poetry, silence, prayer and resistance...

"I'm not very good at praying, but what I experience when I'm writing a poem is close to prayer. I feel it in different degrees and not with every poem. But in certain ways writing is a form of prayer."

                                                                                             Denise Levertov

One of the scripture readings for this morning includes Revelations 8, a sobering and symbolic prose poem about God's judgment prior to the creation of a new heaven and a new earth. Before the apocalyptic images are unfurled, however, the biblical text says, "When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour." What an odd little sentence to include in Scripture - silence in heaven - and we could easily overlook it in favor of the grandeur that follows. But, as T.S. Elliot observed in "The Rock", what would be lost by filling silence with sound and fury?

O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying
The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to GOD.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
Bring us farther from GOD and nearer to the Dust.

Like Denise Levertov, I too find poetry to be a prayer of sorts. At the very least, poems are a prelude to prayer for me. And silence. This morning, after sitting with the Scriptures in silence and wondering what the Gospel's challenge that "Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required; and to whom (those) have committed much, of (them) will much be asked" (Luke 12:48) might mean for me: I read Levertov's "Flickering Mind."

Lord, not you
it is I who am absent.
At first
belief was a joy I kept in secret,
stealing alone
into sacred places:
a quick glance, and away -- and back,
circling.
I have long since uttered your name
but now
I elude your presence.
I stop
to think about you, and my mind
at once
like a minnow darts away,
darts
into the shadows, into gleams that fret
unceasing over
the river's purling and passing.
Not for one second
will my self hold still, but wanders
anywhere,
everywhere it can turn. Not you,
it is I am absent.
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow.
You the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain's heart
the sapphire I know is there?

I sat with this for 20 quiet minutes while my monkey mind came and went. I considered those closest and dearest to me: how can the trust I have been given be honored? Nurtured? Strengthened? I let their names and faces swim through my silent thoughts. As is often true, tears of gratitude and some regret followed. I couldn't help but think of the character James Spader plays on the NBC TV show, "Blacklist." When a young colleague speaks of regret, Spader smirks and says, "You're too young to know regret. That only comes with age." Too true. To those to whom much has been given, much is required.

Especially in these crazy, sad, beautiful and frightening days. Fr. Daniel Berrigan wrote of Levertov's commitment to poetry, silence and the cause of peace and justice: "Our options [in a tremulous world], as they say, are no longer large. . . . [We] may choose to do nothing; which is to say, to go discreetly or wildly mad, letting fear possess us and frivolity rule our days. Or we may, along with admirable spirits like Denise Levertov, be driven sane; by community, by conscience, by treading the human crucible." (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/denise-levertov)

Practicing silence through the prayers of poetry grounds me in grace. It shocks me into compassion and anger, too and this is as it should be. Like they say on Facebook: If you aren't enraged right now you aren't paying attention! A wise friend from my early days in ministry recently wrote: 

What Trotsky wrote about fascism in 1933 seems vividly appropriate today: "capitalist society is puking up the undigested barbarism." All that is and has been vile about US history, politics, and culture is now out in the open. We pray and work for peace, knowing that this poison is NOT of truth, or love, or wisdom, or LIFE. We know that God is Just -- and that this Land WILL be cleansed of its sin and sorrow. May God also be merciful.

In many ways I believe the vulgar and viscous politics of this season needed to be exposed to the light. It is the only way they can be named, owned, repented and then healed. Like an infection, the disease of our fear and hatred needs fresh air, light and cleansing - and many of us have hidden in privilege and naiveté for too long. With my flickering mind and wayward attention span, I need silence to stay grounded. I know it is going to get much, much worse before it gets any better. So silence empowers me to stay engaged. And attentive to what I can do best trusting the rest to God's care. What about you?

credits
+ https://www.deviantart.com/korintic/art/the-Four-Horsemen-of-the-Apocalypse-277487008
+ https://www.ebsqart.com/Art-Galleries/Spiritual-Art/39/Silent-Prayer/191779/
+ Karen Lattimore, La Sagrada Familia @ http://subcreators.com/blog/2017/02/26/yes-the-holy-family-really-were-refugees-part-ii/

savoring the beauty and getting ready for the storms...

One of the benefits of praying the common lectionary along with the world wide community of believers is the breadth of this experience. Today, for example, is the feast day of St. James of Jerusalem, the brother of Jesus. One group of believers writes:

James was, according to the Gospels of Matthew and Mark and the Epistles of Paul, a brother of Jesus. Yet he was not a believer during the Lord's earthly ministry. Jesus appeared to him after the resurrection and James was converted. He soon rose to prominence in the church and became the Bishop of Jerusalem. He presided over the important Council in Jerusalem that decided to permit Gentiles to join the church. As the church grew and prospered, James became less and less popular with the authorities. According to the historian, Josephus, he was eventually stoned and clubbed to death by a mob. James of Jerusalem is usually considered to be the author of the Epistle of James. If this is the case, he certainly had a clear insight into the Lord's message and ministry and its relationship to the Old Covenant.

Grant, we pray, O God, that following the example of your servant James, the brother of our Lord, your Church may give itself continually to prayer, and to the reconciliation of all who are at variance and enmity; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

(see: http://prayer.forwardmovement.org/the_calendar_response.php?id=221023)

The Psalm for this day focuses on Psalm 1:1: Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked, nor lingered in the way of sinners, nor sat in the seats of the scornful! One of the practical insights of this wisdom Psalm is that we will know happiness - and a measure of peace - if we consciously avoid hanging out with deceitful and manipulative people. If we do not practice wise counsel, if we carelessly or consciously put ourselves in harms way, we only have ourselves to blame when things go south. I started the day listening to this Psalm and let it return to me over and again while I was driving, practicing music with a trusted brother from another mother, speaking with my loved one and even while doing yard work to get ready for winter. 

People who live in this neck of the woods (and other north country environs) make a point of preparing for winter: they take in the deck furniture, they tune up the snow blowers, make sure there is proper wind shield solvent in their vehicles, add caulking and insulation to the house windows, etc. In other words, they let the organic truth of the season guide their behavior. They have ample emergency water, candles and blankets should the power go out. And after a decade of living here, I have become a believer: getting ready for the storms that are inevitable makes sense. We have salt and sand in the basement to get up and out of our driveway. (We have an all-wheel vehicle, too.) We are putting up insulation all over the house. Caulking our old windows, too. And adding rust preventative to the body of our old Subaru. Happy, indeed, are those who pay attention and make smart choices before hard times hit, yes?

While I was raking leaves and hauling away fallen tree limbs, I had to stop and take in the colors. They are my favorites: gold and red, various browns and all types of gray. My study is painted in these colors and they always fill me with a quiet peace. In a few weeks the rain will strip our trees of their majesty and a stark and harsh beauty will reign. Until then, this is a time to savor the grandeur and bask in the beauty. It is also a time to get ready for what lies ahead. 

In two weeks, it will be All Saints Day. Then Election Day. Even as I savor the colors, there is work to be done. One of my favorite artists, Carrie Newcomer, shares this invitation.

credits
+ https://forallsaints.wordpress.com/2014/10/23/saint-james-of-jerusalem-brother-of-our-lord-jesus-christ-and-martyr-c-62-4/

the sacrament of tenderness: a changing relationship with time

It is probably obvious to others, but has taken me a number of years to grasp that living in a tender and sacramental way requires unplugging from time as we know it. At least, the way I have known it. Following the rhythm and logic of the status quo trained me to be busy and anxious, believing harried is normal and natural, and frazzled is the inescapable condition of humanity. I know it has become a contemporary cliché to note that when asked "how are you?" most of us reply, "so busy!" That this is not true for most of creation's people rarely registers in our culture of conspicuous consumption, anxiety and workaholism.

My family used to wistfully say to me: "you are so much more fun to be around when you're on vacation!" For the longest time I held this sad truth inside me without quite knowing what to do about it. My mentors told me, "You already have all the time that there is; just learn to manage it." With regular time away for prayer and solitude, I felt more grounded and less anxious. But still I believed that being faithful and committed required a full calendar. What's more, while 21st century church leadership talk a good line about practicing self-care and spiritual balance for their clergy, just try constructing healthy boundaries and limits. Professional judgment and personal resentment is nearly inevitable. One of my spiritual directors put it to me like this when I was crashing in burn out 17 years ago: "Your chosen addiction - work - is celebrated and rewarded in our culture. Even in the church. So hold on to your hat because unplugging from the perpetual motion machine will not be pleasant for anyone." Man, was that all too true.

The double whammy for men as those working in the realm of men's spirituality know is that since the industrial revolution - and probably for a lot longer, too - our identity has been shaped by what we do. Work is our primary role. It is how others know who we are in the scheme of things; and how we, ourselves, define our presence in the world. Part of the opioid epidemic in the USA is directly related to the loss of well-paying jobs in manufacturing, mining and steel. Add to this job-related injuries and the over-prescription of oxycontin and you have a handle on part of the problem. And don't forget that 7 out of 10 suicides in the USA happen among white, middle age men.

The young, philosophical Marx spoke of this as alienation - being disconnected from meaningful work and relationships that heal the soul - we live like cogs in an assembly line. Productivity rather than being is what gives us value in this world - and therein lies the challenge for cultivating tenderness. Compassion and trust are born of relationships and relationships need time to ripen and blossom. They cannot be controlled nor can they be manufactured or rushed. Instead, they emerge in slow and quiet ways. To live into the sacrament of tenderness means unplugging from the time clock of our dominant culture.

Henri Nouwen wrote about this in his L'Arche reflection, Adam: God's Beloved. Before living at L'Arche Trosly - and later L'Arche Daybreak in Toronto - Nouwen felt frenzied trying to balance the demands of the academic community with his calling to pastoral care and prayer. In The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey, he sees and experiences a new way of living in time. Those sharing care for core members at L'Arche took all the time necessary for simple tasks given in love. So did core members themselves. External schedules became relative goals - especially if a person needed the loving presence of another trusted friend. When Nouwen became an assistant to Adam Amett at Daybreak, he, too, had to learn to live into this new relationship with time.  Accompanying Adam as he moved into the day meant following Adam's lead - not the clock. If it took all morning to do this, then that is what the day demanded. At first it was jarring. And exhausting. But with practice and prayer, conversation and trust, Nouwen gradually let go of the constraints of our 24/7 culture so that he might live into time simply, softly and tenderly.

Such has been my experience, too. It takes lots of quiet, unstructured and seemingly unproductive time to build relationships. Trust is never automatic nor should it be. That's why evening meals and prayer are essential. What I knew as a ministry of presence is normative: proximity and lots of free time is the only way we learn about one another in love. To live in the spirit of tenderness is counter cultural. To live it sacramentally, seeing the essence of God's grace in each moment and every act of compassion, is liberating. But it is slow going. To unlearn a lifelong addiction to productivity, external success and all the rest does not happen overnight. What I have experienced with my friends at L'Arche Ottawa is a gentle and patient relationship to time. Let God's quiet grace grow slowly. Be still and know that I am God. Today, I am so grateful that my friends at L'Arche Ottawa have welcomed me into this holy way of being.

living into the sacrament of tenderness...

Fifteen years ago, while still sharing pastoral ministry with my friends in Tucson, AZ I sensed that God was calling me in a new direction. At the time, the only way I could describe it was a ministry of presence. While walking on the streets of Glasgow, Scotland in celebration of my 20th anniversary of ordination, I had a strong sense that the holy was calling me into a new way of serving Christ and loving Jesus. That still, small voice caught my attention in 1968 and lured me into ministry. And now it shared an invitation to leave the security of Tucson and relocate to a struggling little church in Pittsfield, MA. 

For more that ten years I gave myself to this work, striving to blend presence and tenderness into the life of my pastoral vocation. We learned a lot about loving Jesus during this time: how to be vulnerable to the blessings of the Spirit, how to trust God beyond the obvious, how to open our hearts to one another in solidarity. In retrospect, it was a beautiful and faithful decade albeit hard as hell and complicated, too. To my surprise, while on sabbatical in Montreal, this same still, small voice caught my attention again. For the four months we were away it became clearer and clearer that my days as a local church minister were numbered. Then, while leaving a Taize worship celebration on our last night in Montreal, Di said to me, "You clearly are being called to step out of the local church, but your days of ministry are far from over." She was right - as is so often the case - and with time, angst, prayer, study, discernment, exploration, tons of uncertainty, and lots of waiting the One who is holy has been encouraging me to go deeper into a spirituality of tenderness in three unique ways.

+ First, as a grandfather.  I love my grand-babies - Louie and I are soul mates and Anna brings joy wherever she shares her smile - so now I have been given the time to walk, talk, laugh, pray, sing and visit with these sweet souls on a regular basis. Together with their loving parents, we are starting to figure out how I can spend significant time with them simply being "gawd" (Louie's early attempt at the tongue-twister "grand dad.") There are songs to sing and stories to hear, Mr. Rogers episodes to enjoy and questions to answer. There is love and presence to share as well so I don't want to waste my days missing this holy gift. A song from Zeffirelli's film about St. Francis, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon" gets it right:

If you want your dream to be,

take your time, go slowly

Do few things but do them well, 

Heartfelt work grows purely

If you want to live life free, 

Take your time, go slowly

Do few things but do them well, 

Heartfelt work grows purely

Day by day, stone by stone, 

Build your secret slowly

Day by day, you'll grow too, 

You'll know heaven's glory

+ Second, as a part of the L'Arche Ottawa community. This is a ministry of mutuality. I am enriched and blessed simply by being in relationship with the core members, assistants and community leaders. In turn, I am able to share my gifts of music, liturgy, prayer and presence in service to the common good. It is in these small acts that I have experienced the presence of Jesus - quiet, small and often obscure - but always real. Pamela Cushing puts this encounter into perspective in an essay on Jean Vanier's invitation to accept our vulnerability.  

In a world obsessed with mastery and control, Jean Vanier demonstrates the deep value of imperfection. He helps us to see that often all of our striving for mastery and control are as much about wanting to hide our fear of their opposite – that we might be as imperfect and fallible as everyone else... (He) argues that if we can accept that imperfection is intrinsic to being human, we will be liberated of the weighty burden of always trying to measure up to what someone defines as good or normal. Instead of our effort going to hide our imperfection, we can invest in thinking about how we might encourage greater humility around appreciating each other’s imperfections as an important part of the diverse human ecosystem, while never abandoning the effort to grow and change to serve others better. 

+ And third as an ordinary member of my local community. Most of my time is spent at home. I am in Ottawa once a month and am starting to go to Brooklyn once a month as well. So most of my ministry of tender presence takes place right here: at Wal-Mart, or Aldi's, or the post office, or the library, or with neighbors, or former colleagues, or even my musical partners. For the first time in ages I have the time and space to just listen. Pay attention. Ask others, "So what's going on with you? What's your story?" Charles de Foucauld. one of my prayer mentors, sensed that he had been called into a ministry like that of Jesus before his baptism. A ministry of presence. A way of living that offered small, quiet, hidden gifts of compassion and respect to others throughout an ordinary day. Me, too. If you had told me three years ago that some of my time each week would be given just listening to strangers I would have dismissed you as off your nut. But now...? It is part of my weekly wandering into the presence of the Lord. Fr. Mychal Judge, the first martyr of the World Trade Center, put it like this: Lord, take me where You want me to go; let me meet who You want me to meet; tell me what You want me to say; and keep me out of Your way.

may I learn to count my days, O Lord, so that my heart might know your wisdom...

This week was slow for me. Slower than normal. Mostly because of a lingering head cold that is nearly over, but also because I needed the quiet. The solitude. The absence of conversations. Over the past two weeks the quiet routine of my new life became full: there were spiritual direction conversations and hospital visits, music rehearsals and loving family celebrations to honor. Each was and is a blessing to me; each nourished me, too. And now it is time to be still. Time to sit with these blessings and let them rise up within like yeast in the dough.

So today I'm baking. Two weeks ago I got my whole wheat bread to rise thanks to Uncle W's insight about adding a pan of hot water to an already warm oven. Now I am working on a simple unbleached white loaf. We'll see, but it looks like kneading it for a full ten minutes might create a winner. I like the order bread baking brings to my quiet days: not only does it demand sustained attention, but the pay off for patience is usually so satisfying. One of my bread books gets it right with this quote: "If the divine creator has taken pains to give us delicious and exquisite things to eat, the least we can do is prepare them well and serve them with ceremony." Amen to that! The poet, Richard Levine, puts it like this:

Each night, in a space he’d make
between waking and purpose,
my grandfather donned his one
suit, in our still dark house, and drove
through Brooklyn’s deserted streets
following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white
linen work clothes and cap,
and in the absence of women,
his hands were both loving, well
into dawn and throughout the day—
kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment
of yeasty predictability
in that windowless world lit
by slightly swaying naked bulbs,
where the shadows staggered, woozy
with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.
At our table, graced by a loaf
that steamed when we sliced it,
softened the butter and leavened
the very air we’d breathe,
he’d count us blessed.

The past two days have been dark and damp. Portends of our immediate future. Today, however, the sun was bright so we walked for a few miles with Lucie. The trees were stunning. The sky was clear. The air was warm. Soon it will all be MIA - stark, cold and dark for months - best to bask in this beauty while we can, yes? Kathy Galloway, leader of the ecumenical community of Iona, Scotland, captured the ebb and flow of creativity and balance in her poem, "...Maker of Heaven and Earth..."

It is a good thing to be a maker.
Bread-maker, pounding breath into dough
on a flat stone;
cake-maker, for celebrations, or chocolate
for times of indulgent misery;
dressmaker, cutting, patterning, fashioning,
fitting to a shape;
toolmaker, the maker's maker;
love-maker, skill-sharing artisan of
pleasure, trust, delight;
baby-maker.

Woods and words, stone and steel,
clay, lace, brick, flower, flour, microchip -
whatever the medium
it is a good thing to be a maker.
Substantial, 
material,
concrete,
the exchange of energies
changing the world.

It is a great thing to be a
maker of heaven and earth,
is it not?

The Psalm for this past Sunday, Psalm 90: 12-17, attributed to Moses, asks us to learn from God how to count our days so that we might grow a heart of filled with wisdom. Watching the first holy word in nature, I see a time to be present and a time to hide away. A time to speak and a time for silence. A time to walk and a time to rest. A time of warmth and a time of cold. A time  to bake, a time to wait and a time to eat. I am in control of so little. But I can pay attention. I can be present. I can learn to count the days and seek God's presence within them. Like Joy Mead puts it in her prayer, "Spirit of Lightness and Life," I can be a maker:

Be with all makers and dreamers, o Lord:

all who make bread
   and long to share it;
all who make music
   and long to dance;
all who make words
   and long for poetry;
all who are born in flesh
   and long to be human;
all who make love
   and trust their longing
      for life.

where is God when I hurt...a journey

Going through all the boxes, piles, files and memorabilia of my active ministry in the local church - including two seminary internships - has reminded me that my image of God has changed significantly during this sojourn. That's a good thing. 

When I started out, I was a brash, earnest young man who thought he was a theological hot shot embracing liberation theology and sanitized Marxism. I KNEW that God was in the cries of the poor and their struggles for social justice - and made damn sure others knew this, too. Or at the very least, had to listen to me pontificate. What I didn't know then - and what an old Reformed pastor from Czechoslovakia  called me out on during my ordination examination - was where was God in other types of suffering? After presenting my statement of faith and spiritual autobiography, he said: "You have an immature and naive theological anthropology, Mr. Lumsden. You have romanticized the human condition and lack any discernment about the holy in the midst of our pain." After a long silence he followed with this conclusion: "Work on it!"

Like all bright, privileged, straight white bourgeois guys, his critique that afternoon offended me. After all, by my senior year in seminary, I had worked with Cesar Chavez and the Farm workers union on boycotts, electoral campaigns and contract administration. I had secured my Conscientious Objector status during the Vietnam War and spent a summer organizing African- American pulp wood cutters in rural Mississippi into a union, too. And let's not forget my year long urban internship in multi-cultural Jamaica, NY. I had Alinsky training under my belt, been arrested for social disobedience, studied the non-violent work of both Dr. King and Mohandas Gandhi, chaired my denomination's world mission Council of Theological Students, studied in Costa Rica, journeyed to Nicaragua, and been elected co-chair of my seminary student body. So yes, I was offended by the dismissal of this wizened old refugee from Eastern European communist totalitarianism. Offended and perplexed.

That began my ongoing consideration of the Cross and what those far wiser than I have written about atonement theology. In those early days, my Czech interlocutor was right: I did not know where to find God in human suffering. In the Exodus and struggles for freedom, yes: God was the driving force. But where was the holy in the holocaust? Or in broken hearts? Or racism? Sexism? Greed? Violence? Alienation, abuse, or addiction? I had no idea and no words to frame my quest. Warren Lee, the Dean of the Doctor of Ministry program at San Francisco Theological Seminary, used to say: unless you know how to share something of God's real presence in the midst of human brokenness, you better get out of ministry in the local church because you'll do more harm than good.

In Saginaw two physicians chose to send me to Hazelden to learn how to be present in ministry with alcoholics. This is where I began what I call a ministry of presence: being compassionate, present and real with those who are hurting. Not only does this give form and flesh to the words of God, but helps those locked in addiction share their burden - and that is the key to healing. Compassion, inner strength, quiet and non-judgmental listening alongside time tested tools of recovery gave me my first insight into the question: where is the Lord in my pain? 

In Cleveland, I was led to three additional resources: 1) the writings of Henri Nouwen; 2) the testimony and love of some of the recovering alcoholics in my congregation; and 3) the quiet ministry of presence and contemplation at Fr. Jim O'Donnell's Oasis House. Each gave me words to use, each gave me time and love, too so that I began to experience God's presence in the midst of my own pain. Fr. Jim taught me to meditate: "Before you can do any real good, man," he said, "you have to know God's grace from the inside out. So what I want you to do and practice is simply sit quietly two times every day until you sense that you are resting in the hands of God." It took about 45 days and I was often reluctant, but one night I knew I was resting within the love of God. My fears and anxieties were still real, but there was also a love greater than my brokenness. Through confession, prayer and silence this presence grew to be my foundation. A little book Fran Apltauer gave me, Can These Bones Live?, explored the traditional theologies of atonement, too. Experientially and intellectually I was finding a way to know God's compassion in the middle of my own anguish. Like one beggar telling another where to find bread, I could now share a few clues along with my time and love.

Adolfo Quezada, my spiritual director and counselor in Tucson, took me deeper. When I was trapped in the throes of workaholism - filled with anger, anxiety and resentment - he once asked me, "Do you know God is present with you in these hard times? Or do you think God is only there when life is sweet? Fun? Or happy?" I knew the right answer, but had to confess that I was still pretty naive about trusting God in my suffering. So, as is often the case, I had to go completely into my pain and learn from it before I was able to say, "Yes, the Lord was with me even in the valley of the shadow of death." Sitting meditation was essential. So was Luther's affirmation, "I have been baptized." That is, I have been loved by God forever and trust beyond all evidence that God will not abandon me. In time I felt God's presence again after walking for nearly a year by faith alone. Richard Rohr and Thomas Keating became my new mentors as I lost and found God again in the Sonoran Desert.

And Richard Rohr, Frederick Buechner, Henri Nouwen and René Girard continue to take me deeper now that we have returned to New England. Diana Butler Bass' wisdom has been essential, too. Today, for example, she quoted Rohr in his book, Falling Upward: “If you try to assert wisdom before people have themselves walked it, be prepared for much resistance, denial, push-back, and verbal debate.” I resisted my old Czech colleague until I ran out of gas and was floundering in confusion. Rohr continues with words I have found to be transformational when they become lived:

All healthy religion shows you what to do with your pain, with the absurd, the tragic, the nonsensical, the unjust and the undeserved—all of which eventually come into every lifetime. If only we could see these “wounds” as the way through, as Jesus did, then they would become sacred wounds rather than scars to deny, disguise, or project onto others. I am sorry to admit that I first see my wounds as an obstacle more than a gift. Healing is a long journey. If we cannot find a way to make our wounds into sacred wounds, we invariably become cynical, negative, or bitter. This is the storyline of many of the greatest novels, myths, and stories of every culture. If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it—usually to those closest to us: our family, our neighbors, our co-workers, and, invariably, the most vulnerable, our children.

He then concludes by saying:

Unless we can find a meaning for human suffering, that God is somehow in it and can also use it for good, humanity is in major trouble. Because we will suffer. Even the Buddha said that suffering is part of the deal! We shouldn't try to get rid of our own pain until we’ve learned what it has to teach. When we can hold our pain consciously and trustfully (and not project it elsewhere), we find ourselves in a very special liminal space. Here we are open to learning and breaking through to a much deeper level of faith and consciousness. Please trust me on this. We must all carry the cross of our own reality until God transforms us through it. These are the wounded healers of the world, and healers who have fully faced their wounds are the only ones who heal anyone else.

What I have learned - and more importantly experienced - is that the reality of God is that of a gracious love who is present with us in our suffering. Not above or beyond, but fully within it. This is what the Cross demands I acknowledge. God is with me. God is also at work within me to let love transform my wound into something holy. Rohr puts it clearly:

I believe—if I am to believe Jesus—that God is suffering love. If we are created in God’s image, and if there is so much suffering in the world, then God must also be suffering. How else can we understand the revelation of the cross? Why else would the central Christian logo be a naked, bleeding, suffering divine-human being?

Jean Vanier, my current mentor in the journey, speaks of the littleness of God. Not a triumphal conquerer, but a loving, small presence that invites us to love our brokenness so that God's love can bring us a measure of healing from the inside out. And as love grows within us, we share God's almost insignificant

but transformational grace by living for love, too. In other words, "somehow partners with the Divine. At our best, we surely must be. But our rational minds will never fully surrender to this mystery until our minds are led by our soul and our spirit." (Rohr)

the Buddha or the Boss I don't care: sorting through MORE stuff

The penultimate sorting in our basement took place today - and in the process I discovered that its far harder for me to throw away my decades of music on cassette tapes than it was 40 years of sermons. I have four boxes of cassettes that I haven't listened to in at lease 15 years. I smiled quietly looking at the U2 tapes my daughters made for one another back in the 80s and early 90s. I looked upon the bootleg live Springsteen shows from the Cleveland Agora and San Francisco's Winterland with affection. Courting tapes to and from Dianne, too. There's even a wedding mix my brother sent all these years ago...

... and I couldn't throw them away. Ok, I couldn't let go of Das Kapital Vol I that I purchased on my first trip to Soviet Russia nor Michael Harrington's brilliant synthesis of theoretical Marxism, Socialism, either. Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time series and the Gamache books by Louise Penny are still keepers as well. Virginia Woolf, Richard Brautigan and Richard Farina still have a place of honor on our remaining one shelf of fiction in the basement. But that's it. Why are these cassettes so hard to give up? Two weeks ago I gladly gave away hundreds of Biblical commentaries and works of theology. (To be honest, when I realized that ALL of my Biblical commentaries were on their way to the public library, I quickly ran downstairs and retrieved three New Testament works plus Robert Alter's brilliant commentary on the Psalms.) Most of my formative musical anthologies used in writing my dissertation are gone now as well as many of our art history texts. And still the cassettes remain.  

Akiko Busch wrote an essay in 2012 entitled "The Art of Shedding Possession" where she suggests that some possessions we outgrow, others evoke our history and some are just clutter. Still, she wonders as do I,   

But how to start weeding through this overcrowded museum of domestic life? Things come into our lives for any number of reasons: need, desire, taste, inheritance or simply the human impulse to fill some space in our lives that has been left empty. And if “curation” plays a part in acquisition, such selectivity necessarily involves some convergence of knowledge, discernment and diligence. All of which, I find, are every bit as vital in de-accessioning.There are many factors ruling our choices about what to surrender. A force equal and opposite to the impulse buy is the precipitous urge to give something up, which can spring from some combination of regret, disenchantment, a sense of failure, even fatigue. 

But beyond such hasty and impetuous housecleaning are the simple facts that we outgrow things, our tastes change, and, maybe most of all, our desire for material belongings wanes. Parting with them may only be a matter of recognizing that we need to end certain relationships and understand how the physical objects around us have served as their emotional accomplices. I have found that what I am ready to relinquish generally falls into one of two categories: things that resonate with past experience and those that hold out promise for a future enterprise that is unlikely to materialize. Which is to say, the stuff can be purely evocative or insanely aspirational.
(see https://www.nextavenue.org/art-shedding-possessions/)

I've read the pop literature on de-cluttering like the Seana Method. We've added them all to our toss-it pile already. One friend reframed the challenge saying, "Don't look for what to give away, but rather to keep." And that has its own wisdom that I've used in sifting through my books. (With more to come!) I like what Priscilla Stucky wrote on her blog:

I now understand in a deeper way why shedding things is the first recommended step on many spiritual paths. The more we are attached to things—focused on gathering and keeping them—the harder it is to hear the still small voice of spirit. “Sell what you have and give the money to the poor,” Jesus advises the rich young politician, “and then come follow me.” (Shedding our things is also) a brief—if gentle—visit to the Underworld. It does remind us of dying, as if we’re settling our estate ahead of time. And it’s a little bit scary. It strips away a little cushion between us and reality.

(see https://priscillastuckey.com/nature-spirit/shedding-possessions/)

That certainly rings true for me: sorting and tossing has made me keenly aware both of my mortality and of the journey that has carried me thus far. It has evoked gratitude I never imagined. Some tears and regrets, as well, but mostly serious celebration for the blessings I have been given over all these years. Perhaps that's why I am reluctant right now to let go of that music. I have hundreds of CDs to sort that I don't care much about. Maybe I've outgrown them. But those cassettes...? They remain a mystery. So I'm not going to try to figure it out today. Or any time soon. I am just going to clean them up, bring them upstairs and give them a listen; trusting that when the time is right, the Buddha will appear. Or at the very least the Boss.

this is the season for remembering...

Today we walked into the brisk autumn wind of October. There was the hint of winter in the air and it was simultaneously stimulating and sobering. Winter lasts a long time here. In a few weeks, it will be dark at 4 pm. Often there is snow in April. And it seems as if the sun disappears for almost six months, too with only periodic teasers until Easter. Old man winter won't really descend on us for another few weeks, but there was a preview of what's coming for those with eyes to see this afternoon. 

I have embraced the hardiness of this realm and have come to love it. There is nothing quite like the silence that fills the air during a vibrant snow fall. The only thing comparable that I have known is hiking in the Sonoran desert. It, too, can be completely empty of sound for a spell. Just without the snow. So, for me right now, before we get to winter we must transition into darkness. The poet, Jane Tyson Clement, describes it as "the season for what is over and done with" in her "Autumn Sketch."

The wind in the dry standing corn is the sound of many waters.

     (This is the season for remembering,
     for gathering in memories like flowers before frost.)
Over the mountains the dark clouds of birds wheel and vanish
and the air stills slowly with the beat of wings
in the light no longer.
     (This is the season for what is over and done with, finished.
     Hold no promise in your hands. Look to the earth no longer,
     nor tho the sky, for the snows gather.)
The wind through the standing corn is the murmur of many waters;
look for frost on the hillside and milkweed pods
smoking along the roads.
     (This is the season for remembering;
     blow on your hearth’s embers, and ask for a little while
     no new springing.)

Remembering, letting go, taking stock of the stark beauty and transitioning into darkness is the work of my autumn transition. It asks me to honor what is vital and essential and let the rest become dust in the wind. When I placed a bound book entitled, "My Pastoral Ministry" into the trash today - a volume I started in seminary back in 1979 but quit updating sometime in 1983 - my breath caught for a moment. In that instant I was a young, hot-headed idealist again with two small children living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. 

I looked through this book before putting it into the trash bin with reverence. There were funeral notices next to eight page lists of sermon titles. What a surprise: for an instant I was sitting in the Quad at Union Seminary. Or in the Sanctuary of  First Church in Saginaw. Or walking the neighborhood of Trinity United Church of Christ. I felt grateful for everything that had taken place over these forty years. Grateful and keenly aware that something entirely new is now taking root. "This is," as the poet says, "the season for remembering." And getting ready for something entirely new.

all hallows eve...

As autumn matures, my heart is moved by the hint of All Saints and All Souls Day. Once widely celebrated in sacred and secular circles, these two mystical liturgies are now all but forgotten in contemporary culture. The only remnant, of course, is Halloween. "Technically speaking, Halloween is the vigil of All Hallows Eve," writes Christopher Hill in Holidays and Holy Nights.

Halloween (has become) a big event for children and has grown bigger in the course of this century. But not much reflection is generally given to the relationship between Halloween and the Church feasts that are its origin... Technically speaking, Halloween is the vigil of All Hallows Eve. Vigils are the night face of the church. The practice of keeping vigils owes something to the old way of reckoning the day from sunset to sunset... In the two archetypal Christian holidays of Easter and Christmas, it is still the vigil that contains the actual transformative event - the movement of the Resurrection at Easter and of Christ's birth at Christmas. The theurgy - the sacred work - takes place at the middle of the night when the way is open between eternity and this world.
(pp. 46-47)

The popularity of our sanitized Halloween reminds us that folk traditions are deeply embedded in our collective unconscious. "Before the Protestant Reformation, all over Europe the feasts of the Church Year had been rich with popular customs. The Christian vision was incarnated up and down the scale of culture, from scholars creating great structures of intellect and theology, down to the places in the common heart where people dreamed, played and sang." (Hill, p. 47) We don't fully know how the Celtic rituals of Samhain (and other late autumn feasts) were observed except to say "some things stand out by their persistence in tradition: fire - bonfires especially - played a part. Divinization, telling the future, did too. Feasting and merrymaking took place, along with mumming (going from dwelling to dwelling in some kind of costume, along with ritualized begging and sometimes the enactment of simple drama.) (Hill, p. 52) 

What is clear is that by the Middle Ages, All Hallows Eve had become a magnificent festival of "somberness, delicious fear and firelit festivity." (p. 53) The best analysis suggests that rather than trying to replace or supplant the feast of Samhain, the Church chose to honor the truths of the pagan tradition, linking it with the doctrine of the communion of all believers. In this, folk tradition and superstition were sacralized and honored. Christine Valters Painter notes that all over Northern Europe this season is known as "the time of the ancestors." (Abbey of the Arts) As the calendar year ends with a gathering of crops and a growing darkness, our ancestors looked backwards in remembrance and gratitude. The German practice of Totenfest mirrors the Celtic All Hallows Eve as our faithful dead are remembered with thanksgiving, stories and feasts. Same goes for the Day of the Dead festivities in the Latinix world. Painters confesses that October is her favorite month both because of the invitation to honor our ancestors and: "...because of the quality of evening light which shimmers golden and radiant as each day comes to a close. I love the autumn for its call to release what does not serve but also to celebrate the harvest of my life."  Then she asks: what are we harvesting right now? What are we letting go of, and, what are we holding close in gratitude? This is one of the gifts I cherish in both All Souls and All Saints Day.

The other is the recognition these holy days afford me to nourish my yearning for mystery. Our whole culture feels this aching for an encounter with truths greater than mere facts. But we're now uncertain how to proceed. Halloween offers a sanitized version with scary stories and goblins. The chiller movies so popular at this time of year are another part of this longing. "We want mystery more than anything," Hill posits, "but we're thrown off balance" by our yearning.

The imagination falls short in imagining or describing the sacred thing it is approaching, and so we settle for making it scary - but the spook is simply a stand in (for something more profound...) the night side of God.

Once upon a time, the Church nourished mystery. We were intimately connected to the earth and its rhythms. Since the 60s, however, we have "ceded mystery to the arts, folklore and popular culture... (elevating) rational theology, ethics, charity, and social outreach" to the core. (Hill, p. 50) Consequently, many of us are driven elsewhere to taste the cool and refreshing waters of the unknown. That is part of what our sanitized Halloween has become: a playful ritual of
scary stories, costumes, goblins, and moonlight that merely hints at a deeper longing. Today trick-or-treat has become the "secularized vigil of All Saints and All Hollows Eve... acting like an impish little brother to the great vigils of the past, a small echo of their world transforming mysteries."

So, what to do? I am starting to collect photographs of my faithful dead to post on a homemade altar. I want to pray for my beloved dead - as well as those with whom I am still at odds. I also want to add images to my family altar of those in the realm of the arts who have shaped my soul. Saints like Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen have opened my heart and mind as much as many in my blood line. And I'll sit with them by candle light this year to see what their wisdom and memory holds for me. These words from the Book of Common Prayer are a starting point.

(In the semi-darkness we pray...)

Light and peace, in Jesus Christ, our Lord. Thanks be to God. Let us pray:

“Lord Christ, your saints have been the lights of the world in every generation: Grant that we who follow in their footsteps may be made worthy to enter with them into that heavenly country where you live and reign for ever and ever. Amen” (Book of Common Prayer. p. 111). 

Candles are lit as "O Gracious Light" is sung:

O holy radiance, joyous light, O splendid glory shining bright,
Immortal Father, heavenly One, O blessed Jesus Christ, the Sun.
We see the sunshine fade to night, and welcoming the evening light,
To Father, Son and Spirit raise our hymns of wonder, love and praise.
Unceasingly our tongues shall laud your worth, Begotten One of God,
O Breath of life: let all proclaim the glory of your wondrous name.
(Phos Hilaron, New Century Hymnal, Tallis' Canon)

Scripture readings for All Hallows’ Eve include:

+ “The Witch of Endor,” 1 Samuel 28:3-25; 
+ “The Vision of Eliphaz the Temanite,” Job 4:12-21; 
+ “The Valley of Dry Bones,” Ezekiel 37:1-14; 
+ “The War in Heaven,” Revelation 12:(1-6)7-12. 

Let us pray...

“Almighty and everliving God, you have made all things in your wisdom and established the boundaries of life and death: Grant that we may obey your voice in this world, and in the world to come may enjoy that rest and peace which you have appointed for your people; through Jesus Christ who is Resurrection and Life, and who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen” (“Book of Occasional Services,” p. 108). “

"You, O Lord, have made us from the dust of the earth and to dust our bodies shall return; yet you have also breathed your Spirit upon us and called us to new life in you: Have mercy upon us, now and at the hour of our death; through Jesus Christ, our mediator and advocate. Amen” (“Book of Occasional Services,” p. 109). 

“O God, you have called your people to your service from age to age. Do not give us over to death, but raise us up to serve you, to praise you, and to glorify your holy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen” (“Book of Occasional Services,” p. 109). 

Personal prayers and remembrances. Blessing followed by festivities:
The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance up0on  you and give you peace. Amen.

credits
+ http://mjforster.com/all-hallows-eve/
+ http://www.maniacpumpkincarvers.com/jackolanterns/
+ my photo
+ https://fineartamerica.com/featured/crows-on-all-hallows-eve-arline-wagner.html
+ https://www.wordonfire.org/resources/blog/its-time-for-catholics-to-embrace-halloween/2133/

moving towards all hallow's eve...

This morning at breakfast we spoke of our favorite seasons - in creation and the church - discovering that we love different times of the year for similar reasons. For both, Advent into Christmas wins hands down with its mystical liturgies, sounds and candles. (A close second would the Easter Vigil for similar reasons.) But I yearn for autumn while she moves towards spring. I ache to follow the light into the darkness whereas she travels through shadows in pursuit of the glow. Both respect the obscure as well as the luminous, both celebrate each in creation and ceremony. Yet one is lured onto the path of unknowing even as the other dances towards the mysteries of revelation. Jane Hirschfield evokes some of these nuances in her oblique but satisfying poem she calls, "The Heat of Autumn." 

The heat of autumn
is different from the heat of summer.
One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.
One is a dock you walk out on,
the other the spine of a thin swimming horse
and the river each day a full measure colder.
A man with cancer leaves his wife for his lover.
Before he goes she straightens his belts in the closet,
rearranges the socks and sweaters inside the dresser
by color. That’s autumn heat:
her hand placing silver buckles with silver,
gold buckles with gold, setting each
on the hook it belongs on in a closet soon to be empty,
and calling it pleasure.

As October matures into the stark clarity of November, trees in these parts stand naked and green fields become brown. I find my heart leaning into the promise of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. At this time of year I feel the "thin" places between now and then that connect the living with the faithful departed. Writing in his Holiday and Holy Nights, Christopher Hill, notes that these feasts are our special recognition of life beyond our control.

These feasts remind us that the roots and branches of Christianity are in the unseen, and that the trunk passes for only the shortest while through this daylight world of time and the five sense. (These feasts) remedy our unease with the unseen, teach us to get along with mystery. They are the answer to our primitive assumption that what is out there in the dark is hostile or evil. They show that something very strange can mean us very well.

I am in the process of discerning what an All Saints/All Souls memory altar for our house might look like - and include. For reasons beyond my understanding, this year I am profoundly aware of those who have gone before me into life eternal. The cycle of life in nature is moving towards death and I feel a yearning to remember and honor those who have given my life meaning. There's more to write about this longing in the days to come, but for now this will suffice. This year I want to join Louie for trick or treating - our secular connection to the ancient rite - then say prayers of gratitude for my beloved dead. I am starting to gather picture now for my Day of the Dead altar.

Dear souls of the dead,

you are still remembered by my family; 

you are most worthy of our perpetual remembrance,

especially you, my grandparents, my parents,

also our relatives, children,

and everyone whom death 

took away from our home. 

I invite you to this annual feast.

We pray that this feast be agreeable to you,

just like the memory of you is to us. Amen.