about the soil in our garden. To be honest, I have rarely thought about dirt - especially the soil in my garden. This year, without much forethought, I dug two mini-terraces, pulled out most of the weeds, and planted cukes, tomatoes, and a few pumpkins. The soil, however, was weak - and my pumpkins not only got a white mold, but yielded only one little pumpkin after four months - something was off. And now I am discovering the need to test the soil, help it become richer, add compost and fertilizer, and figure out a new watering system. Our soil wants to support abundance, but it needs me to be a good steward. An educated steward. A mature steward, too. All of which comes with grace and God's own time. I like Bloom's closing point about pacing:

It's not just about the end goal, but also about how we get there. The approach we use is just as important as the end product. We want to acknowledge that any transition takes time. We are not going to change overnight from stressed-out urban dwellers to perfectly balanced begins who incorporate nature's gifts into our daily routines. We must be patient and gentle with ourselves as we engage the question of how to find everyday sanctuary and as we form new, healthier habits in our lives. Building our sanctuary space and practices may take a period of years and is best understood as an ongoing journey towards wellness.

Towards salvation a la St. Peter. Towards maturity in the words of Jesus and St. Paul. This garden, like my soul, is a slow moving work in progress. That is one of the other gifts I am finding in the soil: with enough time, love, and attention it can regain its ability to produce bounty in an abundance that is truly holy. Just as God intended. I was introduced to this poem by the late Mary Oliver yesterday, too and it deepens my devotion.

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

watch out for... the trap door!

In 1982, T Bone Burnett released a small vinyl record, an EP (extended play) as they say, entitled: Trap Door. It remains one of my all time favorite rock n roll records. With just six songs, Trap Door explores love, death, faith, humility, consumer culture, and poetry in a sleek 22 minutes. As one fan wrote: "there isn't a weak moment, note, beat or word" on it. I agree. My two favs include: "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend," and "Trap Door."

"Diamonds..." is pitch perfect in every way: it rocks, it laughs, it critiques sexist culture from the inside, AND you can dance to it. Critic Robert Christgau put Burnett in the rockabilly mold but that's too limited. Listen to the edge and pathos in his voice on verse two - it is particularly powerful:

There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

There may be a time when a hard boiled employer
Thinks you're awful niceBut get that ice or else no dice.

He's your guy when stocks are high,But beware when they start to descend

It's then that those louses go back to their spouses
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.
Diamonds are a girl's best friend

Every song is a winner, but my other favorite is Burnett's reflection on real life spirituality: "Trap Door." Long before I knew much about paradox, both/and or incarnational mysticism, I dug this song's honesty. It opens with a one note punch, three plopped descending bass notes - repeat - and then these brilliant lyrics: 

It's a funny thing about humility
As soon as you know you're being humble
You're no longer humble
It's a funny thing about life
You've got to give up your life
To be alive
You've got to suffer to know compassion
You can't want nothing if you want satisfaction
Tonight the world looks like a different place
Tonight the moon is turning in its place
Tonight we find ourselves alone at last
Watch out for the trap door
Watch out for the trap door

I don't know a better song about living into God's grace than this one: it is part spiritual direction, part tongue-in-cheek confession, part rave and part rant. And it, too comes in at just over 4 minutes. It is the finest rock and roll sermon on spirituality I know. There are other masters: Bruce Springsteen, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklyn, U2, Bruce Cockburn, The Police, Arcade Fire, Nirvana, Joan Osborne, Lou Reed, Laura Nyro, Nina Simone, Paul Simon, Carrie Newcomer, John Hyatt and others. But I submit to you that Burnett cuts to the chase better than everyone else when it comes to the intersection of faith, ethics and flesh and blood incarnation. He is a genius.

ora et labora: a long obedience in the same direction...

It is exhilarating to see the hundreds of thousands of people all across creation turning out for the Climate Strikes. This is a kairos moment and change is in the air. Walter Brueggemann, wise and able scholar of the Hebrew Bible from my tradition, teaches that after God's prophets call us beyond denial into lament - and we embrace that season of grief and emptiness with heart, soul, mind and flesh - there comes a time when sacred creativity fills the human imagination with new possibilities. New songs. New visions of justice, tenderness, and solidarity. These are holy gifts beyond our ability - inspiration and possibilities poured into our emptiness by the One who is Holy - and they are staggering to behold. 

After exile and collapse, ancient Israel's prophet Isaiah shared a word of the Lord with the people: "For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind." (Is 65: 17) In the midst of an other generation saturated by violence and oppressed by the Roman Empire, my own Christian tradition heard the prophetic blessing of God in their own tongue as John of Patmos discerned what the Spirit was saying to the churches:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying:“See, the home of God is among humanity. God will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; and he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away... and God is making all things new.” (Rev. 21: 1-5)

Who could have imagined last year that an adolescent girl with Asperger's would give shape and form to our collective emptiness and fear as she called creation into repentance? It is an expression of our deepest hunger meeting our truest self in public. Of course this holy energy must be focused: without channeling it into disciplined and deliberate acts of political engagement, this opportunity will be squandered. Social change is bound by the same wisdom that governs the pursuit of spiritual equilibrium: it must move beyond feelings. The late Eugene Peterson is insightful when he notes:

We live in what one writer has called the "age of sensation."' We think that if we don't feel something there can be no authenticity in doing it. But the wisdom of God says something different: that we can act ourselves into a new way of feeling much quicker than we can feel ourselves into a new way of acting. Worship is (one) act that develops feelings for God, not a feeling for God that is expressed in an act of worship. When we obey the command to praise God in worship, our deep, essential need to be in relationship with God is nurtured...

Feelings are great liars. If Christians worshiped only when they felt like it, there would be precious little worship. Feelings are important in many areas but completely unreliable in matters of faith.

I believe this is true in matters of social change, too. Richard Rohr expressed it like this in this morning's reflection: "There is no secret moral command for knowing or pleasing God, or what some call “salvation,” beyond becoming a loving person in mind, heart, body, and soul. Then you will see what you need to see. Jesus did not say, “Be right.” Jesus said, “Be in love.” We are invited to be focused on love. Be disciplined in love. Learn to live beyond mere sensation into the discipline of love.

For me to be faithful in love, I am learning that I must train my body and my spirit. The Benedictine tradition speaks of ora et labora - prayer and work - the practice of mixing physical labor with personal and corporate prayer as well as hospitality. Benedict recognized the mind/body/spirit nexus long before holistic health was ever imagined. Training the body as well as the soul in the ways of disciplined love becomes an integrated spirituality. And what I have been discovering this past year is that one of the gifts of regularly working in the yard is an extended time of silence. Or, more truthfully, quiet. I am finding that quiet time plus physical labor is essential for my heart, mind and body to grow into communion, harmon,y and rest within God's grace. 

I have read about this for years - but never really practiced it - and then quickly forget about it. Most of my life has been lived as an intellectual, too. And as one who is clearly lodged in the thinking sector of the Enneagram, moving out of my head hasn't been easy. Consequently, I have neglected doing a lot of physical labor. Cutting the grass and hauling some snow, to be sure, but until recently these were chores rather ways to nourishing my commitment to love. Small wonder that Eugene Peterson speaks of "a long obedience in the same direction." Like flowing water over a stone, a life time of work, prayer, and engagement smooths down some of our rough edges. I have quite a ways to go because I can easily slip into fits of anxiety. But now that I get how important physical labor is in connecting me to God's first word in nature, the extended silence is like being in a natural monastery. In this, Peterson was right:

Every day, I decide to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily - open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving - daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride... There is a great market for religious experience in our world; there is little enthusiasm for the patient acquisition of virtue, little inclination to sign up for a long apprenticeship in what earlier generations of Christians called holiness. (Eugene H. Peterson, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction: Discipleship in an Instant Society)

Today I pulled weeds, cut grass, and started to map out where a new terrace will be built for next year. This year's terraces will need rebar reinforcements and more concrete blocks to keep everything in place. And a LOT of work needs to be done to improve the quality of our soil. Thanks be to God that I am slowly learning how to do this work so that then we can then let the quiet and hidden work of winter do its part so that this old land might bear fruit again come next July.

creating ears to hear...

Thank God blessings show up in the most unexpected places! In the last month alone I have reconnected with a few wonderful souls through Linked-in. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought of this site as a source of renewal, joy, or prayer. But it is. First, the mother of a child I baptized over 30 years ago was in touch with me  to tell me of her son's development in life; second, a father in France spontaneously sent me words of encouragement recalling the short time we shared during the baptism of his three children; and then a young woman, the granddaughter of a beloved member of my Cleveland congregation, was in touch in anticipation of some important changes in her professional life. Each message - and our follow-up - opened my heart in unexpected ways. Each person awakened in me a deeper awareness of God's guidance during my time of pastoral ministry. And each encounter revealed to us how the gift of God's  love and grace ripens over time. When person number three reached out to me, I laughed as myself saying: What do I really know about the ways of the sacred, right? 

Two biblical texts keep returning within to teach me that there are no limitations to the grace of God. Take chapter 38 in the book of Job where the One who is Holy says to the bewildered Job:

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind: Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements—surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? On what were its bases sunk, or who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?
Or consider what Jesus said to his friends in chapter 13 of St. Matthew's gospel:

Let those who have ears to hear, hear! (Or listen!) The disciples came and asked Jesus, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” He answered, “To you it has been given to know the secrets (or mystery) of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.’ With them indeed is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah that says: ‘You will indeed listen, but never understand, and you will indeed look, but never perceive. For this people’s heart has grown dull, and their ears are hard of hearing, and they have shut their eyes; so that they might not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and understand with their heart and turn - that is, change direction/repent - and I would heal them.’ But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear.

Both are poetic reminders that whenever we put boxes around the divine, we not only cut ourselves off from the enormity of God's love, but we circumscribe our ability to live into awe and wonder. To have ears that hear and eyes that see is to recognize and trust that all of creation is saturated in grace. The late Eugene Peterson unpacks this wisely in, Working the Angles: the Shape of Pastoral Integrity, using Psalm 40:6. He writes: It literally reads: "ears thou hast dug for me."

It is puzzling that no translator renders the sentence into English just that way. They all prefer to paraphrase at this point, presenting the meaning adequately but losing the metaphor: "Thou has given me an open ear." But to lose the metaphor in this instance is not be countenanced; the Hebrew verb is "dug." Imagine a human head with no ears. A blockhead. Eyes, nose, and mouth, but no ears. Where the ears are usually found there is only a smooth, impenetrable surface, granitic bone. God speaks. No response. The metaphor occurs in the context of a bustling religious activity deaf to the voice of God: "sacrifice and offering Thou dost not desire... burnt offering and sin offering."How did these people know about these offerings and how to make them? They had read the prescriptions in Exodus and Leviticus and followed instructions. They had become religious. Their eyes read the words on the Torah page and rituals were formed. They had read the Scripture words accurately and gotten the ritual right... But there must be something more involved than following directions for unblemished animals, a stone altar, and a sacrificial fire. And there is: God is speaking and must be listened to. But what good is a speaking God without listening human ears? So God gets a pick and shovel and digs through the cranial granite, opening a passage that will give access tot he interior depths, into the mind and heart... with the result being a restorations of Scripture: eyes turn into ears. (Working the Angles, pp. 101-102)

The ability to hear and trust the holy from the inside out requires an encounter with the living Word or Presence of God. Without it, our spirituality is mere formalism. True hearing asks us to practice listening for the sacred in the ordinary as well praying for a regular renewal of intimacy with the Lord lest our laziness inure us to the noise, clutter, and distractions that fill each day. Ours is a culture that never shuts up. Silence is almost unheard of in our public realm. We are constantly bombarded with sounds - TVs blasting sports or news in the places we eat, gasoline pumps with mini-televisions hawking a variety of trinkets, taxi cabs broadcasting the latest Jimmy Kimmel episode, stores filled with a soft-rock soundtracks - and this noise trains us not to pay attention. We learn to practice acknowledging sounds without meaning. We cultivate a willful disregard for listening in the upside-down discipleship of inattention. Add FB, emails, and Twitter into the mix and the barrage of noise and words becomes relentless. 

Sadly, I believe this inattention nourishes both callous cynicism and compassion fatigue. Not only do we feel helpless given the magnitude of  global suffering, but we incrementally lose our willingness to pay attention to those lives we can touch with tenderness. Noise and social frenzy push us into isolation. Fear. My hunch is that the popularity of zombie television programming over the past decade is one cultural manifestation of our isolation and loss of spiritual hearing. Some of us feel like the walking dead. Others are terrified of the un-dead in our presence who seem to go through the motions of human existence without any obvious connection to life, love, or hope. And our friends, neighbors and loved ones who have become zombiefied by our fast and easy access to opioids and methamphetamines? The walking dead are everywhere.

We were created in the image of the holy. When we have ears to hear and eyes to see, there is a sacred harmony within and among us. Whenever we lose this gift, our inclinations and actions lead to unnatural death. Cynthia Bourgeault puts it like this in The Wisdom Way of Knowing:

If we were to take a snapshot of present-day America from the imaginal or inner-visionary standpoint, looking not at the deeds themselves but at the quality of energy they generate, what we would see might be a sobering picture. When we lock up our homes and become obsessed with personal safety, we are generating fear. When we bulldoze farmlands and forests to build tract housing and strip malls, we are generating greed. When we fill the planet with sixty-hour workweeks and destroy family harmony to make big-bucks, we are generating stress. These psychic toxins poured into the imaginal world quickly make their effects known in the sensible realm. It is clear that the real pollution of our environment is not just at the psychical level - the destruction of the forests, global warming, industrial and nuclear waste - but at the psychoenergetic level as well. We poison the well from which our being flows and then wonder why cancer has reached near-epidemic proportions. Tragically, it is often the most sensitive and most cosmically attuned individuals who sicken and die. (pp. 57-58)

She concludes - as do I - that once we lived with a measure of balance. But "as we race into the twenty-first century, having thrown out most of those old rules (and practices) in the quest for individual maximazation, we must now regain the balance in the only way possible: consciously and voluntarily" learning to see, hear and feel again as we "assume our part."  For me this begins with silence. Stepping out of the maelstrom of information,clutter, and noise for a few moments each day in order that I might NOT hear for a spell. Not be manipulated or desensitized. Not plugged into the consumption machines that rule our culture and compromise our souls. The late Fred Rogers taught this to us regularly on TV. Another mystical master, Thomas a Kempis, put it like this in a little book called The Imitation of Christ:

Blessed are those ears which hear the secret
Whisperings of Jesus,
And give no heed to the
Deceitful whisperings of this world,
And blessed are the good, plain ears which heed
Not outward speech but what God speaks and
Teaches inwardly in the soul.

The necessity of unplugging hit me hard yesterday when news came that the US House of Representatives was going to start an inquiry into the impeachment of the current regime. Unwisely, I broke a two year commitment, and turned on network news only to be assaulted with spin and deceit. Not so much by the actual newscasters, although they can't help fuel the fire of disagreement in the age of infomercials, but by the way each and all of the political players postured for the public. After about 15 minutes, I had to shut the damn thing off and just go on-line to read Ms. Pelosi's statement. The words of Beth Ferris on the Friends of Silence website came to me: "Then there is the listening at the gates of the heart which has been closed for so long, and waiting for that mysterious inner voice to speak. When we hear it, we know it is the Truth to which we must now surrender our lives." (https://friendsofsilence.net) There was no heart on CNN. Or MSNBC. Or Fox. Just more noise and distraction. To have ears that can hear, eyes that can see, and hearts that can feel our commonality demands silence. 

One of my guides into the practice of silence continues to be Henri Nouwen. "Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning," he wrote, "that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure." Silence helps us listen to God's truth within us.

The real "work" of prayer is to become silent and listen to the voice that says good things about me. To gently push aside and silence the many voices that question my goodness and to trust that I will hear the voice of blessing that demands real effort.

Inner silence also helps us become friends to those in need. "The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing...that is a friend who cares." Later today a colleague and friend has asked me to visit for a conversation about vocation. Silence is teaching me how to sit and listen without offering advice. Or making the encounter about me and my experiences. My prayer for today is to be still... and know.

resting in wonder...

NOTE: Having just returned from my community in L'Arche Ottawa for the wedding celebration of H and R - as well as an evening of conversation re: forgiveness - I am full to overflowing. This reflection started a week ago, but rings evermore true today.

"..and you shall rest in wonder." In the on-going, on-line wisdom school course I
am currently engaging as my study-contemplation practice for the fall season, a verse from the Gospel of Thomas spoke to me deeply. It comes from a variation on a koan Jesus shared: "seek and ye shall find." The way Thomas tells it, however, the deeper intent for real life comes into focus: we seek when we must, what we find is often unsettling, but rest comes to us when we allow wonder to be the lens through which we see reality. In this, the holy and the human embrace. The gospel of Thomas makes clear that: our obsession with control is a trap, our perspective must be turned upside-down before we are willing trust God profoundly, and our hearts and minds will be broken so that learn to surrender or relinquish to a love greater than our imagination. That certainly has been my experience: fear, disorientation, and turmoil all came before peace. Peggy Faye and Susan Gale write in Indigo Children: 

People get blocked by living: hurrying and consuming things of no value thinking this is life. Real life is from a point within that radiates out to the world, a point within filled with serenity and assurance that we are loved, that we have a role to play in this world...This is the center of the real self, the best place to be. If you can live from this place, you will be Love's messenger. (https://friendsofsilence.net)

Finding our center isn't easy. Nor automatic.  Shedding incidentals, letting go of tricks that used to work but have now outlived their usefulness, and forsaking cultural distractions takes time. And courage. And patience. Surrender is painful. How did Jesus put it: "Very truly I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But in its death, it can bear much fruit." (John 12) I suspect Thomas Merton was creatively playing with this text and others when he wrote that "true freedom" is: "a little kernel of gold (within) which is the essence of you." Discarding the anxiety of Augustine's doctrine of original sin, Merton knew that this kernel of gold (or eternal diamond) is "what we might call the name of God we truly bear, or the inmost quality of our own aliveness." (Bourgeault, Wisdom Way of Knowing, p. 77)

Our real freedom is to be able to come and go from that center, and to be able to do without anything that is not immediately connected to that center. Because when you die, that is all that is left. When we die, everything is destroyed except for this one thing, which is our reality, and which is the reality that God preservers forever...the freedom that matters is the capacity to be in touch with that center. Because it is from that center that everything else comes. (Merton in Bourgeault, p. 77)

This is the pearl of great price. The treasure hidden in the field. The heart of our being that costs our life so that we might grasp, trust, honor, and embrace a new life saturated with grace. Bourgeault adds an important insight: Too often "in our usual way of looking at things we... equate originality with our uniqueness." That is, we confuse our passions for God's will. The often wise Joseph Campbell popularized this mistake, advising us to "follow our bliss." Go where we sense our feelings calling us and we will know peace. But feelings are not the whole truth. They are clues, but rarely the whole story.  Our emotions need evaluation as well as guidance before they can reveal the sacred. Frederick Buechner cut through pop psychology and spoke true wisdom when he wrote that our calling in life is "the place where our deepest gladness meets the world's greatest need." This is the marriage of heaven and earth, the integration of the holy with the human, the mysterious and gracious encounter with joy the ancient Psalmist celebrated in song: "Mercy and truth are met together; justice and peace have kissed each other." (Psalm 85) Calling as wonder embracing compassion carries beyond self-gratification to awe.

But this is always unsettling - especially in a consumer culture. We have been trained by the masters of manipulation and marketing to believe that originality, yea our very life's purpose, is to be unique. Special. Yet "what passes for 'originality' in art and culture today," Bourgeault writes, "is simply (our) trying to be different - making a statement for its own sake."

The actual meaning of the word original... doesn't mean trying to be different. It means being connected to the origin. You can't be original by trying to be original. You become original by staying true to what your heart sees. (Wisdom, p. 87)

This, too is unsettling. The Wisdom traditions of all spiritualities differentiate between the heart as the center of our emotions and the heart as the calm core of being that integrates body, mind, and soul beyond feelings. The heart is "not our subjective experiences (with their) personal and emotional reactions to everything," but that place within that can hold paradox - both/and instead of binary either/or - "without needing to resolve, close down, or protect oneself from the pain that ambiguity always brings." (Bourgeault, p. 35)

For this is how we arrive at rest: when we are able to trust life through the lens of awe. Wonder. Mystery. Bourgeault recalls a time for us when all we could do is weep. A season when grief consumed us and our world seemed steeped in sorrow. And then, suddenly, when our tears are complete, we looked up and saw the stars. Or the sun. Or heard the sound of a friend's music. Or saw the snow. Or our dog. Or cat. Or a flock of wild geese. Or sand hill cranes. And at once we were at peace, in communion with what has always been and always will be. Yet nothing had changed except, of course, our own capacity to trust grace. To live within a deeper and larger vessel, one guided by wonder and love.

The deeper I trust, the more the old borders that once gave me order loose their significance. I know from my own tears, too - and the aftermath of my weeping - that relinquishing old certainties can be exhausting. Essential, to be sure, but still terrifying. When I am falling through my fear it always feels endless. But it never lasts. What's more, on the other side, in time I find more and more rest. This is, I suspect, part of what Jesus was getting at when he told us to seek when we must, trusting that we will be unsettled by the peace he gives because it is not the peace of this world.

Being in community this week was grounding: I had a small gift to share at the start of the ceremony and then I was free to settle into the rhythm of being together with those I love. This felt original in the truest sense of the word. At one point in the celebration, a L'Arche sacrament was shared as a candle was passed around the room of 150+ people and everyone was invited to offer a blessing. As I savored the variety of ways this diverse community lifted one another up, a few truths came into focus. First, in L'Arche it is foundational that we take the time - and create the respect and safety - for everyone present to participate as fully as they desire. There is no rushing when it comes to tending the soul of the community.  Yes, the wider world runs according to deadlines and this feast started on time. But built into this celebration was a gentle pacing so that we all were free to take the time we needed to express our love. And second, there was no "right" way to express this love. Some offered gestures. Some used words. Some took time, others were brief. Some were sung and some were silent. But each nourished the whole. Jesus was not kidding when he said: "The presence of God is very near. Very near indeed."

Imagine my surprise when the Bible reading for this ceremony was Mark 1: 44-46: "The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field... and when it was found the owner was filled with joy and sold all he had to claim it." Earlier in the week, one of the ffacilitators at the night of forgiveness said, "So often we miss what is truly important... but our vulnerability teaches us that it doesn't have to be this way." Life can be different. Life can be holy. Life can be embraced with awe and wonder. This doesn't erase or hide the pain. There is still suffering. And injustice to challenge. But like Bourgeault puts it at the close of one chapter in her wisdom book: it can be different, too:

Imagine what it might be life, for ourselves and for our planet, to taste (such) freedom.Rather than rushing around in exhaustion to exercise our "choices" in clothing, cars, jobs, and vacations, to maximize the selfhood that is illusory anyway, we would learn to give and take with life in the effortless freedom of inner authenticity. Rather than something to be defended, freedom would simply be something to be lived. But in living it fro that place of wholeness, allowing our individual authenticity to unfold from the whole life... we might also come to discover the music pouring through us is both richer and more universal that in our wildest imaginings.

chanting the psalms is like chanting OM

"When there is surrender," writes Cynthia Bourgeault, synchronicity tends to follow, which is one of the most delightful side effects of the a surrender practice." (Wisdom Way of Knowing, p. 74) By surrender Bourgeault is speaking of what others call acceptance, relinquishment or letting go. It is the spiritual, emotional, and physical commitment to move into reality as a death rather than fighting or offering resistance. Surrender, she continues:

Is the archetypal soul gesture. From a force greater than our own lives, we are made for this, and when we finally yield ourselves into it, we are born into a meaning that is never known as we simply struggle on the surface with our (small) reality.

It is a crossing over of sorts. I rather like her further description:

In any situation of life, confronted by an outer threat or opportunity, you can notice yourself responding inwardly in one of two ways. Either you will brace, harden, and resist, or you will soften, open, and yield. If you go with the former gesture, you will be catapulted immediately into your smaller self, with its animal instincts and survival responses. If you stay with the latter regardless of the outer conditions, you will remain in alignment with your innermost being, and through it, divine being can reach you. Spiritual practice at its no-frills simplest is a moment-by-moment learning not to do anything in a state of internal brace. Bracing is never worth the cost.

Last night, participating in a small group at L'Arche Ottawa interested in the way of Marshall Rosenberg's "compassionate communication," we spoke, thought, listened, moved and sang our desires for peace and forgiveness. During one of the opening chants, we sang the Greek vowels. Each sound corresponds to a chakra, an energy center in our flesh, that can be open or blocked. As we sang I kept thinking that just the night before, during Bourgeault's talk in the wisdom school, she shared that something comparable happens in the Benedictine tradition of chanting the psalms. Singing these prayer songs in Latin, with their wide and open vowels, replicates the heart, sound and intention of the eternal prayer: "Om." Last night at L'Arche, as we practiced feeling and hearing where the sounds come from in our bodies, I felt myself supported by a Spirit of peace. It was as if we had become one sound, one body, for just a moment in time, all connected to a larger love that has been loving creation since before there was time.

journeying through the mountains in fall...

We are travelling slowly by car north through mountains and forests towards Ottawa. For me, this is the best season to be on the road: the maple trees are turning red, the oaks are becoming brown, the birch boughs are yellow, while the pines remain ever green. The farm fields are flat after yielding their late summer corn and the apple orchards are ripe and ready for picking, too. The sun at twilight rests low in the sky, its angle casting long shadows as well as warm, amber rays everywhere. It is glorious.

In some of these hill towns there was the first frost last night. And it won't be long before some see snow. A few years back, we had a blizzard on October 1. It was rare and that may have added to the serenity it brought as business and
 schools shut down, the roads remained empty, and silence ruled the day. We took Lucie for a long walk  through the wetlands and woods so she, like those who wait upon the Lord, could "run and not be weary, walk and not be faint." (Isaiah 40:31) For most of this trip, however, we'll be basking in the warm, late summer sun of September as it moves towards the autumnal equinox on Saturday.

The more I listen for the prayer cues from God's first word - creation itself - the more grounded I feel. My cousins in Judaism are preparing to greet the New Year with the High Holy Days - and these ceremonies and prayers ring true to the mood that abounds at this time of year. My Christian tradition used to honor this seasonal shift too with the Feast Day of Michaelmas the Archangel. It takes place on the cross quarter day of fall in the Northern Hemisphere when both day and night are the same length. The sun is half way between the solstices. Darkness grows. The harvest ripens. Shadows lengthen. Change is palpable as
evenings cool. According to the ancient archetypal tradition, the Archangel is doing battle against Satan for the soul of the church. The feast day's proximity to the end of autumn harvest helps link the abundance of God's grace above and the bounty of earth's blessings below.

These days, however, most Christians are too busy to notice Michaelmas: it is barely mid-September and Halloween paraphernalia clogs the stores before they're littered with Christmas glitter. These long drives to Ottawa are cleansing both for my eyes as well as my soul. Rather than feel overwhelmed by the gllitz I get to look upon the land - and it tells a very different story. The land speaks of cycles and trust, it articulates a rhythm through size and color, it rises and falls, grows and rests only to start again. The Reverend Dr. Cynthia Bourgeault has noted that creation's journey from darkness into light back into mystery is mirrored by the prayer/work life of traditional monasteries. The day begins with boldness - a psalm of celebration - in a typically masculine Yang chant; but closes with the Magnificat of Mary - a tender Yin song to re-enter the stillness. Living close to the land reinforces this ebb and flow and invites a respect for the way we interact with the land as well as the way we spend our energy.

We human beings are the consummate artisans of energy. It is our cosmic role, and we wield it whether we like it or not. But most of the time we wield it unconsciously and destructively, thinking we are doing something else and unaware of the delicate homeostasis by which the visible and invisible worlds are held in harmony. If we were to take a snapshot of present day America, from the imaginal or inner-visionary standpoint, looking not at the deeds themselves, but at the quality of energy they generate, what we would see might be a sobering picture. When we lock up our homes and become obsessed with personal safety, we are generating "fear." When we bulldoze farmlands and forests to build tract housing and strip malls, we are generating "greed." When we fill the planet with sixty-hour workweeks and destroy family harmony to make big bucks, we are generating "stress." These psychic toxins poured into the imaginal world quick make their effects known in the sensible realm. It is clear that the real pollution of our environment is not just at the psychical level - the destruction of the forest, global arming, industrial and nuclear waster - but at the psyoenergetic level as well. We poising the well from which our being flows and then wonder why cancer has reached near-epidemic proportions. Tragically, it often the most sensitive and most cosmically attuned individuals who sicken and die... We must now regain the balance in the only ways possible: consciously and voluntarily seeing and assuming our part in creation. ( Bouregault, The Wisdom Way of Knowing, pp. 57-58)

Beyond the beauty and meditative joy of this journey, we're heading to Ottawa to join with the L'Arche community in an evening of conversation and prayer concerning non-violent communication and forgiveness. Honest and clear acts of forgiveness are essential in community. Later in the week, we will gather again to celebrate the wedding of two beloved friends and colleagues. This too feels right at this time of year. In my smaller community of family, we will soon be celebrating Louie's sixth birthday on the Feast Day of St. Francis. Then we'll regroup again for a pumpkin festival. And when all the feasting and festivals are over, L'Arche Ottawa will leave for Taize, France and a pilgrimage of trust. When they return, it will be winter - time for deep reflection and waiting - and a new charism in God's grace.

meditation upon a challenging dog...

We are the proud owners of an anxious, stubborn and wounded dog: Lucie. She is a delight when left to herself save if there is thunder or an unexpected knock upon the door. Then all hell breaks loose in wave upon wave of worry. In our semi-rural solitude, however, Lucie is gentle. Klutzy and unaware of her own strength, to be sure, goofy and careless with her tail and gangly legs as well; but filled with an affectionate spirit that cancels out most everything else. She loves to snuggle. She thinks of herself as a lap dog (who just happens to weigh 70lbs.) She waits with childlike anticipation for me every morning to hug and then rub her ears. She loves to chase tennis balls through the wetlands. Or prance and play hide and go seek in the snow. She is a comedian, a companion, and a cherished member of our small family.

She is also stubborn. Let me say that again: Lucie is the most stubborn animal I have ever encountered. If she chooses not to listen - or obey - no amount of huffing, puffing, fuming, or shouting will change her course. If she doesn't want to be helpful, she's likely to willfully ignore all calls to the contrary. Exasperating is not too strong a word - and all the colorful language and volume in creation will not make a difference. It could be the appearance of an unexpected squirrel. Or the arrival of a young skunk under the deck. It might be a crow flying over head or simply the cascade of falling acorns from the oak. Whatever grabs her attention in that moment, derails every other plan. And she is so damn strong that if you are not prepared, she'll pull you over in the process adding pain to frustration.

Unlike our other pets, Lucie has remained immune to good training. Following the best protocols and habits of the Monks of New Skete, masters of effective dog training, Lucie ignored it all. Yes, she will sit or stay - especially if there is expensive cheddar cheese or a fresh baguette involved - and she will often go down upon command if my voice is vigorous enough. But only for a millisecond before she's offer to explore distractions of her own selection. It is not that she is mischievous or ill-tempered, mind you. Not at all. She is simply unable and often unwilling to focus. As a waitress who owns another dog from the same litter asked us a few years ago, "Is yours neurotic, too?" In spades, honey, in spades!

Please note that I have not yet mentioned what Lucie is like when overcome by anxiety or fear. In those times, she is a beast awash in terror. Not violent, but pure, unbridled, animal instinct. She could be aggressive if backed into a corner but her inclination towards flight is stronger than her will to fight. Once, when a loved one's dog was startled by Lucie's unexpected arrival and went for her throat, Lucie didn't back down. She could have mauled that smaller dog and done real damage. Thankfully we were able to pry them apart before too much destruction took place. It made clear just how powerful our dog can be if pushed too far. But mostly she just goes berserk, spinning around doing 360's on the lease in a frantic search for escape. Our daily constitutionals with her while on sabbatical in Montreal were unnerving as these escapades happened twice daily. The only short term solution, said a Quebecois dog trainer consultant, was to give her some beer 20 minutes before each walk. Like whisky on the gums of a teething infant back in the old days, this mild sedative was disorienting enough to let a walk in the park actually happen.

When Lucie goes wild, I get angry. And when it is in public, I am embarrassed, too. But here's the deal: so what. My feelings change nothing and often make things worse. So, in an upside-down way, Lucie has helped me practice being incrementally more patient. Practical, too, as we need to strategize ways for her to be out in the real world. It is anguishing to see how unglued she becomes. It is also sobering because there is nothing we can do to change or fix it. As they say the best we can do is to accept what is real - and deal with it with as much love as possible.

Thanks be to God she loves the women at our kennel. They love and understand her, too. It makes life easier knowing that when we have to be away, she is at least under the care of gentle spirits who know what she needs and give it to her. I still wish I could make her better. But I can't can't. How many times each day do I pray: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference?

sabbath ramblings: soaking in the sun before it escapes...

Today is the Sabbath in my tradition. Too often, the integrity of this holy day is discarded in Christianity. No longer is it a time for rest and reflection - a feast with family and friends as takes place among my observant Jewish friends that honors God's care of creation beyond our control - but rather a frenzied scramble to get to public worship before attacking the chores necessary to give our primary attention to the demands of a new week's work. It is totally back-ass-wards. A puny, hollow shell of its former majestic self. I know I usually violated the heart of Sabbath during my days of ministry - rushing around to get myself and family to church - and then quickly working the crowd after services so that I could get in at least one administrative meeting before lunch. I know I failed to imbue my children with a gracious Sabbath sensibility, too - a regret I will carry to my grave. The wise Abraham Joshua Heschel put it so well in his small text The Sabbath:

To gain control of the world of space is certainly one of our tasks. The danger begins when in gaining power in the realm of space we forfeit all aspirations in the realm of time. There is a realm of time where the goal is not to have but to be, not to own but to give, not to control but to share, not to subdue but to be in accord. Life goes wrong when the control of space, the acquisition of things of space, becomes our sole concern.... Gallantly, ceaselessly, quietly, (we) must fight for "inner liberty” to remain independent of the enslavement of the material world. Inner liberty depends upon being exempt from domination of things as well as from domination of people. There are many who have acquired a high degree of political and social liberty, but only very few are not enslaved to things. This is our constant problem—how to live with people and remain free, how to live with things and remain independent.

Twenty five years ago, Di and I started to reclaim the Sabbath for ourselves. We invited others in our congregations to join us as well without high expectations. In those early days, some church folk actually became belligerent and testy when I made it clear that on the Sabbath I wasn't going to do any work unless it was an emergency of mercy. That was, perhaps, my first encounter with how some react to healthy and holy boundaries: they see judgment when it is all about grace. Over time, however, we were able to find a Sabbath rhythm that worked for us more often than not. Today, after a leisurely simple breakfast on the deck, we chose to spend time with the Lord's first word - creation - and be in the garden and the yard. It was just too gorgeous outside to do otherwise.

We are slowly working through a workbook we found in Canada by Jessi Bloom entitled: Everyday Sanctuary - A Workbook for Designing a Sacred Garden Space. Right now we are experiencing two meditations: 1) Meeting the garden's spirit; and 2) Getting to know the land. I took two books out of the library yesterday to help me understand the native plants of New England and how to address various problems with our soil. It will be a multi-year prayer with bench marks throughout the seasons. As a part of this incarnational meditation, I have returned to another sacred text, Christopher Hill's brilliant Holidays and Holy Nights: Celebrating 12 Seasonal Festivals of the Christian Year. I worked my way through it last year, but only scratched the surface. His words resonated in my heart and mind as I cut huge boughs and hauled them back into the wetlands.

In summer we celebrate our at-homeness in the world. Michaelmas (in late September) balances that feeling. In autumn we feel our not-at-homeness, the sense of wanting something else, something we can't name. We feel like wayfaring strangers... Summer is static - in Latin, solstice means "the stationary sun." On summer days, time feels as if it stands still. The Divine is quite close, in the dark shining green of the leaves, the warm soil under our feat, the hum of the insects. Summer is a sacrament of natural harmony with God, when we can see that "fallen nature" is really only nature seen with fallen eyes... Autumn is not a dreaming time... In autumn, we fall from the dreaming paradise of summer back into the conflict of light and dark... and there are still people who hate and fear the coming of the dark. (p. 36)

In a week, the autumnal equinox will be here. The cross quarter day of fall - a time to own the shift in the sun - an invitation to prepare for the coming cold. And dark. And mystery. We are starting to prepare a fall and winter calendar for both our garden and home. It is another way of being embodied in time and place. Next week, we will also be back in Canada: first attending a workshop on nonviolent communication and forgiveness with the community of L'Arche Ottawa; and then celebrating the wedding of two beloved friends and colleagues at L'Arche. Indeed, as I look at the calendar, their ceremony will be on the Feast of Michelmas, the cross quarter day of autumn, halfway between the summer and winter solstice.

Soon I will prepare roast chicken, boiled potatoes with chives from the garden, and fresh native corn. It was a joyful, holy and restful autumn Sabbath.

living through our season of consequences: part two

NOTE: This is the second of a four part series re: alternatives to despair in this current dark age. Part one suggests that we are experiencing the necessary "season of consequences" - a time of grief and emptiness born of our history of greed, violence and dishonesty - so that we might be ready to receive the Lord's new song at a time of God's choosing. Part two recalls that in previous seasons of fear and despair, monastic communities have often served as places where the light and hope of love has been preserved. Part three explores how four practices from the old Celtic monasteries might have relevance for this moment in time. And part four seeks to link some of the insights of the spirituality of L'Arche to the healing of our wounded social order.

I have been drawn to monastic communities for over 40 years. I have actively participated in two ecumenical orders as a lay associate member - The Community of Celebration in Aliquippa, PA and the Community of Iona on the isle of Iona in Scotland - and one Roman Catholic community - the Little Brothers and Sisters of the Eucharist in Cleveland, OH. The spiritual, artistic and liturgical nourishment of the Taize Community of France has been profound. And I currently find myself called to live into a commitment of presence, service and love en route to membership in the community of L'Arche Ottawa. I have been nourished by the writing of Sr. Joan Chittister on the Benedictine tradition, regularly find solace and insight from Fr. Richard Rohr's work as he shares the Franciscan tradition with us in the Center for Action and Contemplation, trust the practices of Centering Prayer as taught by the late Fr. Thomas Keating of the Trappist realm, and been guided in Christian formation by the late Fr. Henri Nouwen, a diocesan priest from the Netherlands. 

The reason for cataloging this personal litany of monastic influences is two fold: first, it has been instructive for me to look backwards and recall the influences in my formation; and, second, it suggests that a road less traveled exists for others who also sense the charism of Christian monasticism in their lives but have not been called into the cloister. You see, while I grasped the importance of being connected to the monastic world, I also sensed that I needed to remain firmly planted within the Reformed church of my origins. Yes, sometimes it was begrudgingly. Many times with exasperation and pain, too. But I trust that Jesus was right when he called us to live as one people. Unlike many religious institutions, my take on his words from St. John's gospel go beyond outward distinctions and denominations. "In my father's mansion," Jesus taught, "there are many rooms." I don't hear a command for uniformity here, but rather an invitation to treasure diversity and plurality knowing that we all flow from the same source. 

By the fickleness of fate, I sprang from parents who came from Irish Anglo-Catholic and Scottish Unitarian stock. In time they found a compromise and settled into New England Congregationalism as the shared expression of their faith. My father also desired to sing in a good choir - and this, too shaped my early formation. When I came of age, it made sense to make the best of their choices. So, like Fr. Thomas Merton advised, I chose to grow where I had been planted. As an adolescent, Vatican II Prpotestant with an inclination towards mysticism, my journey became radically ecumenical. And then monastic. Over the past twenty years, it has also grown to honor the interfaith sensibilities of treasured sisters and brothers in the Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist worlds who have patiently pointed me towards the radical unity of God's love. Like the poet Tagore, I now believe that:    

The same stream of life that runs through the world runs through my veins night and day and dances in rhythmic measure. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the Earth into the numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of flowers.

What does any of this have to do with constructing viable alternatives to the inevitable despair that arises from our seasons of consequences? (See my posting from September 12, 2019 @ https:// rjwhenlovecomestotown.blogspot.com/ 2019/09/living -through-our-season-of.html) My hunch is that the practices of the early Celtic monasteries offer a model for what small outposts of safety, wisdom, acceptance, creativity and inner renewal might look like within this present darkness. As they did for Europe in the Middle Ages, I trust that wildly eclectic, inclusive 21st century interfaith communities of spirit and solidarity possess the potential to equip us with just the resources necessary to endure - and even recreate - Western culture on the other side of our despair. Cynthia Bourgeault put it like this:

... (We are) at a particularly dangerous (moment) in our contemporary world, which now has the capacity to end itself either in a violent Armageddon or in the slower but no less lethal route of systematically poisoning our planetary environment. As we wander in a perpetual
spiritual adolescence, attempting to fill the hunger in our hearts with our needs rather than the divine need, creation itself pays the price...(Yet it is always true) that we humans have a part to play and that everything in heaven and earth depends on our playing it wisely and well. (The Wisdom Way of Knowing, p. 43)

To paraphrase Bourgeault, we can learn again from the old ways how to live as "low maintenance human beings" - contemporary and compassionate adults - treasuring humility and flexibility as we live into God's call to care for one another and creation with tenderness. The medieval Celtic monasteries once shared four unique gifts with their era: Today those gifts hold profound possibilities for our own. As these creative communities of faith became living outposts of safety, hospitality, spirituality, and the reservoirs of creativity and culture, the goodness of creation was persevered.