A tender melody crafted by John Michael Talbot, the North American former rock’n’roller turned Franciscan oblate, continues to keep an ancient Celtic prayer of the Hebrides alive. It has been calling to me for weeks – and today feels right for sharing:
Healer of my soul - Keep me at even
Keep me at morning, keep me at noon, healer of my soul
Keeper of my soul - on rough course faring
Help and safeguard my means this day, keeper of my soul
I am tired, astray, and stumbling
Shield my soul from the snare of sin
Today is the Feast Day of St. Nicholas, 6th century Bishop of Smyrna in what is
now Turkey, as well as the culmination of the fourth week of our pilgrimage into a Celtic Advent. Often the middle Sun-day of Advent is set aside as a small break to both take stock of what has transpired thus far, and, to regroup for the remainder of our exploration. Within our practice of peregrinatio we note that in just 20 days, we will let go of this journey for a moment to bask in the Feast of the Nativity – the birth of Christ Jesus our Lord – Messiah coming into the world as a tiny infant born in an obscure Palestinian peasant cave and hidden from all things powerful, important, and valuable.
The symbolism of the Christ Child arriving in the dead of night points to a mystery overlooked by a world addicted to productivity and bottom lines. That this child is surrounded by shepherds, his weary parents, and farm animals underscores the concealed blessing of this obscure birth. Fr. Henri Nouwen wrote: “When the liturgy announces that a shoot shall come from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom upon whom the spirit of the Lord shall rest,” we’re being told:
That our healing comes from something, small, tender, and vulnerable, something hardly notice-able. God, who is Creator of the Universe, arrives for us in smallness, weakness, and hiddenness.
Ordinarily, in our culture, this is a time of rejoicing, celebration, and festivity in community: we gather in our various faith communities, sing our favorite Christmas carols, raise a lighted candle through our tears to “Silent Night,” and experience, at least for a moment, that illusive and inchoate sense of hope that God continues to be at work in the world. Fleeting as it may be, for a moment, we dare to trust that there will be joy to the world for love has come down at Christmas filled with tidings of comfort and joy.
This year, however, our feasting shall be much more subdued – even shrouded in solitude for some – for this Christmas is unlike any other most of us have ever known. I won’t belabor the point except to say that in the United States alone one of us is dying every 30 seconds to the contagion: Just three weeks ago, it was one death per minute and now the terror has been doubled. While the best and brightest are clear that we know how to avert more death and suffering, too many have chosen a stubborn stupidity over wisdom moving about with a pig-headed and cruel disregard for the least of these, our vulnerable sisters and brothers.
Within the tragedy, this heart-breaking reality filled with fear, anger, emptiness, grief, and surreptitious danger, my faith causes me to wonder if there might also be within the darkness a spark of light? In the proclamation that Messiah shall arrive among us as a small, tender, and vulnerable blossom, could God be telling our generation what the Scriptures said to the self-absorbed rulers, scribes, and sages of privilege in ancient Israel: just before the Christ Child’s birth? That the holy does not arrive within the loud, impressive events that reek of power. The pomp and circumstance distract and seduce, of course, but they blind us as well to the presence of the sacred in the shoot that shall sprout from the stump. Fr. Nouwen notes that this is the paradox of faith:
When I have no eyes for the small signs of God’s presence – the smile of a baby, the carefree play of children, the words of encouragement and gestures of love offered by friends – I will always be tempted to despair. The small child of Bethlehem, the unknown young man of Nazareth, the rejected preacher, the naked man on the cross, he asks for my full attention. The work of our salvation, you see, takes place in the midst of a world that continues to shout, scream, and overwhelm us with its claims and promises. But the promise (of the Lord) is hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump, a shoot and a blossom that hardly anyone notices… It is hard to believe that God would reveal the divine presence to us in the self-emptying, humble way of the man from Nazareth. So much in me seeks influence, power, success, and popularity. But the way of Jesus is the way of hiddenness, powerlessness, and littleness. It does not seem a very appeal-ing way. Yet when I enter into true, deep communion with it, I find that this small way leads to real peace and joy.
This past week has been for me one of trusting this littleness – this presence of the sacred in what is small – particularly a few threads that wake me up: a seemingly random poem, the cycle of the seasons in nature, an overlooked sentence about Celtic pilgrimage. Christine Valters-Paintner writes that, “one way to practice perigrinatio – pilgrimage - in our lives is to ‘follow the thread,’ which for me means to listen to the synchronicities and patterns that are being revealed daily.”
Pilgrimage begins when we take responsibility for how we live – especially when we are living in exile, loss, and rejection – choosing to look for a deepened awareness and commitment to the holy rather than staying stuck in the bitterness, despair, and longing. (Valters-Paintner)
This Advent and Christmas seems to be ALL about exile for us – with a whole lot of emptiness and longing, too. That’s probably why I am able to notice those little, sweet random clues that could so easily be overlooked. As last week ripened, it was clear that once again I wasn’t giving much attention to the big and serious disciplines I’ve wanted to cultivate this Advent. I’m still tip-toe-ing my way ever so slowly into Centering Prayer – getting into it a little bit – but only modestly. Those threads, however, those synchronicities and patterns keep speaking to me of taking stock of my pilgrimage and what I have learned thus far. “We all have an inner pilgrim,” Dr. Valters-Paintner writes, “and in different seasons this archetype speaks more strongly than others.” Clearly, as autumn perishes and winter gains ground, my inner pilgrim has been inviting me to pay more attention to the cycle of seasons. I had to repair and replace a few rotten planks on our wooden front porch this week before the snow showed up – and that meant I had to move our pumpkins.
Those who know me well know that I ADORE pumpkins – everything about them
brings a smile – and come October I can’t get enough of them. We go out to one of the local nurseries and wander the fields in search of the GREAT pumpkin. In the process we laugh, tell one another stories, sometimes have our grandchildren with us, and bring home 8 or 10 beauties of various sizes and colors to decorate our home along with gourds and some First Nations decorative corn as well.
There were still 7 pumpkins gracing our porch, but they were starting to turn to mush. So, I hauled them back to one of our small, raised garden beds, and in a new ritual for me, tossed them in the air, returned thanks to God for their beauty, and watched them smash and shatter on the winter soil in all their worn-out glory. I feel like a kid again watching them collapse. I also feel very old, too because right there, in front on my eyes, I saw the cycle of the seasons revealed: what was once young and fecund gradually ripens and matures only to return to the earth from which it came – ashes to ashes, dust to dust – where humus and seeds join forces with the sun, soil, and water to bring to birth new life.
It was a humbling, energizing little ceremony that called me to take stock. The possibility of a week end snowstorm simply underscored the importance of living into the cycle of the seasons in my soul. In The Soul’s Slow Ripening, Dr. Valters-
Help and safeguard my means this day, keeper of my soul
Shield my soul from the snare of sin
Today is the Feast Day of St. Nicholas, 6th century Bishop of Smyrna in what is
The symbolism of the Christ Child arriving in the dead of night points to a mystery overlooked by a world addicted to productivity and bottom lines. That this child is surrounded by shepherds, his weary parents, and farm animals underscores the concealed blessing of this obscure birth. Fr. Henri Nouwen wrote: “When the liturgy announces that a shoot shall come from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom upon whom the spirit of the Lord shall rest,” we’re being told:
That our healing comes from something, small, tender, and vulnerable, something hardly notice-able. God, who is Creator of the Universe, arrives for us in smallness, weakness, and hiddenness.
Ordinarily, in our culture, this is a time of rejoicing, celebration, and festivity in community: we gather in our various faith communities, sing our favorite Christmas carols, raise a lighted candle through our tears to “Silent Night,” and experience, at least for a moment, that illusive and inchoate sense of hope that God continues to be at work in the world. Fleeting as it may be, for a moment, we dare to trust that there will be joy to the world for love has come down at Christmas filled with tidings of comfort and joy.
This year, however, our feasting shall be much more subdued – even shrouded in solitude for some – for this Christmas is unlike any other most of us have ever known. I won’t belabor the point except to say that in the United States alone one of us is dying every 30 seconds to the contagion: Just three weeks ago, it was one death per minute and now the terror has been doubled. While the best and brightest are clear that we know how to avert more death and suffering, too many have chosen a stubborn stupidity over wisdom moving about with a pig-headed and cruel disregard for the least of these, our vulnerable sisters and brothers.
Within the tragedy, this heart-breaking reality filled with fear, anger, emptiness, grief, and surreptitious danger, my faith causes me to wonder if there might also be within the darkness a spark of light? In the proclamation that Messiah shall arrive among us as a small, tender, and vulnerable blossom, could God be telling our generation what the Scriptures said to the self-absorbed rulers, scribes, and sages of privilege in ancient Israel: just before the Christ Child’s birth? That the holy does not arrive within the loud, impressive events that reek of power. The pomp and circumstance distract and seduce, of course, but they blind us as well to the presence of the sacred in the shoot that shall sprout from the stump. Fr. Nouwen notes that this is the paradox of faith:
This past week has been for me one of trusting this littleness – this presence of the sacred in what is small – particularly a few threads that wake me up: a seemingly random poem, the cycle of the seasons in nature, an overlooked sentence about Celtic pilgrimage. Christine Valters-Paintner writes that, “one way to practice perigrinatio – pilgrimage - in our lives is to ‘follow the thread,’ which for me means to listen to the synchronicities and patterns that are being revealed daily.”
Pilgrimage begins when we take responsibility for how we live – especially when we are living in exile, loss, and rejection – choosing to look for a deepened awareness and commitment to the holy rather than staying stuck in the bitterness, despair, and longing. (Valters-Paintner)
This Advent and Christmas seems to be ALL about exile for us – with a whole lot of emptiness and longing, too. That’s probably why I am able to notice those little, sweet random clues that could so easily be overlooked. As last week ripened, it was clear that once again I wasn’t giving much attention to the big and serious disciplines I’ve wanted to cultivate this Advent. I’m still tip-toe-ing my way ever so slowly into Centering Prayer – getting into it a little bit – but only modestly. Those threads, however, those synchronicities and patterns keep speaking to me of taking stock of my pilgrimage and what I have learned thus far. “We all have an inner pilgrim,” Dr. Valters-Paintner writes, “and in different seasons this archetype speaks more strongly than others.” Clearly, as autumn perishes and winter gains ground, my inner pilgrim has been inviting me to pay more attention to the cycle of seasons. I had to repair and replace a few rotten planks on our wooden front porch this week before the snow showed up – and that meant I had to move our pumpkins.
Those who know me well know that I ADORE pumpkins – everything about them
There were still 7 pumpkins gracing our porch, but they were starting to turn to mush. So, I hauled them back to one of our small, raised garden beds, and in a new ritual for me, tossed them in the air, returned thanks to God for their beauty, and watched them smash and shatter on the winter soil in all their worn-out glory. I feel like a kid again watching them collapse. I also feel very old, too because right there, in front on my eyes, I saw the cycle of the seasons revealed: what was once young and fecund gradually ripens and matures only to return to the earth from which it came – ashes to ashes, dust to dust – where humus and seeds join forces with the sun, soil, and water to bring to birth new life.
It was a humbling, energizing little ceremony that called me to take stock. The possibility of a week end snowstorm simply underscored the importance of living into the cycle of the seasons in my soul. In The Soul’s Slow Ripening, Dr. Valters-
Paintner writes:
Winter invites us to gather inside, grow still with the landscape, and listen for the voices we may not hear during other times of year. These may be the sounds of our own inner wisdom or the voices of those who came before us. It is a season that calls us into the grace of descent. We spend so much of our spiritual lives trying to ascend. Descent is the path of having everything that offered comfort stripped away. In the mystical tradition (of the Celts) the descent is also the slow revelation of the true face and incredible mystery of God. ( pp. 120-121)
That was one small thread that grabbed my attention last week. Another was the holy whispering to me through three different poems. Like trying to figure out the gifts of the Holy Spirit that always require another person’s wisdom and perspective to clarify, correct, or validate our own, our souls need the words from others, too to name what is taking place within us. Those who know better than I say that, “poetry has a way of expressing things of the heart beautifully, of holding the paradox of life and inviting us into a contemplation of the mysteries” we know we desire, but need help embracing. One small poem I’ve been holding since the start of the pandemic by Ganga White says:
What if our religion was each other? What if our practice was our life and prayer our words? What if our temple was the Earth? If forests were our church? If holy water – the rivers, lakes, and ocean? What if meditation was our relationships? If the teacher was life? If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being?
This is Celtic incarnational spirituality in spades, right? A way of growing in
compassion and wisdom – living in unity with the sacred – by being woke. Aware.
Letting the holiness in our humanity ripen so that we can see the face of Jesus in all of creation. The Celts have taught us that nature is the first word of the Lord; and this little poem cuts through all the fancy words to ask what would it be like if all our spiritual practices were grounded in God’s creative reality? Former Irish priest and poet, John O’Donohue, suggests that:
Spirituality is the art of transfiguration. We should not force ourselves to change by hammering our lives into any predetermined shape. We do not need to operate according to the idea of a predetermined program or plan for our lives. Rather, we might practice a new art of attention to the inner rhythm of our days and lives… If you work with a different rhythm, you will come easily and naturally home to yourself. Your soul already knows the geography of your own destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself… If you attend to yourself and seek to come into your presence, you will find exactly the right rhythm for your life. (Anam Cara)
I don’t know why this little poem popped up again on Face Book when it did except to say I needed it to remind me of my own unique rhythm within the cycle of the seasons. Taking stock of it opened my eyes to a second poem on the internet entitled “Banality” by Gregory Djankian:
There's something to be said for banality,
That was one small thread that grabbed my attention last week. Another was the holy whispering to me through three different poems. Like trying to figure out the gifts of the Holy Spirit that always require another person’s wisdom and perspective to clarify, correct, or validate our own, our souls need the words from others, too to name what is taking place within us. Those who know better than I say that, “poetry has a way of expressing things of the heart beautifully, of holding the paradox of life and inviting us into a contemplation of the mysteries” we know we desire, but need help embracing. One small poem I’ve been holding since the start of the pandemic by Ganga White says:
What if our religion was each other? What if our practice was our life and prayer our words? What if our temple was the Earth? If forests were our church? If holy water – the rivers, lakes, and ocean? What if meditation was our relationships? If the teacher was life? If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being?
This is Celtic incarnational spirituality in spades, right? A way of growing in
Letting the holiness in our humanity ripen so that we can see the face of Jesus in all of creation. The Celts have taught us that nature is the first word of the Lord; and this little poem cuts through all the fancy words to ask what would it be like if all our spiritual practices were grounded in God’s creative reality? Former Irish priest and poet, John O’Donohue, suggests that:
Spirituality is the art of transfiguration. We should not force ourselves to change by hammering our lives into any predetermined shape. We do not need to operate according to the idea of a predetermined program or plan for our lives. Rather, we might practice a new art of attention to the inner rhythm of our days and lives… If you work with a different rhythm, you will come easily and naturally home to yourself. Your soul already knows the geography of your own destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself… If you attend to yourself and seek to come into your presence, you will find exactly the right rhythm for your life. (Anam Cara)
I don’t know why this little poem popped up again on Face Book when it did except to say I needed it to remind me of my own unique rhythm within the cycle of the seasons. Taking stock of it opened my eyes to a second poem on the internet entitled “Banality” by Gregory Djankian:
There's something to be said for banality,
the way it keeps everything on a level plane,
one cliché blithely following another
one cliché blithely following another
like cows heading toward the pasture.
How lovely sometimes not to think about Russian Futurism,
How lovely sometimes not to think about Russian Futurism,
or the second law of thermodynamics,
or how thinking itself requires some thoughtfulness.
I'd like to ask if Machiavelli ever owned a dog named "Prince."
I'd like to imagine Rosalind Franklin lounging pleasantly by a wood stove.
Let the mind take a holiday, the body put its slippers on.
It's a beautiful day, says the banal, and today,
I'd like to ask if Machiavelli ever owned a dog named "Prince."
I'd like to imagine Rosalind Franklin lounging pleasantly by a wood stove.
Let the mind take a holiday, the body put its slippers on.
It's a beautiful day, says the banal, and today,
I'm happy to agree with its genial locutions.
Woof, woof, goes the neighbor's dog.
Woof, woof, goes the neighbor's dog.
The sun is pouring in through the window,
heating up the parlor, the blue sky is so blue,
heating up the parlor, the blue sky is so blue,
and the cumulous clouds are looking very cumulous.
I'm all for reading a murder mystery,
I'm all for reading a murder mystery,
something with flair but forgettable.
Or some novelette whose hero's name is Hawk or Kestrel,
a raptor bird soaring above his ravished love.
I'm lying on the couch with easy puzzles.
Or some novelette whose hero's name is Hawk or Kestrel,
a raptor bird soaring above his ravished love.
I'm lying on the couch with easy puzzles.
I'm playing a song that has no accidentals.
Life's but a dream, comme ci, comme ça.
No doubt, tomorrow I'll be famished for what's occult and perilous,
all those knots in the brain, all the words that are hard to crack.
Today, I'm floating like a feather, call me Falcon
Life's but a dream, comme ci, comme ça.
No doubt, tomorrow I'll be famished for what's occult and perilous,
all those knots in the brain, all the words that are hard to crack.
Today, I'm floating like a feather, call me Falcon
look me up in the field guide under Blissful,
Empty-headed, under everything that loves what it does today,
Empty-headed, under everything that loves what it does today,
and requires no explanation.
Isn’t that exquisite? Simple, perfect, and true? At this stage in my life, I’m not ashamed to confess that I, too crave the banal from time to time. Especially at the end of the day – in the middle of this pandemic pilgrimage – especially when winter is closing in just around the corner. Such banality is a small blessing, what that wise but all too anxious Reformer, Jean Covin – or John Calvin as we know him – might call a common grace: a blessing given to all people regardless of their theological acumen or commitment. These days I am all FOR common grace – trusting like the Iona Community affirms that “God’s goodness is planted at the heart of humanity more deeply than all that is wrong.” Being open to the birth of the small child of Bethlehem – the promise hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump – helps me see and honor these little blessings even within the banal. Those working in the realm of contemporary Celtic spirituality want us to know that there is a:
Profound kind of humility demanded of us on our journey. We are called to recognize that we don’t know what will happen to us on this pilgrimage. We don’t understand how we will be changed by this experience. We don’t know the meaning of the times we stumble and fall because when you’re walking a path without a map, it is impossible to plan ahead… that is why from time to time we must pause to take stock… these holy pauses are essential for discerning meaning in what we have experienced. (Valters-Paintner, Soul of the Pilgrim, p. 19)
So, we pause. We listen. We observe the cycle of the seasons. And the serendipitous songs and poems that float our way. And we learn, incrementally, to “live with a wild, open heart that is ready to see God on every horizon.” Even the painful ones – which is what the third poem said to me. It is by Rilke called “Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower.”
Quiet friend who has come so far
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
These are terrifying times – saturated with darkness – it often feels like the sorrow is beating ALL the life out of us. On Thursday, I was watching the PBS News Hour interview with the chief admin-istrator of a large medical complex in Texas who said that in addition to the fatigue and burnout her staff is experiencing during this surge of covid, beyond the anguish everyone feels caring for desperately sick individuals, there have been 6 suicides in the past 3 months on her staff. Without warning, I burst into tears hearing this, awakened yet again to the magnitude of misfortune, fear, torment, and anger we all are trying to manage. And this was just one medical complex. In one state. From one newscast.
Isn’t that exquisite? Simple, perfect, and true? At this stage in my life, I’m not ashamed to confess that I, too crave the banal from time to time. Especially at the end of the day – in the middle of this pandemic pilgrimage – especially when winter is closing in just around the corner. Such banality is a small blessing, what that wise but all too anxious Reformer, Jean Covin – or John Calvin as we know him – might call a common grace: a blessing given to all people regardless of their theological acumen or commitment. These days I am all FOR common grace – trusting like the Iona Community affirms that “God’s goodness is planted at the heart of humanity more deeply than all that is wrong.” Being open to the birth of the small child of Bethlehem – the promise hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump – helps me see and honor these little blessings even within the banal. Those working in the realm of contemporary Celtic spirituality want us to know that there is a:
Profound kind of humility demanded of us on our journey. We are called to recognize that we don’t know what will happen to us on this pilgrimage. We don’t understand how we will be changed by this experience. We don’t know the meaning of the times we stumble and fall because when you’re walking a path without a map, it is impossible to plan ahead… that is why from time to time we must pause to take stock… these holy pauses are essential for discerning meaning in what we have experienced. (Valters-Paintner, Soul of the Pilgrim, p. 19)
Quiet friend who has come so far
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
These are terrifying times – saturated with darkness – it often feels like the sorrow is beating ALL the life out of us. On Thursday, I was watching the PBS News Hour interview with the chief admin-istrator of a large medical complex in Texas who said that in addition to the fatigue and burnout her staff is experiencing during this surge of covid, beyond the anguish everyone feels caring for desperately sick individuals, there have been 6 suicides in the past 3 months on her staff. Without warning, I burst into tears hearing this, awakened yet again to the magnitude of misfortune, fear, torment, and anger we all are trying to manage. And this was just one medical complex. In one state. From one newscast.
That’s when it hit me that the time is now for our religion to BE one another and our spiritual practices how we live our lives. Being on this Celtic spiritual pilgrimage with you helps ground me. Knowing that you are wrestling with the same things I am helps me take the next step by faith through my tears. Trusting that God’s love is greater than all our insecurities feeds me from the inside out, too. So, the last thread of synchronicity that spoke to me last week in my holy pause of discernment came again from Henri Nouwen.
You know, Fr. Henri is NOT a Celt, he’s just an anxious older religious guy – in many ways like me – who kept on trusting, failing, listening, praying, studying, getting back up, and trusting some more. And the more Henri fell, the more he learned that he wasn’t alone: there were others who loved him and there was always God who cherished him. On one of his many wandering pilgrimages to find himself and his true calling – and there were many throughout his professional life – this time he went to a comunidade de base in Latin America, a spiritual community base of conscientized believers, where Nouwen found out he wasn’t cut out for the life of a religious revolutionary. In a little book he called Gracias he wrote: “the great mystery of Christmas that continues to give us comfort and consolation is that we are not alone on our journey. God comes to us.”
The God of love who gave us life sent his only Son to be with us at all
… especially in those places within and among us where we feel the most vulnerable, the small-est, the most afraid or ashamed. This week, while not planning to do it, I was inspired to pause and take stock of how little I feel right now. How empty I am at times. How uncertain everything in life seems and how little control I have over so much. I took stock of the end of autumn and the start of winter – outside my life – so that I might sense it within. I noticed, again and again, the small synchronicities that pop up as tiny blessings and encouragements. And, mostly, I felt a trust that the inner pilgrim and monk within me wanted me to know that it was perfectly alright with the holy if I honored my own peculiar and unique rhythms. In fact, it was essential.
In this, it was a good week. It was a humbling week. It was terrifying, heart-breaking, and reassuring week all at the same time, too – and now its time to get back on the pilgrimage road to Bethlehem.
No comments:
Post a Comment