a day to return thanks...

Today's post is going to be hyper-personal. That may strike some as ironic given the freedom I've experienced since retirement. Others may wonder what types of constraints have been employed that make other postings less personal. A few who visit here from time to time will wonder why I am not musing about music or spirituality or the current chaos spurting from the wounded heart of the Oval Office. Oh well... today there are four things I want to note.

First, today is my daughter's birthday. She is a young (nearly middle aged) woman I cherish and respect. She is funnier and smarter than almost anyone else I know and I enjoy her company tremendously. I could write volumes about her insight and wit, the things I have learned from her life's journey, or the music she has turned me on to. But let it suffice to say that I give thanks to God for her now and always.

Second, it has been just 45 days since my official retirement. And what has been most liberating is the total absence of heart-stopping emails. That is to say, I closed down one email address a week after I left public ministry - and that ended the volume. But more importantly, when we officially drew a line in the sand, I also quit receiving notes from administrative types that used to offend and wound my soul. No need to belabor this point, but the anxiety attacks are gone. The loss of self-esteem has been resolved (our trip to Tucson REALLY made a huge difference.) And I don't dread opening emails any more like I did for the past 30 months. A few clergy friends have wondered if I am feeling grief about my new condition: well, grief is not the word that comes to my mind. Ecstasy is more like it because of this one fact alone. 

Third, all of a sudden my musical awareness has exploded into a vibrant cornucopia of sounds, grooves and styles. Just last week I wrote about losing touch with new musical trends. Well, that may have been true for the past three years, but not so any more. Creating a new band with Hal and Jon has opened my ears and my heart to what is happening all over the world - and it is thrilling. I am researching world music. I am practicing like I haven't in years. And I can't get enough of working with our new ensemble. Tomorrow, come hell or high water (or snow flurries as the case may be) I am headed to Connecticut for a morning session that will build on Sunday's 5+ hour groove.

And fourth, my heart grows closer to L'Arche Ottawa. I will head north later this month to share part of Holy Week with my new faith community. I don't know all the reasons why but my heart is aching to reconnect. During Holy Week I will have a chance to pray, participate in Holy Thursday's foot washing ceremony, and Good Friday's stations of the Cross before heading home. Jean Vanier has written that making certain that there is time to share meals and fool around with one another in ordinary life evokes the holiness of the ordinary. I get that in spades. 

There is so much to be thankful for on this day: last year at this time our precious grandson was close to death - and now he thrives. There were soon other family health crises that were terrifying to say nothing of the professional life decisions that would change all our lives. And now, thanks be to God, we all rejoice. It feels as soulful as this song from Susan Tedeshci: Midnight in Harlem.

a season for the elders AND the prophets to link arms...

As part of my up and down encounter with Lent this year, I found myself moved by the words of Psalm 107. It is the appointed reading for this day following the Fourth Sunday of Lent and maintains that wandering in the wilderness is part of real life. Time in the desert may be the consequence of national folly, exile, or spiritual confusion. 

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures for ever.
Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, those he redeemed from trouble and gathered in from the lands, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south.
Some wandered in desert wastes, finding no way to an inhabited town;
hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted within them.

Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble,
and he delivered them from their distress;
he led them by a straight way,
until they reached an inhabited town.
Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love,
for his wonderful works to humankind.
For he satisfies the thirsty,
and the hungry he fills with good things.
Some sat in darkness and in gloom,
prisoners in misery and in irons,
for they had rebelled against the words of God,
and spurned the counsel of the Most High.
Their hearts were bowed down with hard labor;
they fell down, with no one to help.
Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble,
and he saved them from their distress;
he brought them out of darkness and gloom,
and broke their bonds asunder.
Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love,
for his wonderful works to humankind.
For he shatters the doors of bronze,
and cuts in two the bars of iron.

Scholars suggest two broad insights:

+ First, there are four constellations of people who have known both suffering and redemption: they come from the north, south, east and west. They are those who have experienced loss in desert places, in prisons, in illness, and upon the vastness of the sea. Robert Altizer writes that the commonality each group shares is God's "redemption from captivity or dangerous enemies" into a gathering of the grateful. (Book of Psalms, Altizer, p. 383) Each of the redeemed groupings in the psalm have parallel's in ancient Israel's history. But there are not enough clear connections between the actual exile, exodus, etc. of the people to pinpoint a precise historical context for this song of praise. It is, therefore, a suggestive and evocative poem with roots in ancient Israel's past but ample symbolism for personal meditation, too. Who among us has not known a time of being lost in what feels like the barren wilderness? Or sick and without hope? Or imprisoned by bars or addictions? Or even adrift in a tempest with no land in sight?  As another scholar observes: "The psalm is not an exercise is speculative theology... whose author shows no awareness of all the facets of the age-long problem of evil. (Clearly) the psalmist was sufficiently familiar with life to realize that circumstance do not always work out - even for the saints - in a happy way." (W. Steward McCullough, Interpreter's Bible, p. 572) The poet, Laurence Weider, rephrased the psalm like this:

Always returning to the promise, I remember
  Some few kept in mind what they had seen
  Of parted sea, of wasteland nurture, law.
  Wandering the wilderness, they cried out
  To God, to their confusion, and were heard.
  Their children founded places, and were fed.

This psalm speaks of living into and through the trials of real life with trust. In remembering we are able to steel ourselves for life's inevitable suffering.

+ Second, the psalmist offers a four-fold refrain: O give thanks to the Lord for God is good; the steadfast love of the Lord endures forever! In the context of this psalm, these words were probably a shared refrain used in the context of worship. At an appointed time, a recollection of both the nation's shared wounds and God's response would be rehearsed in a litany. In call and response fashion the gathered faithful would then respond: O give thanks to the Lord for God is good for the steadfast love of the Lord endures forever. This is an invitation to live by faith not just by sight. It is a wisdom song to trust God both because it is God's historically observed nature to bring the people into places of safety; but also because trust is the way our eyes learn to see what is not always obvious. It is a charge to practice a long obedience . A commitment to truth and trust not just bottom lines. A willingness to look through the clutter and chaos of any given moment into the steadfast love of the Lord that endures forever. 

I can't help but think of the social critic Neil Postman at this moment in time when he wrote:

When a population becomes distracted by trivia, when cultural life is redefined as a perpetual round of entertainments, when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk, when, in short, a people become an audience, and their public business a vaudeville act, then a nation finds itself at risk; culture-death is a clear possibility... What  Huxley teaches is that in the age of advanced technology, spiritual devastation is more likely to come from an enemy with a smiling face than from one whose countenance exudes suspicion and hate. In the Huxleyan prophecy, Big Brother does not watch us, by his choice. We watch him, by ours. There is no need for wardens or gates or Ministries of Truth. When a population becomes distracted by trivia, when cultural life is redefined as a perpetual round of entertainments, when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk, when, in short, a people become an audience and their public business a vaudeville act, then a nation finds itself at risk; a culture-death is a clear possibility. (Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death)

Postman is a post-biblical elder with a long vision. He understands contemporary wilderness, prison and all the rest. Psalm 107 strikes me as the voice on another elder, one who has experienced and endured the agonies of the past as well as the blessings of the Lord. Together these elders want to remind us that there is a way through our current morass. The closing stanzas of Wieder's poetic riff on this psalm cuts to the chase:

So later generations fill their mouths with praises:

A sailor's business is the ocean. On his watch

He peered into the abyss: wind twisted masts

Like paper, breakers boiled yellow, rigging

Crackled with drowned souls. The compass spun.

So later generations fill their mouths with praises:

It's possible to die from too much skill,

And possible to live not knowing how

The storm blew, how merchant port was found,

It's possible to live and never once be clam.

So later generations fill their mouths with praises:

They sing in public and before their teachers,

How water turned the salt flats into orchards,

How people settled cities, planted vineyards,

Sowed grain in fields, covered grazing lands.

So the story keeps returning, of great armies

Lost in deserts, of the small made splendid

Blessed with family and flocks, of the wicked

Choking on their empty language, hands clapping

Shut the mouth. Some parts return to mind.

A wise one sees things, and may understand them.

This is a season for elders, beloved, as well as innocent young activists rising up from the carnage of their schools. And newly energized white kids from suburban Florida linking arms with Black Lives Matters prophets. And parents holding chicken shit politicians accountable for bathing in NRA blood money. And women gathering in solidarity and strength to bring a new way of loving to consciousness. And men nailing rape culture to the Cross. And each of us recognizing the wilderness - or prison - or disease of this moment in time, but living, breathing and honoring the mercy and steadfast love of the Lord that is bigger and more true than the totality of this regime's lies and distractions. Birthing is a bloody mess and a new world is being born in the midst of our trials.

credits:

+ Nate Pyle @ cropped-there-is-always-hope-2516881 (1)

+ Brainy Quotes @ https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/melody_beattie_134462

+ Buddies in Bad Times @ http://buddiesinbadtimes.com/show/the-youth-elders-project/

a new way of living into the lenten wilderness...

Today is the Fourth Sunday in Advent. The gospel lesson is one used to proclaim the sermon on the day of my ordination almost 40 years ago. It is taken from John 3: 14-21:

Jesus said to Nicodemus: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.” For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him. Whoever believes in him will not be condemned, but whoever does not believe has already been condemned, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the verdict, that the light came into the world, but people preferred darkness to light, because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come toward the light, so that his works might not be exposed. But whoever lives the truth comes to the light, so that his works may be clearly seen as done in God.

Last night, when I realized I could not remember what Sunday in Lent it was, I downloaded a lectionary site from Vanderbilt University where I came upon this stunning prayer:  

Artist of souls,
you sculpted a people for yourself
out of the rocks of wilderness and fasting.
Help us as we take up your invitation to prayer and simplicity,
that the discipline of these forty days
may sharpen our hunger for the feast of your holy friendship,
and whet our thirst for the living water you offer
through Jesus Christ. Amen.

My journey this Lent has been uneven: there have been highs of deep reverence and connection; and, times when I don't even recall that I am in the wilderness. At the same time, I feel closer to Jesus than I have in years. Part of that is my on-going reading of Nouwen's journal, The Road to Daybreak, and the weekly Lenten questions formed by the Nouwen Society. I have come to realize that I truly miss making this journey in community. I don't miss my leadership role. But I do miss being with others who seek to grow closer to the Lord in thought, word and deed. If I hadn't been ill on Saturday, I would have joined my friend in South County who serves as the spiritual leader of a progressive, creative Jewish community. As Jean Vanier notes with stunning clarity: we all have a yearning to belong.

Maybe that's why I spent over five hours in music rehearsal this afternoon: I could have gone for another three without blinking it was so satisfying. I love my band mates - and the careful crafting of songs of compassion and hope in these times has become a sacred calling. So has staying in communion with L'Arche Ottawa. I will join them for part of Holy Week - foot washing on Thursday and Stations of the Cross on Friday morning - before heading to Brooklyn for Easter. I hope to spend another three hours practicing later this week as we prepare to take these songs out to see if anyone wants to listen. In this, there is a connection with the Lord's wilderness wandering and the whole Lenten groove. I can't remember a Lent quite like this. I just know it rings true and that I am ready to go deeper in the short time that remains. I resonate with this prayer for today in ways that cut deeper than reason:

God of wilderness and water,
your Son was baptized and tempted as we are.
Guide us through this season,
that we may not avoid struggle,
but open ourselves to blessing,
through the cleansing depths of repentance
and the heaven-rending words of the Spirit. Amen.

wandering in the wilderness as a lenten discipline...

There comes a time in many musician's development when you realize, "I don't know shit about what's happening in music now!" Jazz players often take a sabbatical from sound to either rework their chops; or, like Sonny Rollins has done from time to time, to rethink what they are called to accomplish in the time that remains. Back in the day, Bob Dylan would periodically disappear from the scene only to pop up with new ideas and sounds. And now, for different reasons,  a wide swath of so-called "heritage" artists from Paul Simon and Elton John to Joan Baez, Ozzy Osborne, Neil Diamond and Eric Clapton are choosing to take an extended break. Some will fully retire while others will rest before regrouping to explore new musical vistas.

Personally, my musical development has been on hold for the past few years, too. These have been spiritually and emotionally confusing times. Fertile in a dark and germinating way, but also dry like the Sonoran desert waiting for that surprise winter rain that explodes overnight in wild flowers. So unlike Kiki Dee, for a few years I didn't have the music in me - so not much came out. 



Two exceptions were post-sabbatical projects in 2015: the local premier of Paul Winter's "Missa Gaia" under the direction of Carlton Maaia II, and, a reworking of John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" for Good Friday on the occasion of this masterwork's 50th anniversary. Both came off brilliantly and were artistically and spiritually satisfying. But then... nothing was cooking. I didn't play many gigs. I had no juice or interest in reworking songs for church. And I pretty much quit practicing. To everything there is a season, I know, but the flow of tunes within me shriveled up and hid. Some jazz masters, notably Oscar Peterson and Herbie Hancock, held my attention during this period. Singer/songwriter Carrie Newcomer, too. But that's about it.

Only after working my way through the labyrinth of issues related to retirement did I start to play and practice again - albeit in a very selective way. I had no interest - and still don't - in just sitting around playing tunes. Regurgitating the past at church was not an option either. And playing in public without serious rehearsals? Forget it!  Once again there were two creative projects that awakened my inner groove. The first was a dream held close to my heart for over a decade: an interfaith concert called Songs and Sounds of Solidarity. I was able to recruit 15 spoken word artists and musicians from the Judeo-Christian tradition in the Berkshires to support the Four Freedoms Coalition. I also gathered some of my favorite musical friends to rework Herbie Hancock's take on "Don't Give Up." This event felt like closing a circle - it took place just weeks before my formal departure from church - and was aesthetically beautiful.



The second put me back in relationship with my buddy Hal.  Last fall we started practicing for what I thought might be a house concert. It ripened into an authentic musical mission: creating original songs of compassion and challenge for 21st century people. We shared some tunes in my closing days of worship and also did a small concert event that was well received. And now we're in rehearsals in anticipation of taking this show on the road. I believe Hal is a humble musical genius - a gifted guitarist with a wide range of styles - with songs that cut deep. They question lethargy and denial. They offer sounds of hope to a culture that is amusing itself to death. And they are consistently poetic and beautiful. What's more, I get to play electric and upright bass with a dear brother in a new and profoundly satisfying manner. 



All of which is to say that the past three years have been a protracted season of Lent for me. In my tradition, Lent is a time for winnowing. Stripping away that which clutters the heart, inhibits compassion, or confuses creativity. In A Long Obedience, Eugene Peterson evokes the challenge of Lent like this: 

We are surrounded by a way of life in which betterment is understood as expansion, as acquisition, as fame. Everyone wants to get more – to be on top – no matter what it is the top of that’s admired. There’s nothing recent about the temptation. It’s the oldest sin in the book. The one that got Adam tossed out of the garden and Lucifer tossed out of heaven. What is new about it is the general admiration and approval it receives.

Lent trains us during its forty days for extended emptiness and uncertainty. In a contained vessel, with loving guidance and solidarity, Lenten pilgrims practice wandering in the wilderness. The goal is not asceticism, but the cultivation of trust that lives deeper than the obvious. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel points to this truth from within his own wisdom:

Faith is not the clinging to a shrine but an endless pilgrimage of the heart. Audacious longing, burning songs, daring thoughts, an impulse over-whelming the heart, usurping the mind--these are all a drive towards serving the One who rings our hearts like a bell.

To everything there is a season indeed: a time to laugh and a time to weep, a time to dance and a time to mourn, a time for silence and a time to make music. And so it is coming to pass and I give thanks.

Lucie as my partner in prayer...

For those who love winter - especially the beauty of fresh snow and the silence it creates - there is nothing like walking through open fields and undisturbed woodlands on snow shoes. Nothing. It is a moment of mystery and reverence. A gentle reminder that all will be well and exceedingly well. There will still be fierce storms, violence and danger. But new life always emerges from our deaths for that is the rhythm of creation.

About the only thing that makes our winter wonderland better than taking in the awe with quiet respect is schlepping through the snow with a Jack Frost dog name Lucie. She aches to bounce and leap through drifts up to her neck. Then she buries her big head to her shoulders, roots around for some mysterious creature only to pop up later like a frozen prairie dog comedian. But the blessing comes when she decides it is time race full steam through the virgin white. Like a greyhound in training, she becomes her truest self: elegant, free and at peace with all creation. Most of the time, Lucie is anxious. She is afraid of her own shadow and lives with more fear than I can comprehend. After nearly eight years of partnership, she is not going to change. Yes, when she cuddles every morning - and at night while watching TV - she can be tender and playful. But most of her day is given to fretting. 

But not while prancing through snow drifts or racing with the wind; then she is a vision of beauty.

Lucie has changed my life. In addition to living as our furry companion, she has become one of my prayer partners. Every day, whether I want it or not, she helps me see those parts of me that I hide and try to deny. She calls me out when I fake it - and not always in ways that evoke my love. Her anxiety can be exasperating - and when it becomes a moving, breathing, running 68 pound mass of confusion, Lucie can be frightening. Not in a violent or vicious way. More like a tornado of fearful feelings hellbent on escape. It is hear-breaking and taxing because she is one big bundle of muscle and fur.

Maybe that's another reason why my heart overflows when she charges through the snow. This is Lucie at rest - free to be fully her precious self - liberated for a moment from everything that weighs her down. This version of "Old Blue" by Cisco Huston has been floating around in the back of my head now for years. Better than anyone else I've heard, he captures the joy and anguish of loving a wounded dog like Lucie. She's sacked out on the sofa now exhausted. It is a good day in the Berkshires.

emptiness and a Lenten blizzard...

"Jesus is the God whom we can approach without pride and before

whom we can humble ourselves without despair. " Blaise Pascal, Pensées. This Lent is becoming a season of insistent introspection. Nothing harsh is taking place, just a growing awareness of what the cost of discipleship means for me. I have been pondering this paragraph Henri Nouwen wrote sometime before his unexpected death in 1996 as part of my Lenten journey:

We are afraid of emptiness. Spinoza speaks about our "horror vacui," our horrendous fear of vacancy. We like to occupy-fill up-every empty time and space. We want to be occupied. And if we are not occupied we easily become preoccupied; that is, we fill the empty spaces before we have even reached them. We fill them with our worries, saying, "But what if ..." It is very hard to allow emptiness to exist in our lives. Emptiness requires a willingness not to be in control, a willingness to let something new and unexpected happen. It requires trust, surrender, and openness to guidance. God wants to dwell in our emptiness. But as long as we are afraid of God and God's actions in our lives, it is unlikely that we will offer our emptiness to God. Let's pray that we can let go of our fear of God and embrace God as the source of all love.

This strikes me as fundamentally true. I know that regularly I try to fill up my emptiness with distractions - or tasks - rather than sit with them in trust. Small wonder then, that sometimes, just as I am about to fall asleep, these empty places sneak back into my awareness. Clearly my soul wants me to let God fill up my emptiness even as I unconsciously resist. And if I won't do it during the day, then I'll get another chance when my defenses are down. Not with cruelty or judgment as the God of my youth once demanded, but rather with patience and grace. 

For the past week I have been invited to sit with my emptiness almost nightly. Jesus once said that we cannot control the movement of the Spirit any more than we can manipulate the movement of the wind. (John 3:8) So I have no idea why this is happening now; I suspect it is so that I can practice praying, "Come, Lord Jesus, come" when it happens. Oh, I still get anxious at first - I like to sleep - so I flop around in bed for a while before sitting up to quietly welcome the silence. I want to be able to welcome this call to emptiness like I do when snow falls during the day: tenderly, gratefully, openly. I adore daylight snow storms. Everything becomes silent for a spell. The traffic stops. The world slows down. There is a peace in these hills unlike any other time. Fr. Richard Rohr has written that when human beings lose connection or experience with the rhythms of grace in nature, we often oppose the movement of the Spirit within.  

Aquinas affirms that God’s image and likeness is visible within the other-than-human realm, which few Christians were ever taught: God brought things into being in order that God’s goodness might be communicated to creatures, and be represented by them; and because God’s goodness could not be adequately represented by one creature alone, God produced many and diverse creatures, that what was wanting to one in the representation of the divine goodness might be supplied by another. For goodness, which in God is simple and uniform, in creatures is manifold and divided. This is the reason St. Francis could speak of animals as “brother” and “sister.” (Rohr, on-line meditations)

Without this grounding, we become alienated from ourselves, from our Creator

and from creation. The rhythm of grace in nature, however, regularly gives us a fresh start: "Whether an ordinary sunrise, a starling on a power line, a tree in a park, or a cloud in the sky. This spirituality doesn’t depend on education or belief. It almost entirely depends on our capacity for simple presence. Often those without formal education and “unbelievers” do this better than a lot of us." 

It is snowing vigorously right now in the Berkshires. We're likely to get at least another 7-12 inches before it stops tomorrow morning. Last night, as I was pushed into consciousness again even though I wanted to sleep, I sat up quietly and prayed a Centering Prayer:  "Abba" as I breathed in, and "Save me" as I breathed out. When all was calm after about ten minutes I read another few pages of my French mystery novel and fell asleep quickly. 

This is what the whole of Lent has been like for me this year: being awakened, resisting the call, breathing creation in as the insistent invitation of the Spirit to rest in God's grace and experiencing rest. Why I regularly resist I will never know? I am a slow learner. "Lord, I believe, and help my disbelief!"

Nouwen, L'Arche and Lent: part two...

NOTE:  In part one of this Lenten reflection I noted that Henri Nouwen's Daybreak journal was incredibly candid and vulnerable. Of particular importance in that post was his complex, often unsatisfying, periodically mystical, and always real words about prayer. Like me - and probably you - Nouwen's prayer experiences were, at the very least, uneven and disappointing. Fr. Keating teaches that true prayer is not always about consolation. Nor is prayer about always feeling at rest or at peace. Rather, it is opening ourselves to God. And, in that, Nouwen was faithful: he almost always prayed one hour every morning even when it was agony. Nouwen also notes in this journal that after his time in spiritual direction with Pere Thomas, spiritual guide of Jean Vanier of L'Arche, he began to worry less about his own inner experience of prayer and let his quiet time become one of trust. In part two of this reflection it is my observation that Nouwen's shift in his expectations re: prayer mirrors his own journey into a less public ministry - one shaped and formed by L'Arche.

The humble and hidden ministry of Jesus:  Over and over in the Daybreak journal, Henri Nouwen confesses that as much as he believes he wants to follow Jesus, he also knows that he loves following his own desires. On the occasion of his 54 birthday, he writes: "I feel indeed like the least of God's holy people."

Looking back, I realize that I am still struggling with the same problems I had on the day of my ordination twenty-nine years ago. Notwithstanding my many prayers, my periods of retreat, and the advice from many friends, counselors, and confessors, very little, if anything, has changed with regard to my search for inner unity and peace. I am still the restless, nervous, intense, distracted, and impulse-driven person I was when I set out on this spiritual journey. At times this obvious lack of inner maturation depresses me as I enter into the "mature" years. (Nouwen, p. 127)

The more time he spends at L'Arche, however, living with the least of these our sisters and brothers, the more he realizes how past choices have been about bold, important and public ministries. The Menninger Center, Notre Dame, Yale and Harvard were all places of public ministry for Nouwen - good and valuable ministries - all of which Nouwen entered because he wanted to make a difference. He also ached to be loved for doing something significant for God. At L'Arche he begins to questions this as vain glory rather than God's glory. In a boldlyhonest confession, he writes:

How then do we come to see and receive God's glory. In his Gospel, John shows that God chose to reveal his glory to us in his humiliation. That is the good but also disturbing news: God, in his infinite wisdom, chose to reveal his divinity to us not through competition, but thorough
compassion: suffering with us. God chose the way of downward mobility. Every time Jesus speaks about being glorified and giving glory, he always refers to his humiliation and death. It is through the way of the Cross that Jesus gives glory to God, receives glory from God, and makes God's glory known to us. The glory of the resurrection can never be separated from the glory of the Cross. The risen Lord always shows us his wounds. Thus the glory of God stands in contrast to the glory of people. People seek glory by moving upward. God reveals glory by moving downward... That is what L'Arche is beginning to teach me. (Nouwen p. 98)

Over and over he realizes that he has chosen upward mobility rather than God's glory. He comes to understand that there were often good reasons for his choices. At the same time, he quits fooling himself and admits that he loves attention. That he covets being useful. And that for a time, vain glory fills his life. It is like junk food, however, and always leaves him undernourished and anxious. Even after being called by L'Arche Toronto to a ministry of hidden humility - a blessing that Nouwen acknowledges is the Lord's answer to his prayers - he still frets. Will a hidden ministry be satisfying even if it is saturated in the way of Jesus? With excruciating clarity, Nouwen writes:

The hardest aspect of poverty (moving to L'Arche Toronto) lies in my not being able to control my own life. In this Jesus reveals himself to me as my Lord. When I look up at the cross, just as the sick looked up to the serpent that Moses lifted up in the desert (John:14) I can expected to be healed and discover a joy and peace in my heart far beyond the changing moods of everyday living. It is the joy and peace of eternal life that already now can be tasted. I see every day more clearly how much I have to let go of in order to be poor: enough to "taste and see" the goodness of the Lord. (Nouwen, p. 168)

We know, from the journal's epilogue, that not only does Nouwen follow through on his call to L'Arche, but that it changes his life. He finally faces the inner battle of his ego - what he acknowledges as his own handicap of wanting to be wanted - and it wounds him. He learns from his suffering and grows more patient and even more tender. In time, this empowers Nouwen to wrestle with his own sexuality, too - even when it breaks his heart. Nouwen had an emotional breakdown that required him to leave his L'Arche community for intensive therapy. But, with a heart reformed by trust and a new way of living that allowed him to welcome God's love beyond his brokenness, Nouwen found healing and returned to L'Arche. He honored the way of the Cross as a blessing until the day he died. 

What I loved about The Road to Daybreak was its fierce opposition to sentimentality. The brilliant Roman Catholic Christian Educator and author, Gertrud Mueller-Nelson, observes that sentimentality is a half truth - and a half truth is ultimately a lie. There is no sugar coating on Nouwen's words about himself or the way of the heart. There is no sloppy agape. No pastel piety. And no illusions. Perhaps because I am in the later days of my own time in this realm that I rejoice in Nouwen's penetrating candor. It also has something to do, I know, with my own journey toward L'Arche. When I read his reference to Moses and the serpent in John's gospel, I was reminded that the Rev. Dr. Ray Swartzback used that text to preach my ordination into Christian ministry. And now my days in the local church are over even as I find new ways to follow Jesus at L'Arche Ottawa. Without reservation, let me encourage any one who needs a companion for Lent to pick up the Road to Daybreak.

Nouwen's journey into vulnerability: a Lenten reflection

As a part of my Lenten inner journey (what some speak of as prayer,
meditation,spirituality, contemplation) I have been using an on-line resource: Henri Nouwen Book Discussion
@ http://wp.henrinouwen.org. I have long been keen on honoring what some call synchronicity or serendipity. Not sentimentally, I hope, nor in ways that deny life's suffering. Rather, more like an "aha" moment or what Christians call an epiphany. The Nouwen group is reading one of Henri's journals: The Road to Daybreak. It recounts the wounded healer's year long discernment retreat at L'Arche Trosly after leaving Harvard Divinity School in despair. So, the story of Nouwen and L'Arche: how could I not take heart, right? Two broad insights have been particularly rewarding: the candor Nouwen brings to this journal, and, his recognition that the humble and hidden ministry of Jesus resonates most deeply with his heart.

Candid Vulnerability: I have read most of Nouwen's books over the past 40 years. Some have spoken to me profoundly while others have left me lukewarm. My three favorites - The Way of the Heart (1981), Reaching Out (1975) and Behold the Beauty of the Lord (1987) - are carefully constructed reflections on how to integrate the inward and outward journeys. I have also used the notes and letters Nouwen's students collected and published posthumously under the titles: Discernment, Spiritual Direction and Spiritual Formation. They are wise guides that distill Nouwen's wisdom re: cultivating contemplation and action.

What makes Daybreak so potent is how blunt Nouwen is about his failures at Harvard and the shabbiness of his prayer life. Clearly he wanted to make his mark teaching at the university level, but it always left him dissatisfied. At Harvard, the competition and petty politics ground him down. His own inner insecurities wore him out, too. And while he sensed Christ calling him towards another way of being, the lure of doing self-important work in public was often too much to resist. He kept doing what he had always done and expecting different results. After thirty years, this merry-go-round left him dizzy, empty and broken-hearted. At mid-life, one of Western Christianity's most successful authors found himself riddled with darkness. The paucity of his own prayers didn't help.

Time and again Daybreak shows Nouwen confessing that mostly his mind wanders during prayer. He is restless and despondent. The time he sets aside for God is saturated with fretting about failure. Or regurgitating shame. Or revisiting past embarrassments. Or wrestling with yet unnamed ghosts of days still to come. Rarely, if ever, does Nouwen feel at rest in Christ's peace.

Why should I spend an hour in prayer when I do nothing during that time but think about people I am angry with, people who are angry with me, books I should read and books I should write, and thousands of other silly things that happen to gram my mind for a moment? (p. 29) Often, if not daily, I tell myself: "Today I am going to spend some extra time just praying, just waiting expectantly, just sitting quietly." But always the day seems to be consumed by a thousand little things which beg for my attention. When the day is over, I feel frustrated, angry and disappointed with myself... Often I think, "A life is like a day; it goes by so fast. If I am careless with my days, how can I be careful with my life." (p. 103)

What remarkable candor and vulnerability. Time and again I found myself reading words that I too could have written. To say that the realm of my prayer life has been uneven would be generous. So there is something comforting and even encouraging to know how even the Master is often confounded. There is also something useful in these confessions. In time, Nouwen's spiritual director at L'Arche tells him that the challenge of faith is all about trust: only when we relinquish our egos and habits to God's grace will we escape our pits of darkness and fear. This prompts yet another tender confession: "(My) real problem, is expecting from a friend what only Christ can give."

I feel so easily rejected. When a friend does not come, a letter is not written, or an invitation not extended, I begin to feel unwanted and disliked. I gravitate towards dark feelings of low self-esteem and become depressed. Once depressed, I ten to interpret even innocent gestures as proofs of my self-chosen darkness, from which it is harder and harder to return. Looking carefully at this viscous cycle of self-rejection... is a good way to start moving in the opposite direction. (p. 55) 

Pere Thomas, spiritual mentor of Jean Vanier at L'Arche, offers this alternative: the way of the heart.

For many of us in our highly psychologized culture, affection has become our central concern... being loved, like, appreciated, praised, acknowledged, recognized, etc is the desired prize of life. The lack of these forms of affection can throw us into an abyss of loneliness and depression... but what about the hidden gift in that place of the heart? (The heart) is the place of trust, a trust that can be called faith, hope or love depending on how it is being manifested. Pere Thomas sees the trusting heart as the most important characteristic of the human person. It is not so much the ability to think, to reflect, to plan, or to produce that makes us different from the rest of creation, but the ability to trust. It is the heart that makes us truly human... Our heart is that divine gift which allows us to trust not just God, but also our mother, our father, our family, ourselves and the rest of th world... The heart is much wider and deeper than our affections. It is before and beyond the distinctions between sorrow and joy, anger and lust, fear and love. It is the place where all is one in God, the place where we truly belong, the place from which we come and to which we always yearn to return. (pp. 47-49)

Over time, the Daybreak journal documents how the words of Pere Thomas are taken to heart by Nouwen. There are no huge differences - all real inner change is cumulative - but first Henri lets himself simply rest in the presence of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The only prayer that offers a measure of peace is the Rosary so that becomes his hiding place. And then, when he least expects it, he realizes that: 

Gradually I am becoming aware of a new dimension in my prayer life. It is hard to find words for it, but it feels like a protective presence of God, Mary, the angels, and the saints that exist in the midst of distractions, fears, temptations, and inner confusion. My prayers are not all that intensive or profound, but I found a desire to spend time (there know-ing) that I was surrounded by goodness, gentleness, kindness and acceptance... I am not taken away from the dangers, I am not lifted from the seductive world. I am not removed from violence,e hatred, lust, and greed. In fact, I feel them in the center of my being, screaming for my full attention. They are restless and noisy. Still, this hand, these lips, these eyes are present and I know that I am safe, held in love, cared for, and protected by the good spirits of heaven. So, I am praying while not knowing hot to pray. I am resting...(p. 134)

Later this week I will share my observations about Nouwen's commitment to the quiet, hidden way of Jesus as key to his emerging inner peace. For now, let me note that such a journey rings to true to me. I cannot force or work my way into the peace that passes understanding. I can simply show up and practice being still. Fr. Keating of Centering Prayer calls sitting in silence with an open heart "sacred psychology." It is letting the love of God work deep within so that grace bathes us in tenderness. The more we practice trusting this grace, the stronger it becomes in our hearts. The more we honor our experiences with trust, the greater our ability to wait upon grace in trying times.  As our inner anxiety is tamed by tenderness, we become a non-anxious presence in a world of fear. Blessed, indeed, are the peace-makers for they shall live as children of God in a culture obsessed with striving and shame.

fascinating and unanticipated shades of gray...

One of the inevitable consequences of leaving ministry for retirement is moving into a land of invisibility. As with most destinations, there are up and down sides as well as a host of other fascinating and unanticipated shades of gray. On the bright side, my world is now colored by an absence of expectations and social roles. As I first discovered on sabbatical in Montreal, it is liberating not to be known primarily as "pastor." I am just the old guy in the Mingus T-shirt who speaks bad French, doesn't always hear right, loves music, prayer, and taking odd pictures on his I Phone. My day has no imposed structure. My prayers have no external liturgical demands. And my focus is rarely interrupted by either emergency or surprise. This type of invisibility is a bit like the spirituality of the early Christian Desert Mothers and Fathers: purely a matter of the heart. The relative anonymity of my new reality is a blessing. There will certainly be a less satisfying flip side revealed at some point, but for now that remains a mystery. What has emerged are various shades of gray.

+ First, my former life was shaped by the ebb and flow of the Christian liturgical year in community. I was not as a monk in hermitage, but one who shared a common cup. My spirituality was nourished not in solitude but in relationships. For forty years I swam through the current of feasting and fasting, ashes and fire, sound and silence. Not so any more. Ethically I am constrained by strict boundaries that separate me from my former congregation. This is to ensure that their future matures beyond my influence. In a small, New England town, however, this means that there are precious few options for my personal worship in public. Living into this protocol has challenged me to cultivate a new inner life. Psalm 51, for example, feels different in private than in community:
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from your presence and take not your holy Spirit from me. Give me the joy of your saving help again and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit. As I have been set free from public responsibilities I have also been rendered spiritually isolated: one shade of gray.

+ Second, letting go of my public role has heightened my awareness of my own mortality. Once upon a time, my days were so full that I could overlook my hearing loss, aching back, or periodic forgetfulness. Today, with all the time that exists available to me, it is much harder to look the other way. I need help. I must rest more after shoveling snow. I turn the sound up on the TV too loud. It is becoming clear to me that one of the reasons why so many men delay retirement is the way our personal identities have been fused with productivity: I produce therefore I am. I am strong so I matter. I am contributing to the social good so I have value. For too many decades that was true for me, too. But not so much any more; I was ready for retirement years before it was possible. Yet I am startled to see how much I let my busyness mask my mortality. The blessings Jesus shared with his disciples in Peterson's rendering of the Sermon on the Mount is speaking to me in new ways:    

You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought. You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God. He’s food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat. You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for. You’re blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world. You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.

+ And third, I am aware how little the gifts of wisdom born of age matter in our bottom-line, fast paced world.  It is clarifying to become culturally irrelevant. This experience is known well by women of a certain age - and people of color in another manner - but new for me. Two months ago, when I was in a planning meeting for a regional festival to present young artists' insights re: social justice, I had an embarrassing epiphany. Summarizing the meeting, I inadvertently confused "Google docs" with "Google hang outs." The tittering and eye rolling among the younger participants made it all too clear that "the old guy" was out of his comfort zone. "Truth be told," I observed out loud, "I've never used Google hang-outs - and probably never will. What's more, I'm not all that crazy about Google docs either. Sorry 'bout that." 

Not a big deal and things wrapped up just fine. But the point had been made: it was time for me to step away from the action. I have gifts and insights to share - especially when it comes to public accountability and organizing for action -but, as John the Baptist said about Jesus, this is a time for me to decrease so that he may increase. It is time for another generation to give it their best, to learn from their inevitable mistakes and to grow through honest evaluation. It is time to trust that God is God and I am not. Perhaps that's why I loved this episode of "Grace and Frankie" (another party I have come to a bit late!)



Each of these encounters (and others like always parking my car in the same general place at the grocery store lest I become woefully lost and break out into a giggle fit in public) have opened my eyes to the fascinating and unanticipated shades of gray all around me.

credit: Dianne De Mott

reclaiming the ties that bind...

Playing new music at this stage in my life is a fascinating paradox. Part of me asks, "Why would anyone want to listen to a few geezers playing original tunes?" Performing new tunes is a young person's phenomenon - and I ain't so young! Another part of me keeps thinking of Leonard Cohen - creative and beloved by multiple generations well into his 80s - as he reinvented the work of the "wisdom keeper."  In a culture constructed on shallowness and novelty, I sense there is a place for music-making elders. And I also know, to paraphrase St. Frederick Buechner, that a sacred calling is the place where my deepest joy meets the world's greatest need. 

Wrestling with the anxiety and pain of this moment in time, in ways that are simultaneously creative, prophetic and beautiful, is the challenge. Carrie Newcomer consistently gets this right. Bruce Cockburn has done it well over the decades, too. Their ability to craft songs that nourish head and heart while honoring truth and compassion are legendary. 



Like St. Paul before them, these artists are committed to sharing the life-changing power of beauty: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things and the God of peace will be with you. (Philippians 4:8) Others in this sacred choir would include John Hiatt, Warren Zevon, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Marc Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Namoli Brennet, Eric Bibb, Tracy Chapman, Lisa Fischer and Bob Dylan. And when this music is shared live - not just in electronic forms, but in person - hope often rises. Solidarity is experienced. And our common quest for the Beloved Community is renewed. 

Last week after band practice, a few of us old guys were sitting around talking about why we are working on new songs - and why we feel empowered to share them. It has something to do with a calling (see above.) "It's all about adding beauty and balance to this crazy time." And, I thought, "Doing it live with real people in this era of digital everything!" reclaims the ties that bind. 

that your joy may be full...

This observation by Henri Nouwen has increasingly become important to me. I have heard visual, musical and dance artists say much the same thing: when they reveal their most intimate truths, it touches the most people.

We like to make a distinction between our private and public lives and say, “Whatever I do in my private life is nobody else’s business.” But anyone trying to live a spiritual life will soon discover that the most personal is the most universal, the most hidden is the most public, and the most solitary is the most communal. What we live in the most intimate places of our beings is not just for us but for all people. That is why our inner lives are lives for others. That is why our solitude is a gift to our community, and that is why our most secret thoughts affect our common life. (Nouwen)

During Lent, I am reading Nouwen's journal re: how he discerned his call to the Daybreak Community of L'Arche Toronto. It is candid and clarifying as I, too celebrate my deepening connection with L'Arche Ottawa. In a reflection called "Feeling the Pain," Nouwen speaks of celebrating Eucharist with the community of Trosly on Tuesday nights. 

I have noticed that these people have little desire for dialogue or discussion, though they do like to pray together, sing together, be silent together, and listen together to a reflection on the Gospel. The assistants are often tired from a long day of work... and they want to be nurtured, supported, and cared for. I must learn a new style of ministry. Few of those who participate in these Tuesday night liturgies need to be convinced of the importance of the Gospels, the centrality of Jesus, or the value of the sacraments. Most have moved beyond that stage. They have discovered Christ; they have made their decision to work with the poor; they have chosen the narrow path. (The Road to Daybreak, p. 57)

Nouwen found himself gently surprised at the difference between those who gathered for worship at L'Arche, and the students and faculty he worked with at either Yale or Harvard. "I (used) to spend much energy convincing them of God's love, calling them into community and offering them a place to experience the peace of Jesus... That kind of ministry is appropriate in a secular university where students are fully caught up in the race for achievement." 

These words hit me with a thundering wallop! How long and hard have I worked to encourage people in my various congregations to trust God's grace rather than their shame over perceived holy judgment? How many different ways did I pitch the idea of finding 10 minutes - 5 minutes - even 1 minute each day to bask in the light of God's love? To seek out space for silent refreshment? To let go of doing long enough to rest? To be sure, there have been those who took the risk and opened their hearts to the path of contemplation. But rarely over those nearly 40 years was it ever more than a handful. Not so at L'Arche: my experience has been that those who attend liturgies want to go deeper. We are not dealing with fundamentals but the company of the committed so there is no need to persuade anyone. Nouwen amplifies my experience when he writes:

Here there is no urge to success; here time is filled with dressing,

feeding, carrying, and just being with those in need. It is a very demanding and tiring way, but there is no rivalry, no degree to be acquired, no honor to be desired - just faithful service. This is a new challenge for me. It requires me to develop the art of "spiritual companionship" with these fellow travelers. I now realize that the gospel of John was written for men and women like these. It was written for mature spiritual persons who do not want to argue about elementary issues, but who want to be introduced into the mysteries of the divine life. 

This is exactly what I have felt! In this context, authentic horizontal worship can take place organically. Indeed, when I celebrated Eucharist at L'Arche last week it was literally horizontal. On the floor. Just like Taize at its best. Small wonder that Jean Vanier has written a commentary on the Gospel of John and that I used it for the evening's gospel lesson. 

The invitation in Scripture that night was to abide in God's love so that Christ's joy may be in us and our joy may be full. And that's what we talked about: experiencing Christ's joy, sharing this joy in acts of simple respect, opening our hearts to this joy even when we are apprehensive, and strengthening this joy in community. 

Vanier calls the cultivation of Christ's joy within and among us "letting Jesus take up residence in our hearts." And he is clear that there is a connection between loneliness, love and joy: "To be lonely is to feel unwanted and unloved, and therefor unloveable. Loneliness is a taste of death. No wonder some people who are desperately lonely lose themselves in mental illness or violence to forget the inner pain." (Vanier, Becoming Human) Indeed, he understands that the fundamental calling of those who have chosen to let Jesus take up residence within their hearts is to encourage one another in the ordinary ways.

Each one of us is called to bridge the gap between the capable, rich person within us and the broken and fearful person who is also in us but whom we hide away. That means that those of us who have power, capacities, and wealth allow ourselves in small or big ways to be pruned, to be called from fear and egoism to love and truth, to share our lives with those who have no hope. The weak, the broken, on the other hand, are called to rise up, leaving their despair as they discover they are loved and respected. It is not always easy to accept hope and to receive help. (Vanier, Letter to My Brothers and Sisters)

This, is what I have experienced. At this moment in my journey, it feels liberating to be at rest with those who do not need persuasion. Rather, our calling is to encourage, support and love one another right in the moment.

If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s command-ments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.