do a few things but do them well...

Today was given over to setting up my study/music room to make better sounds during my live-streaming gigs. I think I am making progress.

I am so NOT a techie/gear-head that this is all a work in progress for me. Don't get me wrong, I value my techie mates. They help me solve tons of problems and give me up-to-the-minute details on how to make things work better. And, without reservation, I listen to them. But unlike some musicians, I have never been fascinated with gear. What I love is playing live music with folk who are both tender-hearted and good musicians. Everything else - and I mean every thing else - is incidental. So long as I have adequate equipment, I am ready, willing and able to go anywhere (excepting this time of self-quarantine) to play kick-out-the-jam songs of joy, faith, hope, and love in a variety of styles.

After seven live-streaming broadcasts on Face Book (check them out at my spiritual direction site on FB @ https://www.facebook.com/Be-Still-and-Know-913217865701531/) it is clear that I need to fix something when I use music. As best I can tell, I need to change the electronic signals so that the sounds that come through go beyond compressed, underwater tones. My very modest, small equalizer and direct box should do the trick. I also have a new condenser mic that is scheduled to arrive early next week, too. It may be time to bring out my old Rickenbacker and plug it in as well seeing that my Martin does not have a built-in pick-up. I figure that over the next few weeks I'll workout the bugs in the transmission of music and then assess how it is going. After all, when this live-streaming gig transitioned from helping out a local church into something like a "post ministry" forum for contemplative reflection, I remained committed to being old school. I know various podcasts go high-tech - and more power to those who want to go down that road. My interests are more modest. I want to communicate some foundational concepts, poems and songs about this moment in time from a faith perspective. I really have no interest in the whistles and bells that are available: this is a time for essentials. Like Donovan sang in the spirit of St. Francis: do few things but do them well, take your time go slowly...

Before taking this on, you see, I prayed and talked to a few folk about whether or not this was just a vanity project. It very well could be, right? An old guy who has retired from ministry blah, blah, blah... But what kept bubbling to the surface in my critique was this: it is going to be a few years before live music is going to be viable again. Same for a variety of public gatherings including worship. So during this season of uncertainty and searching, why not offer a calm perspective concerning how tenderness might be a part of the world we want to create on the other side of our solitude? Why not offer some of the spiritual insights of the contemplative tradition for those looking for ways to go deeper right now? It is really the only gift I have to offer others beyond doing the house cleaning and cooking these days - which I love - so while I still can... why not? I have been grateful to hear from you that what I have been sharing resonates. One of Carrie Newcomer's poems, "Remembering," puts it like this.

I am remembering
My unbroken self,
Which understands that silence
Can be considered an absence of sound
Or experienced as a fullness of spirit.

I a remembering
That all is vanity in the end,
Except for the love that tumbles out of us,
Or shines down upon us,
In fleeting, glowing moments.
I am remembering
My own wholeness, 
The perfect soul I was born with,
Answer my long endeavors to name the unnameable,
And describe what I know only from the corner of my eyes.

I am remembering a lifetime of trying to map
The shape of shadow and light,
To draw the clean edges of change.
And what has made me an oddity
Asked me to live far more closely
To the center of all that awe and ache.

I am remembering my promise,
My willing decision to stand
In a shaft of January light,
Fascinated by the shimmer of the dust,
Suspended in a quiet room,
And how the light travels across the floor,
As a short day lengthens,
Reaching out like hands,
Covering the wood planks like spilled water.

Now that this work is done, I will watch the PBS news for a spell and pray over the blessings and wounds that it reveals. I'll cook up some pork chops, potatoes and vegetables for Dianne and myself - and watch a BBC mystery before bed. Tomorrow I'll write for the Sunday live-streaming gathering, Skype with my loved ones in Brooklyn, and share a short reflection and a few songs with my L'Arche community in Ottawa. Later, there will be bills to pay on-line, dinner to cook again, and if the weather cooperates some garden work to be done outside over the weekend. 

exploring a spirituality of tenderness...

During the days between Easter 2020 and Pentecost - April 12 and May 31 - my live-streaming focus will be grounded in a spirituality of tenderness. (NOTE: you can join me at my spiritual direction Face Book page, Be Still and Know, on Sundays @ 9:55 am. Please go to: https://www. facebook.com/Be-Still-and-Know-913217865701531/)

My articulation of this spirituality is a work in progress, a way of being, thinking, praying and living that I have been consciously nurturing for the past five years. In reality, it has always been the song of my heart. In these later days, however, it has found shape and form through what is best defined as tenderness. It is contemplative and mystical as well as counter-cultural and small. It is my deepest longing and one I am not very good at incarnating. It is informed by the alternative and generous orthodoxies of Richard Rohr, Henri Nouwen, Frederick Beuchner, Cynthia Bourgeault, Jean Vanier, Joan Chittister, Ernest Kurtz, St. Francis and St. Clare, St. Paul (in his humility), Rumi, Kathleen Norris, Mary Oliver, James Carroll, Walter Brueggemann, Robert Wicks, Edward Hays, Leonard Cohen, George Harrison, Aretha Franklyn, Marvin Gaye, Paul Simon, Carrie Newcomer, Bruce Springsteen, Joni Mitchell, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Miles Davis, Robert Bly, James Hillman, Clarence Jordan, Holly Whitcomb, Abraham Heschel, Ellie Wiesel, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Reinhold Niebuhr, Dorothee Soelle, George Macleod, Elizabeth O'Connor, Padraig O Tuama, Krista Tippett, Wendell Berry, Parker Palmer, Paul Tillich, Phyllis Tribble, Cornel West, James Washington, MLK, my daughters (JLP/MCL), Dianne de Mott, Ray Swartzback, Sam Fogal, Tom Dipko, Harvey Cox, Christine Valters Paintner, Bob Franke, and Patti Smith. 

It is my growing conviction that as our old order dies out - and a new way of being together struggles to be born - people of profound tenderness must claim a place at the decision-making tables - and be out in the streets, too. This is a time like no other: it is a season where compassion and solidarity are essential. A great awakening beyond bottom-line goals and consumption without consequences is taking place. And while this spirituality of tenderness, of course, is not the only way of living into the new world order. That would be contradictory and arrogant - the antithesis of this small and quiet way - the polar opposite of the foolishness of Christ. Yet, I believe it still has its place...
Perhaps you can join me for this encounter and exploration? I would value your wisdom and presence.

gardening, sunshine, grieving and reality in this season of contagion...

Ah, joy of joys: I got to spend an hour outside in the cool sunshine raking leaves! Its past time to take stock of the garden terrace so this morning was joy upon joy. Last year, when I built our first two terraces and stone walk, it was all beginner's mind - with lots of time spent learning, unlearning, and rebuilding. It was also the first year in thirteen that I took the time to get to know the land with which we share a home. I cut back the bramble and grapevine to reclaim 10 feet of soil. I used cast off wood from our deck repairs to fashion our vegetable terraces. And Di reclaimed the land's accent rocks and stone walkways that wind through the trees and flowers.

The wetlands now hosts traces of red and green among its browns and grays. The red wing blackbirds have returned with the sounds of spring. So when poppa cardinal glides through the brush, the whole earth cries, "Glory!" as George MacLeod, late of the Iona Community, used to pray. My heart moves to the poetry of ancient Israel when the post-exilic Isaiah sings:

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
and do not return there until they have watered the earth,
making it bring forth and sprout,
giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,

so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and succeed in the thing for which I sent it...

You shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;
instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;
and it shall be to the Lord for a memorial,
for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.

Upon inspecting my handiwork experiments from last year today I find that the earth has shifted and taken down parts of the terrace walls. Over the weekend I will get rebar supports to secure the blocks - and probably a few trellises and cedar planks, too. Despite the prediction for three days of rain, I am hoping to find time each day this week to take stock of the land and get ready for a new season of planting, learning, watching, waiting and celebrating the gift of life that continues beyond the contagion. From all I read, and I only do so sparingly, we're likely to be in this self-quarantine season of solidarity in solitude intermittently for up to two more years. I pray that in those days, there will be time to hold and walk with my grandchildren. And my daughters and their husbands. But I am working on coming to terms with the possibility that this might not be possible. A harsh and exhausting thought, to be sure, but not outside the realm of reality.

An insightful essay in The Atlantic, "Two Errors Our Minds Make When Trying to Grasp the Pandemic" by Arthur Brooks, clarified a spiritual practice that I have intuitively valued as I limit my intake of news. One hour in the evening on PBS and a 15 minute quick review the next morning on The Guardian is all I can muster. Brooks suggests that anything more likely "fuels our fears and negative feelings" in ways that exhaust us. The first error is confusing disappointment with regret. Short version: regret is something we have control over that did not work out; disappointment is something that did not occur but is beyond our jurisdiction and ability. To ruminate "on what you would be doing if it weren’t for the coronavirus" Brooks notes, "is a destructive waste of your time." Same goes for confusing uncertainty with risk. Brooks puts it like this:

I recently checked in on a friend who, like many of us, is “sheltering in place” during the coronavirus epidemic. I asked how she was doing. Not great, she told me. When she wakes up every day, her first thoughts are about what she would have been doing if it weren’t for the virus. Then she spends hours reading and watching everything she can about what the models are projecting and what the experts are saying about the crisis. She confessed that she is frittering away her time thinking about what might have been and what might happen, and ends her days frustrated and exhausted... Why does my friend spend so much time consuming information about the coronavirus? She isn’t a scientist, and doesn’t work on anything related to the pandemic. Still, she visits the Johns Hopkins Coronavirus Resource Center every day to see if the curve of cases and deaths is flattening. She watches hours of news in which experts are interviewed about the pandemic’s trajectory and when they think life will return to normal... She is making another cognitive error: She is mistaking uncertainty for risk. Uncertainty involves unknown possible outcomes and thus unknowable probabilities. Risk involves known possible outcomes and probabilities that we can estimate. Risk is not especially scary, because it can be managed.

Again, risk is a known reality while uncertainty remains a mystery. To obsess on that which is beyond our ability to influence is like praying for something bad to happen. Brooks says that we create an illusion of authority by watching "24-hour news channels where hosts interview people with only marginally more knowledge than we have. We scour the internet for predictions. We look at the Dow Jones Industrial Average as if it were the zodiac. Surely, we think, if we just knew enough about something, we could accurately assess how much we're at risk." But we don't - and can't. He rationally recommends what those who practice contemplative prayer experience: letting go over what might have taken place so that we can be grounded in reality now.

Disappointment and uncertainty are inevitable, but we don’t have to turn them into suffering. Ruminating over what might have been and what might happen will reliably deliver unhappiness. If you practice eliminating these mental errors during the pandemic, you’ll be happier today, and better equipped to deal with the hard parts of ordinary life, whenever it resumes. (For the whole article, please go to: https://

www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2020/04/how-stay-calm-during-pandemic/610390/)

We can - and must - still grieve. Whenever massive change confronts us - of our own making or not - the emptiness calls out to be honored. But grieving is cleansing while obsession merely fills us with destructive emotions that are wearisome and deflating. To be out in the sun - and the soil - was restorative to me. It was like living into the Serenity Prayer: 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.  Now it is time for one of our Skype calls with the Brooklyn clan. I cannot hold my loved ones, but I can see them and talk with them and laugh and weep with them. And, for today, that must be enough.

waiting with Ferlinghetti...

One of the truths I struggle with in trusting the first word of God in nature is the volatility of each season's transition. I affirm that the holy was first revealed as creation. I find solace in the reliability of experiencing spring becoming summer and summer shifting into autumn. The order of this rhythm is one I enjoy and count on like night becoming day only to return again to darkness. What continues to confound me after all these years are the surprises built into this rhythm. Intellectually, I know they exist. Snow almost always falls once or twice in April in New England. Likewise it is not unheard of for a blizzard to descend upon us in early October. Being startled is built into the sacred order. And yet our ordered irregularities still unsettle me. 

Perhaps that is one of the reasons they happen: to evoke awe and stimulate a sense of mystery within our souls. Beyond whatever purpose these natural oddities serve in keeping creation in balance, they also conjure reverence in me as well as caution. I regularly need to know that I am not really in control. Calamity and social chaos does much the same thing writes Max Fischer in a recent edition of the New York Times. His reflection of the social impact of the coronavirus includes the testimonies of those who have lived through war, disaster and economic collapse. "Planning tends to be tentative and short-term," in these realities. "People cultivate moments of joy when danger recedes, knowing it might not last. Violence and disruption remain painful, but at least there is no expectation of normalcy or control to shatter. Pain runs deep, but so does resilience. (Max Fischer, NY Times @ https://www.nytimes.com/ 2020/04/21/world/americas/coronavirus-social-impact.html?utm_ source =pocket-newtab)

Christine Valters Paintner puts it like this in her guide to living as if on a pilgrimage: "Conversion calls for commitment to always being surprised by God... a profound kind of humility is also demanded of us as we recognize that we don't know what will happen on our journey." (The Soul of a Pilgrim, pp.18-19) That is certainly how this year's transition from winter into spring feels to me: it is all up for grabs. Mixed into the uncertainties of whatever will unfold after this season of social distancing and solitude closes is the reality of a volatile spring. Wind storms and bitterly cold rains have preceded nearly balmy days of sunshine that are then followed by snow showers. In another section of The Soul of the Pilgrim, Paintner writes:

In Judaism, scripture is sometimes described as black fire on white fire. Black fire is the the words on the page. Midrash illuminates the white fire, the spaces between the words that are written. Through Midrash we explore the gaps in the story, the missing voices, the silences and the wonder that is sparked. 

This spring I am trying to experience seasonal transitions as black and white fire, too. There is certainty and surprise, order and disequilibrium, balance as well as weirdness. I have bulbs and wildflower seeds to get into the ground. I have outdoor repairs to accomplish. And terrace walls to reinforce and rebuild. And... I am not in control and mostly have to wait. I can't help but drift towards St. Lawrence Ferlinghetti's excessive, wise, insightful, beautiful and harsh poem he calls "I Am Waiting."

I am waiting for my case to come up   

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting for someone

to really discover America

and wail

and I am waiting   

for the discovery

of a new symbolic western frontier   

and I am waiting   

for the American Eagle

to really spread its wings

and straighten up and fly right

and I am waiting

for the Age of Anxiety

to drop dead

and I am waiting

for the war to be fought

which will make the world safe

for anarchy

and I am waiting

for the final withering away

of all governments

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming   

and I am waiting

for a religious revival

to sweep thru the state of Arizona   

and I am waiting

for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored   

and I am waiting

for them to prove

that God is really American

and I am waiting

to see God on television

piped onto church altars

if only they can find   

the right channel   

to tune in on

and I am waiting

for the Last Supper to be served again

with a strange new appetizer

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called

and I am waiting

for the Salvation Army to take over

and I am waiting

for the meek to be blessed

and inherit the earth   

without taxes

and I am waiting

for forests and animals

to reclaim the earth as theirs

and I am waiting

for a way to be devised

to destroy all nationalisms

without killing anybody

and I am waiting

for linnets and planets to fall like rain

and I am waiting for lovers and weepers

to lie down together again

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed   

and I am anxiously waiting

for the secret of eternal life to be discovered   

by an obscure general practitioner

and I am waiting

for the storms of life

to be over

and I am waiting

to set sail for happiness

and I am waiting

for a reconstructed Mayflower

to reach America

with its picture story and tv rights

sold in advance to the natives

and I am waiting

for the lost music to sound again

in the Lost Continent

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day

that maketh all things clear

and I am awaiting retribution

for what America did   

to Tom Sawyer   

and I am waiting

for Alice in Wonderland

to retransmit to me

her total dream of innocence

and I am waiting

for Childe Roland to come

to the final darkest tower

and I am waiting   

for Aphrodite

to grow live arms

at a final disarmament conference

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting

to get some intimations

of immortality

by recollecting my early childhood

and I am waiting

for the green mornings to come again   

youth’s dumb green fields come back again

and I am waiting

for some strains of unpremeditated art

to shake my typewriter

and I am waiting to write

the great indelible poem

and I am waiting

for the last long careless rapture

and I am perpetually waiting

for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn   

to catch each other up at last

and embrace

and I am awaiting   

perpetually and forever

a renaissance of wonder

becoming like a child

REFLECTIONS ON TENDERNESS

There are two stories from the Christian Bible that I want to recall for you today: one is often shared right after Easter and the other shows up from time to time when our emphasis is on the gospel according to St. John. The first is known as the story of Doubting Thomas; the second the miracle of feeding the five thousand.

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the religious authorities, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” But Thomas, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So when the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord,” he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” A week later there were again in the house and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Take just a moment to sit with this story in the quiet: let it move around inside your head and heart a bit so that its wisdom is present for you. 

More than at any other time I can remember, I sense that people of faith are now being called to personally practice living into the tender peace of Jesus – and then find creative ways to share it in public. All around us there is uncertainty: manipulation of our anxiety at the highest levels, ignorance and hubris clashing daily with science alongside an urgent sacred invitation to strengthen solidarity. If you’re like me, it has been six full weeks of confusing sheltering in place where our homes have become like Noah’s ark and our lives, plans and expectations turned upside down. These 42 days of wandering through the wilderness of social distancing and self-quarantine have been emotionally exhausting, artistically innovative and economically disastrous. Simultaneously we are beginning to grasp that this is both the resurrection of a new era of social compassion, and, the last rites of the old order of consump-tion without consequences. And just to make it more complex, because we’re in the middle of this transition, no one really knows how long it will take to emerge from this muddle. All we know for certain is that tenderness and teamwork are as vital today as they were at the start of the pandemic – and there are precious few ways to express this commitment in public.

· Of course, we stay inside as much as possible. We can also be in touch with our legislators – and must. We can continue to creatively reinvent social media so that it reinforces the ties that bind. And some of us may be fortunate enough to share our stimulus checks with sisters and brothers in need. I know that many of you are exploring ways to safely reach out to your neighbors so that the most vulnerable among us are not forgotten or forsaken.

· But that’s about it: there really is little we can do outwardly during these days of solidarity in solitude. That is why it is my conviction that God is calling us beyond the obvious to more consistently make Christ’s peace a priority right now: whenever we’re able to go public again, we’re going to need women, men and children consciously living as agents of healing, hope and social transformation. Like the disciples in our story we know what it’s like to be locked down in our rooms in fear from outside forces that are overwhelming and dangerous. We know what it is to wait and wonder what will become of us all when this is over. And like the disciples, we know that when this time is complete, we will have a role to play in re-ordering our broken world.

A recent article by George Packer in The Atlantic made our place in the new world clear as he wrote of both the inadequacies of our federal response to this pandemic – proof that we are living in a failed state – and the consequences of long neglected social, racial, gender and class inequalities: “When the virus came here,” Packer said, “it found a country with serious underlying conditions, and it exploited them ruthlessly. Chronic ills—a corrupt political class, a sclerotic bureaucracy, a heartless economy, a divided and distracted public—had gone untreated for years. We had learned to live, uncomfortably, with the symptoms. It took the scale and intimacy of a pandemic to expose their severity to shock Americans with the recognition that we are in the high-risk category.”  A short Op Ed piece on Face Book entitled “We Are NOT in the Same Boat” was more blunt: 

I heard that we are all in the same boat, but it’s not like that. We are in the same storm, but not in the same boat. Your ship could be shipwrecked, and mine might not be. Or vice versa. For some, quarantine is optimal. A moment of reflection, of re-connection, easy in flip-flops, with a cocktail or coffee. For others, this is a desperate financial and family crisis. For some that live alone, they’re facing endless loneliness. While for others it is peace, rest, and time with their mother, father, sons and daughters. With the $600 weekly increase in unemployment, some are bringing in more money to their households than they were while working. Others are working more hours for less money, due to pay cuts or loss in commissioned sales. Some families of four just received $3400 from the stimulus package, while others saw nothing. Some were concerned about getting a certain candy for Easter, while others were concerned if there would be enough bread, milk, and eggs for the weekend. Some want to go back to work because they don’t qualify for unemployment and are running out of money. Others want to kill those who break quarantine. Some are at home spending two to three hours a day, helping their child with online schooling, while others are doing the same on top of a 10–12 hour work day. Some have experienced the near death of the virus, some have already lost someone from it, and some are not sure if their loved ones are going to make it. Others don’t believe this is a big deal. Some have faith in God and expect miracles this year. Others say the worst is yet to come. We are not in the same boat. We are going through a time when our perceptions and needs are completely different. Each of us will emerge, in our own way, from this storm. It is important to see beyond what is seen at first glance. We are all on different ships during this storm, experiencing a very different journey. 

These anonymous words were not written in judgment or anger. They were not intended to shame those of us with privilege nor celebrate another’s sacrifices. They were not crafted to divide us, but to unite us with the facts – hard and challenging – and true. Like the disciples in the Upper Room after the Crucifixion in St. John’s gospel, you see, some of us – like Mary Magdalene – sense this to be a moment of new hope and possibilities. Others, like most of the male disciples, are bewildered and afraid. And some, like Thomas, are angry and agitated. In that same upper room were people who stood by Jesus even at the foot of the Cross as well as those who deserted and even betrayed him. They were all in that same room, but clearly not all in the same boat, as they wonder how to face the same storm.

So notice what happens next: Jesus shows up. Let me say that again: Jesus shows up. This is crucial. He is still unrecognized by most in the room. The testimony of Magdalene – the apostle to the apostles – has not yet been embraced or trusted by the majority. And each person feels alienated and adrift even as they shelter together in the same place. Outwardly they may look like a community, but inwardly it’s every person for him or herself. So just as he promised, Jesus shows up saying: Peace be upon you all and within you all – receive the Holy Spirit – as I breathe on you.

One wise commentator wrote that when Jesus shows up: “He does not criticize or judge those in the room for their fears nor their moments of infidelity. He does not make any critical remark to Peter, who denied him. He does not make anyone feel guilty (or diminished.) Rather, he confirms his choice of them as his beloved ones – and moves within them to bring them rest.” (Vanier, p. 341) Peace be with you all: Shalom in Hebrew – Eirēnē – in Greek: meaning receive the blessing of well-being, experience calmness of mind, stability of soul, good health in your body and right relations among your neighbors with a deep sense that God’s love is in charge. Peace be with you.

And just so that there would be no confusion among this still divided community of first century Jews, Jesus breathed upon them: This embodied prophetic act evoked the oldest creation story in Judaism – the second in the book of Genesis - where God breathes the Holy Spirit upon adam ha adama – the being formed of mud – fashioned out of the same soil that created all of life. And when the sacred breath, the Holy Spirit, is pushed into its lungs by the Creator, the creature becomes NEPHESH CHAYYAH – a living soul – animated by the very essence of God. What the text is trying to tell us, you see, is that the broken-hearted, dispirited followers of Jesus were restored to wholeness when they experienced the blessings of Christ’s peace. From the inside out, they had to sense the Risen Christ within before they could embody the Risen Christ in the world. The inner peace Jesus offered had to be embraced as trust before they could live beyond the illusive confines of control. Remember: the opposite of faith is NOT doubt; it is the illusion of control.

At a level that is deeper than all that is wounded and fearful in us, the disciples had to feel within themselves the love of God Jesus shared along with a forgiveness that was greater that their inconsistencies and brokenness. They – and we – must know from the inside out that we are unique and precious, that we are never alone even when there is pain and uncertainty because Christ is alive within and among us.

When this happened only then does Jesus send his friends out into the world to share “and transmit the forgiveness of God and the peace that passes understanding.” (Vanier.) That’s what these 50 days in- between Easter and Pentecost symbolize: a time to experience, practice, discern and deepen Christ’s tenderness and peace within our hearts. Fr. Thomas Keating of the Centering Prayer movement put it like this: “the two great gifts of Jesus to his disciples are… the forgiveness of sin and the restoration of a living intimacy with his holy spirit.” Until they are received, we are unable to recognize Jesus, let alone trust him, follow him or love him in public. And this is where Thomas comes in – resentments, doubts, anxiety, anger, confusion and all.

Who knows why Thomas wasn’t with his friends in the Upper Room the first time Jesus showed up, but he wasn’t. So the more the disciples say “The Lord is risen,” the more Thomas wonders, “Why was I left out? Aren’t I good enough? What’s wrong with me?” In fact, Fr Keating says, Thomas felt “neglected and rejected, frustrated, resentful and finally enraged.” Without encountering Christ’s peace and forgiveness, Thomas is left only with his old habits and they do not lead him into peace. They only give birth to bitterness until Jesus shows up again and Thomas experiences his presence, love, peace and forgiveness.

There’s no telling IF Thomas put his hand in the side of the resurrected but still wounded Messiah; all we know is that after this encounter there was a healing in Thomas so that resentment was released and fear put to rest. It is my hunch that the gospel tells a variety of stories about Jesus showing up after the Cross in different ways – to Magdalene, to those in the Upper Room, to Thomas and later Peter - so that we might understand that we, too can encounter Jesus. No one is shut out. The stories reinforce that Jesus shows up for us at different times because one size does not fit all. After our encounter with his love, forgiveness, renewal and embrace – the peace of Christ within – then we will be asked to nourish it. And practice living more deeply into it before trying to embody it outside our locked doors.

· Do you know that after Paul of Tarsus encountered the living Christ on the road to Damascus – and spent some time in solitude getting his bearings back again – he took three years of training out in the desert with some of the earliest contemplative Christians before beginning his public ministry?

· I can’t emphasize this enough: our encounter with Christ’s peace if foundational and then we have to make it our own. Let it become part of the air we breathe and the way we walk and talk so that radical trust takes up more room within us than fear and anxiety.

That’s why the liturgies of the church give us feasts and fasts: there are always times for celebrations and extended pilgrimages in the Christian year, right? Advent prepares us for Christmas and Epiphany. Lent precedes Easter and Ascension. And the pilgrimage between Easter and Pentecost teaches us about hunkering down for 50 days before going public. It is a rhythm that consciously mirrors the ebb and flow of day and night as well as the transition of the seasons. St. Paul wrote in chapter one of Romans: “What can be known about God is plain to us, because God has shown it to us ever since the creation of the world: God’s eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been seen and understood in the created world God since the beginning of time.” The rhythm of sacred living is all about first experiencing something of God’s peace, practicing going deeper into it and then sharing it beyond ourselves. It is a gift, a discipline, and an offering. Fr. Richard Rohr recently spoke of this in a homily that contextualizes the coronavirus for us: “Psychologically, spiritually, and personally,” he said, “I’ve been trying to understand what God might be saying to us right now?”

I’m not saying that God causes suffering to teach us good things. But God does use everything, and if God wanted us to experience global solidarity, I can’t think of a better way. We all have access to this suffering, for it bypasses race, gender, religion, and nation (albeit in different ways.) And that means we are in the midst of a highly teachable moment… We have a chance to go deep, and to go broad... Depth is being forced on us by great suffering, which always leads to great love. But for God to reach us, we have to allow this suffering to wound us… Real solidarity needs to be felt and suffered. That’s the meaning of the word “suffer” – to allow someone else’s pain to influence us in a real way… As we allow these feelings, and invite God’s presence to hold and sustain us in this time of collective prayer and lament… this experience can force our attention outwards to the suffering of the most vulnerable. (Because that’s what love does) love always means going beyond yourself to others… And love alone overcomes fear: “Faith, hope and love,” St. Paul wrote, “these three abide and the greatest of them is love.”

Rohr is speaking of spiritual practice – training ourselves with the peace that passes understanding in the context of suffering – so that the presence of Christ within can ripen and mature and then go public. The peace of God’s love that Jesus lives has a role to play in how we rebuild our lives when the pandemic is over. I don’t know about you but I don’t want just the bureaucrats, pundits, politicians and lobbyists to be in charge of the new world. I want people with broken-hearts and gravitas in their souls to be at the table - and in the streets. I want those who know what suffering feels like to be deciding policy and making economic decisions. A poem by Naomi Shihab-Nye called “Kindness” puts it like this: “Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness.”

How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive. 

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

In this season of strengthening solidarity in solitude, learning of kindness through suffering, and nourish-ing Christ’s peace within so that we can share it in public, I wonder if yet another paradoxical process – the practice of pilgrimage – might be appropriate for us to consider? You know that when we go on pilgrimage – which comes from the Latin word, peregrīnus, meaning stranger or foreign one – we move into new places with fresh eyes. We journey to be awakened. Moved. Able to notice the small things that bring blessings into being and consciousness. Pilgrimage is not a romantic spirituality. Nor is it tourism. Rather, it is about walking and observing, listening carefully and traveling lightly with the eyes of wonder, as we take all the time we need to get to a place we do not really comprehend yet.

Christine Valters-Paintner, abbess of the Abbey of the Arts, suggests that the spirituality of pilgrimage might be appropriate for this time of training between Easter and Pentecost if we consider the journey of St. Mary. On "the feast of the Annunciation," she writes, we recall "Mary's own pilgrim journey of saying 'yes’ as she walked into the unknown with only her trust in God to carry her. Anyone can identify with Mary and her questions, 'How can this be?" when the angel of the Lord tells her she will be with child." And yet Mary chooses to move into the unknown with a smallness and innocence that is the embodiment of trust. Mary’s smallness suggests to me a second story – a pilgrimage and training in the ways of tenderness that is counter-cultural and non-intuitive – born of the imagination yet grounded in the witness of Jesus and those he loved.

I’m thinking of St. John’s account of the miracle of feeding five thousand women, men and children on a mountainside in Palestine. In Eugene Peterson’s reworking of the text from The Message the story says:

Jesus went across the Sea of Galilee (sometimes called Tiberias) and a huge crowd followed him, attracted by the miracles they had seen him do among the sick and institutionalized. When he got to the other side, he climbed a hill and sat down, surrounded by his disciples. It was nearly time for the Feast of Passover… When Jesus looked out and saw that a large crowd had joined them, he said to Philip, “Where can we buy bread to feed these people?” He said this to stretch Philip’s faith. He already knew what he was going to do. Philip answered, “Two hundred silver pieces wouldn’t be enough to buy bread for each person to get a piece.” One of the other disciple s— Andrew, brother to Simon Peter — said, “There’s a little boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But that’s a drop in the bucket for a crowd like this.” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” And as they sat down on the hill side, about five thousand of them, Jesus took the bread and, having given thanks, gave it to those who were seated. He did the same with the fish. And it was enough: all ate as much as they wanted.
Often the focus is on the miracle – and I don’t want to say anything to diminish that because it speaks to us of the beauty of God’s steadfast love that endures forever. But I find myself drawn to the small boy in this story these days who offered to Jesus and the wider community all he had – five loaves of bread and two fish – and it was enough. Could it be that this is the spiritual practice we need right now? Is it possible that in the face of a comparably overwhelming situation we, too could become like this child? Practicing trusting God’s love and then offering up simple acts of love? I know that there are many spiritual paths that can take us deeper – and they all have value – but right now I wonder if a spirituality of smallness and tenderness might be the way to help us grow into Christ’s peace – and be ready to offer our tender humble gifts for healing on the other side of the contagion?

Is it possible that if we practice offering up our simple gifts to one another every day like a child we could mature into the assurance of Christ’s peace that these gifts will be enough? Here’s the context behind the story:

· Jesus has left Jerusalem after visiting an asylum where he brought healing and hope to people who had been discarded, hurt, forgotten and abandoned. This is why such a crowd was following him: Jesus was living a life of tender compassion that drew crowds wherever he went.

· The story also tells us it was about time of the Jewish Passover. No detail in St. John’s gospel is accidental so we’re being alerted to the experience of God setting free the Jewish slaves in Egypt under the leadership of Moses. St. John wants us to know that the love of Jesus is like that of Moses bringing freedom and dignity to all who have been wounded.

The story of the miracle starts with an experience of Christ’s tenderness. And that small detail concerning the young boy really speaks to me: he freely gave to Jesus all he had – and it was modest – and that was enough. The child opened his small bag and little heart – and that was enough. Jesus took what he had, blessed it and shared it - and that was enough. What a story for our times?! What a spiritual discipline for this season!? It’s an invitation to begin a pilgrimage into the blessings of small gifts – to practice sharing the little we have – knowing that all we really have is very small and trusting that with God’s love that will be enough. The Psalmist points to this pilgrimage in the era of our plague when she sings: O Lord, I am NOT proud; I have no haughty looks. I do not occupy myself with great matters, or with things too hard for me. Rather, I still my soul and make it quiet, like a child upon its mother’s breast; like a small child, my souls is quieted and at rest within me. O people of God, wait upon the Lord.

In the Christian tradition there are a few pilgrims of simplicity and smallness who have gone before us so we don’t have to reinvent the wheel. I think of St. Francis and St. Clare. I am currently spending time with St. Therese of Lisieux, “the little flower,” who lived a spirituality of the small way. She asks us to pay attention to the things in our lives that we often overlook: the hidden and the inconspicuous that are not too great but keep us grounded in humility. Her small way is that of a child who rests upon her mother’s breast and does not grasp at power or glory - just love and tenderness. This way may not speak to you – but it is compelling to me. Especially in the face of the hostility to sharing and kindness that is just below the surface of our culture.

Over the next five weeks I will be sharing more thoughts about this pilgrimage into tenderness – how to practice trusting the inner peace of Jesus so that our small gifts of love offered to God will be enough – of living into the promise of peace that can ripen within us – of reclaiming the integrity of the love of that small child on the hillside. And what I’d like to ask you to do if this small way resonates with you is over the next week pray with me like a child. There is a stunning Advent carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter” that sets the music of Gustav Holst to the haunting poetry of Christina Rossetti and gives shape and form to the small way that is just enough. If you go to You Tube there’s a sweet version by Sarah McLachlan you could us to guide your prayer. It goes something like this:

In the bleak midwinter - frosty wind made moan - 

earth stood hard as iron - water like a stone

Snow had fallen snow on snow – snow on snow - 

in the bleak midwinter - long, long ago

Angels and Arc Angels - may have traveled there - 

Cherubim and Seraphim - thronged through the air

But only his Mother in her maiden bliss 

worshiped the beloved with a kiss

What can I give him: poor as I am?

 If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb

If I were a wise man, I would do my part - 

but what I can I give him: I give him my heart. 

See if you can pray this at least once each day with me for the next week. Let’s be still for a moment and lift our hearts to the Lord in prayer…

practicing and NOT practicing are the same...

Today I returned to the spiritual practice of baking bread. I haven't done much of it in about a year's time. We were preparing this time last year to head to California for the wedding or Jennifer and Ross. What a wild and wonderful adventure that was: full of renewal and deep connections. We also had time to visit my brother Phil and his dear wife Julie in San Francisco. And upon our return I was given to building our vegetable garden terraces and learning about our land. Summer came and went and it was too hot to bake and autumn and winter seemed too full. I knew I was missing it all, but to every thing there is a season and it clearly was not the one for fresh bread.

I gave it a try last night - and it was a screaming failure. I knew from the start that it was going to be a bowling ball. And it was - yet everything that went wrong was instructive. In The Soul of a Pilgrim Christine Valters Paintner quotes the Zen Buddhist physician, Jon Kabat-Zinn, from the University of Massachusetts School of Medicine just down the turnpike in Worcester. "Zinn writes that doing yoga and not doing yoga are the same."

What he means is that when we return to our practice after having left it for several days (or weeks, months, years) we often have a deeper appreciation for what we have neglected. We can come back to our practice with a perspective born of wisdom. (p. 16)

I have experienced that this week in returning to playing/practicing music. Since the New Year, I haven't given much attention to music. I have missed it, to be sure, but there never seemed to be time to sit down and concentrate given all that was taking place in L'Arche and then in the pandemic. "Kabat-Zinn asks, 'Can you see that not practicing is an arduous practice?'" Valters Paintner adds: "I believe this means that we each have a life practice, even if it is no practice at all... When we have no intentional practice, we might find it difficult to deal with the grief and struggle of life."

When pain comes, it might be magnified if we can't center ourselves through intentional practice... Intentional practice can anchor us when we are in the middle of the ocean during a hurricane.... So we need practices to act as touchstones so they can sustain us during the journey. They help remind us that the journey will take us beyond our narrow visions and connect with the sacred ground of being.

Slowly reclaiming a return to music-making - and contemplative prayer - has readied my heart for baking. They are all ways of staying grounded in grace. They also open me to realities larger than myself and remind me that there is so much in life beyond my control. I knew from the start that last night's bread was a flop. But, as I do so often, I white-knuckled it, trying to redeem that which was already gone. In the end, I rolled it out and attempted to turn it into a flat bread - and that was a mess, too. So today I made certain that the flour was not too cold. And the yeast was not mixed with the salt. I measured it all with precision and stirred the first four cups 100 strokes. After adding the other two cups of flour, I counted 100 rounds of kneading as well, making certain not to add too much extra flour to the emerging loaves. I pre-heated the oven so that the baby bread could rise in a warm, safe place until it is ready for baking. Like Kabat-Zinn noted, doing it and not doing it are the same - although they yield different insights.

Now it is time to wait. The poet, Luci Shaw, captures the blessings born of honing practices built upon a foundation of everyday experience. It is the sacramentality of the ordinary - a truly holy way of being that is so easily overlooked - it feels right.

Signs by Luci Shaw

In time of drought, let us be
thankful for this very gentle rain,

a gift not to be disdained
though it is little and brief,

reaching no great depth, barely
kissing the leaves' lips. Think of it as

mercy. Other minor blessings may
show up—tweezers for splinters,

change for the parking meter,
a green light at the intersection,

a cool wind that lifts away summer's
suffocating heat. An apology after

a harsh comment. A word that opens
an unfinished poem like a key in a lock.

a pilgrimage into the little way of St. Thérèse...

"If you are seeking the divine, you have already made contact with the divine in yourself," writes Richard Rohr in Immortal Diamond: The Search for our True Self. This insight has its origins in the pre-Reformation wisdom of the Christian Church that posits that in the beginning what God created was good, so it remains good for eternity. This would include you and me. While the anxiety of the Protestant Reformers caused them to obsess on human depravity and worthlessness, the early community of faith knew that life begins with original blessing and flows back to it, too. 

It may be true, of course, that for a variety of reasons our lives fail to document that blessing. Brokenness, unrestrained anger, fear, shame and addictions may reinforce behavior that is unhealthy and troubling. We see evidence of that all around us. Yet original blessing never ceases to be true. As Jesus said to the thief beside him on the Cross: "Today you will be with me in paradise." As Bono made clear years ago: grace trumps karma. For many contemporary people with an interest in spirituality - and for almost everyone raised in a Reformed setting - the primacy of original blessing is essential. We need to know from the inside out that we were shaped and formed by God and that we shall return to God, too. Only after we have fully digested and embraced this truth can we honestly and incarnationally move towards nourishing and strengthening the spirit within us so that "our life gives evidence of our encounter with God." (Rohr)

Does our encounter with the holy bring about in you any of the things that St. Paul describes as 'the fruits' of the Spirit" "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, trustfulness, gentleness and self-control." (Galatians 5:22) (That is to say are we any) different from our surroundings (after our awareness of being blessed by God's Spirit is realized) or do we reflect the predictable cultural values and biases (or our social context)? (p. 109)

Last night I started to read The Soul of a Pilgrim by Christine Valters Paintner. I also began reading a few online articles about the spirituality of St. Thérèse of Lisieux. After reading Jean Vanier - whose wisdom and insight has not been invalidated by his troubling brokenness and sin (at least for me) -  I became curious about "the Little Flower" and her practice of living as a child for God. St. Thérèse invites us into a "small way" - her practice of celebrating the beauty and awe of God's creation even when it is surrounded or saturated by fear and violence -as is always the case. Like Malvina Reynolds, who wrote, "God Bless the Grass," Thérèse rejoices in the grass breaking through the concrete. She experiences original blessing and invites us to trust it like a child. And that resonates with me. After trying to be big and wise, important and meaningful, I am coming to terms with the fact that my faith is small. It is child-like - not childish - but simple. Beyond the evidence, I trust God's love. I have had seasons of doubt. I have fought God's grace and run away from it, too. But over and again, I return like a child to rest in the Lord. A scholarly article on the "little way" of Thérèse offers this summary:

Littleness, hiddenness, poverty, nothingness, powerlessness - these are the words that by predilection Thérèse uses to explain the Christ mystery at work in her life. And these same words describe her way to God. The diminutives are not to subtract, but to enhance, not to lead to a (diminished) state of spiritual being, but to show how all the smallnesses we ignore and pass over can be used for growth. The hidden, the inconspicuous, saves us from the empty flash and glitter of trying to be great, special in the eyes of others. We don't have to aim at being famous for 15 minutes, the amount of time Andy Warhol guaranteed to everybody. The littleness of Thérèse is for the sake of gathering in the particles of our life, to make sure nothing will be lost, not letting the fragments slip through our fingers like pearls dropped into the dust.

Nietzsche, who lived at the same time as Thérèse though he was born much earlier, is an apostle of power just as Thérèse is an apostle of powerlessness. Nietzsche said, "Where I found the living, there I found the will to power." Thérèse declared, "I have my weaknesses also, but I rejoice in them...It's so good to feel that one is weak and little."

Nietzsche said, "It is for others that I wait...for those who are higher, stronger, more triumphant, and more cheerful, such as are built perpendicular in body and soul: laughing lions must come." Thérèse cries out, "O Jesus!...I feel that if You found a soul weaker and littler than mine, which is impossible, You would be pleased to grant it still greater favors...I beg You to cast Your Divine Glance upon a great number of little souls. I beg You to choose a legion of little Victims worthy of Your LOVE!"

The paradox in Thérèse is the power of her powerlessness since it calls forth the might of God. The appeal of weakness is for divine strength to work in and through it. When we acknowledge our weakness, no longer demanding the right to be in control of our lives, divine power becomes infinitely available to us. Then we reach to the contemplative depths of our human nature where we become passively alert to the revelation of God. We develop the mystic gaze that sees God everywhere in everything. (http://carmelitesofeldridge.org/therese.html)

There is a freedom - a sense of relief - in living small and little. It is the embodied way to "think globally and act locally." Or as the Talmud puts it: 

This is one of the reasons I have been attracted to reflections on pilgrimage: it, too, is a small way - a practice of being and discovery - within the ordinary. It is not an idealized spirituality. Rather, it is about walking and noticing, traveling lightly with the eyes of wonder, and being practical in the best sense of that word. Reasonable and safe. Not heroic or inflated. Valters-Paintner suggests that the spirituality of pilgrimage is grounded in St. Mary. On "the feast of the Annunciation," she writes, we remember "Mary's own pilgrim journey of saying 'yes. She walked into the unknown with only her trust in God to carry her. Any one can identify with Mary and her questions, 'How can this be?" when the angel of the Lord tells her she will be with child." (P. 12) There is a smallness and an innocence to this journey, too.

Somewhere online I read something about the soul of a pilgrim noticing the little clues along the way that evoke an appreciation for synchronicity. For most of my conscious life this type of noticing has been important - and last night two small clues appeared that quietly encouraged my journey. One involved a short word of encouragement I have been asked to offer at our Friday afternoon Zoom time of prayer for the community of L'Arche Ottawa. We sing and talk, we read scripture and then reflect on what it might be saying to us at this moment in time. The daily lectionary reading comes from St. John's telling of the miracle of feeding 5,000. Without diminishing the pure blessing of this event, I found that I was drawn to the small boy who simply offered Jesus what he had - and by God's grace that simple offering became enough. Such is the truth of the little way. Like the poem by Christina Rosetti that I know as "In the Bleak Midwinter," all that I have to offer is small, too: my heart. (I love Sarah McLachlan's take on this song. It feels like my life in the spirit.)

The other clue of synchronicity showed up as I was sorting through a box from the basement. This past week I painted and did some upgrading of our kitchen. In cleaning up in the aftermath, I needed to attend to the mess in the cellar. So as I watched the evening PBS news (delighted to see Judy Woodruff reporting from home) I came upon a small, folded-up piece of notebook paper. It was a note from my daughter, Michal, from our days in Cleveland, OH. There's no date but I would guess it comes from first grade. It is precious.

Inside is a message about our shared love for dogs. Pay special attention to the closing where she gets playful with words, punctuation and white-out for her corrections. Pure joy.

The little way of Thérèse- the spirituality of the pilgrim - speaks to me just like this note does: with tenderness and trust. 

The asceticism and detachment of the Little Way is not for the sake of toughening our moral fiber, giving us mastery over the petty irritations of life. It is not based on a stoicism of the will but on a theology of grace that sees a God of infinite mercy suffusing and permeating every aspect of my personal existence. This God interacts with me at every second, immanent in all that happens to me, undergirding all the choices I make. Thérèse expresses this loving accessibility of my God in three often - quoted words: Everything is grace... The Little Way is a journey of recognition, of seeing the divine more clearly in areas of my life where God has been obscured, hidden - in relationships with others especially. The sharp word, the callous rebuke, the impatient answer - all become of consequence - especially if they rise out of a habit. Habitual ways of dealing with our world always deserve our attention. They tell us about ourselves. They tell us where grace is being blocked or being welcomed.

credits:

+ Anamcara Books

+ Robert Lentz