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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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