sign o the times, aching for balance, lady wisdom and the autumnal equinox.....

One of my favorite Prince songs is "Sign O the Times." Everything about it cooks from the opening percussion groove and bass riff to lyrics shared in passionate lament. The brokenness of our human community weeps through the voice of Prince as he catalogs the consequences of ignoring Lady Wisdom.



Lady Wisdom speaks one of the lectionary readings for the 17th Sunday after Pentecost in the Western Christian tradition::

Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. At the busiest corner she cries out; at the entrance of the city gates she speaks: "How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple? How long will scoffers delight in their scoffing and fools hate knowledge? Give heed to my reproof; I will pour out my thoughts to you; I will make my words known to you. Because I have called and you refused, have stretched out my hand and no one heeded, and because you have ignored all my counsel and would have none of my reproof, I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when panic strikes you, when panic strikes you like a storm, and your calamity comes like a whirlwind, when distress and anguish come upon you. Then they will call upon me, but I will not answer; they will seek me diligently, but will not find me. Because they hated knowledge and did not choose the fear of the LORD, would have none of my counsel, and despised all my reproof, therefore they shall eat the fruit of their way and be sated with their own devices. For waywardness kills the simple, and the complacency of fools destroys them; but those who listen to me will be secure and will live at ease, without dread of disaster."

Like Prince and Lady Wisdom, many of us see the consequences of consistently

ignoring living in harmony with truth, compassion and humility. Read Linda Bloodworth Thomason's recent jeremiad in the Hollywood Reporter for starters.

(https://www.hollywoodreporter.
com/news/designing-women-creator-les-moonves-not-all-harassment-is-sexual-1142448) Or try on Ben Fountain's thoughts in today's Guardian. (https://www.theguardian.com
/us-news /2018/sep/16/beautiful-country-burn-again-review-ben-fountain-trump-2016) Or consider the internment camps we have created for migrant children. Or maybe just watch a few episodes of the Netflix series, Bloodline, as a reminder of what happens to ordinary people when fear and revenge fuel family dynamics . Think Cain and Abel in the Florida Keys. (https://www.netflix. com/title/80010655)

Taking this moment in time seriously, Lady Wisdom brings to my mind some other voices from my Scriptures - three are worth mentioning:

1) St. Luke gives us these words of Jesus in chapter 12: Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. Therefore whatever you have said in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered behind closed doors will be proclaimed from the housetops....(Consider this) When you see a cloud rising in the west, you immediately say, ‘It is going to rain’; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, ‘There will be scorching heat’; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?

2) St. Paul in Romans 1:  The wrath (that is the absence) of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and wickedness of those who by their wickedness suppress the truth. For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made. So they are without excuse; for though they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their senseless minds were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools; and they exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling a mortal human being or birds or four-footed animals or reptiles.

3) Micah 6:8: God has told you, O mortal, what is good; for what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

Each Biblical text is informed by the presence of Lady Wisdom in real life as well as the teaching of Lady Wisdom in our tradition. Jesus scolds those who pretend ignorance of God's loving grace to neighbors and earth alike by pointing out how nature teaches us to pay attention - and act accordingly. Paul tells us that we know what God's wrath - meaning God's absence from our experience - looks like simply by watching Mother Earth. When we live in balance and generosity, there is peace; when we become self-absorbed and rash, everything collapses. In a word, we discard community and become bestial just to survive. And the words of the prophet Micah from ancient Israel are clear: everything in creation calls us to be just, compassionate and humble. For this is what the Lord requires - a balance - but justice, compassion and humility are so far from the core of contemporary living that we should not be shocked that communities are crumbling all around us.

The feminine charisms of Mother Earth - and the historic personification of God's balance as Lady Wisdom - offer us correctives IF we have eyes to see and ears to hear. In the Northern Hemisphere we are close to the autumnal equinox, a day that returns every fall to preach an existential sermon about balance as day light and night time become equals. 

This signals the need to balance light and darkness within us. Far too often, we fear the dark and adore only the light. Joyce Rupp, a Catholic writer and poet who is one of our Living Spiritual Teachers, challenges us in Little Pieces of Light to befriend our inner darkness: "I gratefully acknowledge how darkness has become less of an enemy for me and more of a place of silent nurturance, where the slow, steady gestation needed for my soul's growth can occur. Not only is light a welcomed part of my life, but I am also developing a greater understanding of how much I need to befriend my inner darkness."

(https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/practices/naming-the-days/view/10950/autumn-reflections-on-the-season)

And what is true within is true without - right relations between neighbors as well as creation cries out for balance - as the signs o the times make clear. Former President Obama put it like this:

In everything I see, hear, feel, taste and touch, the testimony of Lady Wisdom is calling to us:

"Give heed to my reproof and I will pour out my thoughts to you; I will make my words known to you. But because I have called and you refused, have stretched out my hand and no one heeded, and because you have ignored all my counsel and would have none of my reproof, I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when panic strikes you... like a storm, and your calamity comes like a whirlwind, when distress and anguish come upon you... Because you hated knowledge and did not choose the fear of the LORD, you have none of my counsel... therefore you shall eat the fruit of you way and be sated with your own devices. Your waywardness kills the simple, the complacency of fools destroys them; but those who listen to me will be secure and will live at ease, without dread of disaster."

now sorrow and joy embrace, today melancholia and trust kiss deeply....

We, in these Northern environs, are racing towards the autumnal equinox. Each morning yields an expanding sea of gold, brown and red in our woods and backyard wetlands; each afternoon brings us deepening shadows; and each evening arrives noticeably sooner. "Today brought a loss of three minutes of sunshine" chants the local NPR meteorologist. Change is clearly in the air - and for me it evokes melancholia and trust simultaneously.

The body is like a November birch facing the full moon
And reaching into the cold heavens.
In these trees there is no ambition, no sodden body, no leaves,
Nothing but bare trunks climbing like cold fire!

My last walk in the trees has come. At dawn
I must return to the trapped fields,
To the obedient earth.
The trees shall be reaching all the winter.

It is a joy to walk in the bare woods.
The moonlight is not broken by the heavy leaves.
The leaves are down, and touching the soaked earth,
Giving off the odor that partridges love.

(Solitude Late at Night in the Woods, Robert Bly)

So much of this life is beyond our control. Wind and rain is currently pounding the Carolinas into submission. Indonesia and Japan, too. Friends and loved ones send notes subtly suggesting sickness. Vulnerability seems to rise to the surface of each day as the leaves change and fall to the ground. Why am I surprised? Startled? Offended? Writers Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat teach that autumn can remind us" that nature's cycles are mirrored in our lives," but we have to be paying attention.

Autumn is a time for letting go and releasing things that have been a burden. All the religious traditions pay tribute to such acts of relinquish-
ment. Fall is the right time to practice getting out of the way and letting Spirit take charge of our lives... (It also reminds us) of the impermanence of everything. We have experienced the budding of life in spring and the flowerings and profusions of summer. Now the leaves fall and bare branches remind us of the fleeting nature of all things (https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/practices/naming-the-days/view/10950/autumn-reflections-on-the-season)

I know that a quiet, aching sadness has always ambushed me each fall since I was young. Like St. Paul, I didn't know what to do with it for "when I was a child I spoke like a child and acted like a child and thought like a child." (I Corinthians 13) As my sorrow returns, however, it now brings a renewed invitation to trust. The Sufi mystical poet, Rumi, got it right in Coleman Barks translation of "Love Dogs."

One night a man was crying, Allah! Allah! His lips grew sweet with the praising, until a cynic said, "So! I have heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?" The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He then dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage. "Why did you stop praising?" "Because I've never heard

anything back." "This longing you express is the return message."

The grief you cry out from (you see) draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs no one knows the names of. Give your life to be one of them.”

The constancy of my grief at this time of year is also the prayer of my heart. Its
return lures me towards trust. If, like seeing the falling leaves, I am paying attention. Such is the via negativa: the mystical and experiential path of loving God and living as a precious child of the Beloved. This trust must be nourished. Honored. Explored. For while this spiritual encounter is palpable, our minds only see "as through a glass darkly." The author, Christopher Hill, has noted much like Harvey Cox in The Feast of Fools that: "The Church is the great repository of mystery, but for the last century or so, the face of the mainstream churches have been pretty much the rational, main-street, daylight face of God — theology, ethics, charity and social outreach. Paul would have called it law and works,"

The sixties awakened a thirst for a face of God that the churches had long since ceded to the arts, folklore, and popular culture — the night side of God. When we're cut off from the moon, the night, and the waters of mystery, the spiritual world is blinding and blisteringly arid. Mystery refreshes us. Mystery is a cool dark underground stream, a tributary of living water that bubbled up into that well in a dusty Middle-Eastern village where Jesus stopped at midday and spoke to a Samaritan woman. When our roots are sunk into mystery, we flourish like trees planted by a stream. (https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/books/reviews/view/6588)

Celtic spirituality takes the dark seasons seriously. Indeed, their New Year begins with what we know as Halloween and All Saints/All Souls Day. It is often the start of Advent, too. That organically rings true to me: embracing loss on multiple levels so that we might celebrate the bounty and beauty of life whenever and wherever we find it. To paraphrase Psalm 85, "Now sorrow and joy embrace, today melancholia and trust kiss deeply."

continued later in the day (after house cleaning)...

Part of the trusting that nourishes me arises intuitively through the annual return of the blues. But the via negativa is not the whole show. When autumn arrives I also get to celebrate the birthdays of my daughter and grandson. Their presence fills me full to overflowing with gratitude. As October dawns, we get to spend time together playing, feasting and remembering the blessings come into creation simply by their being. And this year we'll add icing to the cake by taking-in a local pumpkin festival! 

My heart sees pumpkins sacramentally: as earthy ambassadors of Mother Nature, these big, odd, beautiful, and often gnarled symbols speak to me of God's constancy. Breaking through the brown earth with bold colors when everything else has been harvested, pumpkins proclaim that God hasn't given up on us yet. They come in all sizes. Some people eat them, others carve them, many of us bake them into pies. And a few like me just gaze upon them with gratitude. Birthdays and the equinox, the blues and pumpkins fill me with awe as autumn ripens. Thanks be to God.

looking back to how my heart was opened to L'Arche...

This was a day for yard work in anticipation of autumn. Being outside during this season often evokes reflection - and today was no exception. I pondered the spirituality programming we crafted earlier this week at L'Arche Ottawa. The words Jean Vanier shared on the occasion of his 90th birthday - challenge the "tyranny of the normal" - kept returning while I cut the grass. Vanier insists that confronting our fears and sharing our stories are earthy spiritual disciplines. He also urges us to listen carefully to the wisdom of the most vulnerable among us and trust God in all things, too. This is one of the blessings I experience being at L'Arche: my heart is regularly opened to both the joy and sorrow of love.

Let me note that I know that my encounters are privileged, however, because I am a volunteer. My world is not saturated in the gritty particularities of laundry, bathing, dressing, cooking, cleaning and being the constant companion of a core member. I come and go. I move into conversation and then return to solitude. And while I strive to share my gifts fully whenever I am engaged, I also know that at this moment in my life when I am much closer to the end than the beginning, the rhythm of my limitation is right. I mostly deal in music, words, poetry, and prayer these days. They are what I have to share. Once upon a time though, I spent 18 months working as an aide to 35 boys in a private residential home for intellectually disabled youth. 

It was forty-six years ago - after successfully achieving Conscientious Objector status from my draft board during the end of the Vietnam War. As fate would have it, I was never called into alternative service. So, I left New England, wandered to the Midwest, and eventually got myself hired as a custodial caretaker in a residential institution. One of three adults per shift, we were charged with waking, washing, dressing, shepherding, entertaining, medicating, and helping each student eat breakfast, lunch or dinner before their respective classes after a grand total of two hours of "training." Each day included nap time and recess; every night included additional baths followed by story time and lights out. A small night crew presided over the roughly 100+ youth between 10 pm and 6 am. 

It goes without saying that this was trial by fire. I knew about bathing babies and changing diapers because I am the oldest son of six children. But I had no experience in washing an almost adult male covered in feces who was afraid of water. Sometimes two or three times a day. There were a ton of other things that bewildered me, too. Like the fact that it took a few exhausting weeks to gain control of my gag reflex. And another few to find efficient and tender ways to bathe a stranger's body with dignity. But by the time my evaluation came up, I had learned the basics and loved being a part of the team. This is where I learned to wash and mop dormitory floors. Clean and disinfect 10 toilets as well as a rack of showers, too. It is where I learned to sing lullabies to boys who regularly cried themselves to sleep. Or smeared excrement on the wall after a bad day. Or wet themselves in excitement. It is where I began to learn how to listen to what was being said in the silence of another's eyes. It is also where I learned something about crying myself to sleep sometimes over my inability to make things better.

After about a year, a team was selected to work with "special education" instructors from the University of Illinois. This was our first serious training besides the solidarity of comrade in arms story-telling at the close of each shift. I learned so much. In time our team began to realize that the staff-to-student ratio at our "school" was dangerously low. It also became clear in those dark days right after Willowbrook in the US, that the regular use of restraints and other acts of behavior modification were punitive rather than therapeutic. In consultation with our educational advisors, my colleagues and I lobbied the administration for change. The leadership was sympathetic but driven by an economic bottom line and conditions did not improve. More organizing among the staff took place in cooperation with the University advisors. In fact, most of the planning and strategy meetings for trying to change this institution took place in my St. Louis apartment.

As our small cadre of advocates grew more certain that radical changes needed to take place, a colleague told me he was being evicted from his home and needed a place to crash. I was young, single with an extra bedroom so he moved in with me. I was glad for the company. This co-worker was not actively involved in our organizing for change, but he seemed sympathetic. To make a painful story short, one day we agitators-for-change planned a work action to force into the open a conversation about the dangerously low staff-to-student ratio. Unbeknownst to me, however, it turned out my new roommate was a mole - a spy for the institution - and when we custodial aides arrived that morning, we were escorted out by the police. We were summarily fired and paid on the spot. To make matters worse, when I finally got home that sad night, my roommate was gone and he apparently took all of our organizing notes and plans with him.

Today, at age 66, I often confess that I have to learn things the hard way - and that was my first bitter lesson in betrayal and the tyranny of the normal! Ratted-out and fired on the same day. Without any chance to say good-bye to the boys I had come to love. St. Paul liked to say, "Now we see as through a glass darkly, later we shall see face to face." Back in the day, I was pretty green. I had to learn about human nature. About my own naiveté. About what is possible at any given one moment in time. And about how large institutions are ill-equipped in caring for people with intellectual disabilities - even when their hearts are in the right places. 

My heartbreak sent me back to college. Then into organizing with Cesar Chavez and the farm workers. Then back to college for a BA in political science before seminary, ordination, 40 years of urban ministry all over the USA, as well as travel to Russia, Central America, Eastern Europe and the UK, marriage, children, divorce, failure and new love. In ministry, wise teachers led me into training re: addiction, 12 step recovery, hospice and spiritual direction. When my secretary in Cleveland was dying of cancer and had no family and no insurance, we were able to organize a lay team to stay with her around the clock in her apartment so she would not die alone. I learned how to clean-out a reverse colostomy wound, too when a member found himself alone, abandoned

and without family after surgery. Most of all, I learned that living with a tender and open heart is simultaneously agonizing and exhilarating - and fills me with gratitude.

And now I am sitting in my study watching a young deer eat raspberry leaves in the wetlands of our backyard. I am no longer physically able to do the work I once did 46 years ago. My life has become more reflective. Like the scripture teaches, "To everything there is a season." But this is a wonderful season to be alive. I have the opportunity to make creative new music. I have been given the privilege of meeting the young assistants at L'Arche who share their energy and love with their core member friends. I have grown to cherish many of the core members, house leaders and leadership team at L'Arche Ottawa and hold them close to my heart. And I rediscovered the wisdom of Jean Vanier. His witness shows me the way of Christ beyond the tyranny of the normal. And this is blessing upon blessing.

l'arche breaks down barriers with love and humility...

This morning Di is teaching Japanese students English via Skype and the Internet. Amazing, yes? I am sipping hot tea in another room, listening to Jean Vanier on Youtube and thinking about something I experienced at L'Arche Ottawa over the past few days. It began at Saturday's anniversary: a birthday party for the community. One core member, Louise, has been present since the start some 46 years ago. The community's first leader, Mary, was present, too along with three other past leaders - Donna, John and Raphael - as well as the current shepherd, Daniella. A great cloud of living witnesses.

What hit me as I took it all in is that each person was present simply to be there! Not to make speeches. Or be recognized. Not to do anything extraordinary except enjoy the party and return thanks to God. Of course,there were words of gratitude. And lots of hugs. A community birthday cake, songs and simple decorations, too. But the heart of the party had to do with just being together. It was a festival of tender belonging and honest humility.

So I've been walking around with that truth and letting it swim through my consciousness over the weekend. As an intellectual I often strive to see reality through the lens of theology. That exercise has its place, to be sure, but it is also self-limiting - and incomplete. At last night's community meeting - the monthly gathering where prayers are shared, songs offered, core members and assistants visit with one another, and personal anniversaries and birthdays are celebrated - I had an epiphany. This community has learned how to discard the false distinctions between the sacred and the secular. They are fully incarnational! (for some important theological reflection, please see Fr. Richard Rohr's recent series re: the early Church @
https://cac.org/christ-is-everyman-and-everywoman-2018-09-10/)

That's my theological techno-speak for how L'Arche loves the real person just as they are, and, honors whatever brings joy, hope and integrity. At last night's gathering one woman, Chastity, was celebrated on her 19th anniversary of living in community. She was given a handmade stole with pictures of her favorite blues artist! The look of unbridled ecstasy on her face - and the laughter and joy among all the people - was holy ground. Another celebration for 8 years in community included a stole with pictures of the person's favorite drink. Other anniversaries were marked with similar stoles - symbols of the towel Jesus wore while kneeling to wash the feet of his disciples as a servant with love - each followed by a song: Thank you, Lord, for giving us (name) right where we are... Alleluia, praise the Lord..."

Incarnational is when the Word (or idea) of God becomes flesh. Dismantling all false distinctions between the sacred and secular means being fully present in the moment and recognizing what is real. Not the ideal. Not the perfect. But the human. L'Arche often helps me know that while I have a ton of theological education - and 40 years of pastoral experience - I am still an infant when it comes to making the words of my faith flesh. Like St. Paul wrote: "Though I speak with the tongues of humanity and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. Though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing."

On the occasion of his 90th birthday yesterday, L'Arche founder, Jean Vanier, shared his 10 Rules for Life on Youtube. They, too, are simple expressions of the ways he has learned to make the love of Jesus real in his lifetime. Note there is no theological jargon in this list. No abstractions either.

1. Accept the reality of your body.

2. Talk about your emotional/physical difficulties: being human is to love reality.

3. Don’t be afraid of failure: fear of weakness.

4. Take time to ask: how are you – avoid the tyranny of normality.

5. Put your phone down and be present.

6. Ask another: what’s YOUR story?

7. Know your OWN story – you are precious – so what are you afraid of? 

8. Overcome prejudice by meeting others; this is how peace happens.

9. Listen to your deepest desire and follow it.

10. Remember that one day you will die.

Clear, humble words. Clear, simple practices that distill the essence of the inward and outward journey. People matter. Listening is the way to practice loving. Meeting others carries us beyond fear and the tyranny of normalcy. And knowing that we will die is simple humility. You can watch Vanier here:

Early on I recognized that my affinity with L'Arche Ottawa is just as much about my vulnerability and inner healing as it is being present with others. I am so grateful.

all in your good time...

Today was a slow one. Yesterday was filled with L'Arche celebrations - but we were fighting nasty colds - so when the party was over, we crashed. And we had traveled six hours the day before, too. For two introverts - with head colds - it was enough. We had to lay low today, mostly silent, and regroup. In time, we walked in the late autumn sun by the canal for a spell. And finally I feel my wearies lifting. Tomorrow will be time enough to reconnect. I missed seeing friends today, but it had to be.

Two insights from other writers spoke to me as I rested. The first is from Rabbi Jill Zimmerman in anticipation of Rosh Hashanah which begins tonight. It tells the universal truth that each branch of creation's spirituality teaches in their own liturgical tongue: our wisdom words are not chronological nor always literal; rather, they are evocative and shared so that that when we enter these places, we know how our elders traversed trying times. And maybe we can use their experience to enlighten our own - if it is the right time.

The design of this season compels us to forgive,
to open our hearts, and sometimes to re-experience wounds.
Some of us have suffered profound trauma,
at the hand of parents, partners, or friends,
They might be fresh bruises
or from many years ago
They bubble below the surface, having been pushed away,
but now re-emerge,
in the quiet or the music or the prayers.

Amidst the urgent pleadings of these days,
to wipe the slate clean and start anew,
some of us are not sure of the path forward.
To the woman who has been violated
and to the man whose spirit has been beaten down,
And to anyone with a broken heart or a crushed soul
who might not be quite ready to forgive:
It’s ok.
Take your time.
Sometimes the timetable of these holy days
doesn’t match the rhythm of your heart and soul.
Sometimes our devoted prayers get intermingled with inner voices not quite resolved:
“maybe it wasn’t all that bad”
“just let go”
“let bygones be bygones”
“be the bigger person” or
“maybe I’m being too sensitive.”

This year,
love yourself enough
to trust
your own timing.
Be patient enough to
stay in the place of
“not yet.”
Trust that you will find your way,
that you will come to a time
where holding on
hurts more than letting go.
Forgive yourself for not being ready – yet.
Give yourself the time and space
to go at your own pace,
to love yourself right where you are and as you are.
From that place of acceptance,

May you have faith that the path forward will open up.

(http://www.ravjill.com/2018/09/06/notyetready/)

The other is from Rilke, a poem he called "Autumn Day." It, too, rings true to me at this moment in time:

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense. Lay your shadow on the sundials and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days, press them to ripeness, and chase the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time, will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

It feels like it is time to take stock of what is essential -  to cherish it and honor it too - for now the leaves are about to start blowing.

practicing waiting in trust...

Like most of us, the late Henri Nouwen learned the lessons of tenderness the hard way. He was vulnerable and anxious, often lonely and insecure, and in that state found himself saying words he later regretted. Ever been there? I have all too many times. As the Eastern mystical tradition of Christianity asserts, each of us was created incomplete; through our mistakes and sins we acquire wisdom and experience that draws us closer to God. Over time, if we pay attention to the wisdom of our wounds, we can become more Christ-like. By grace, practice and wise counsel, our brokenness makes us whole. Applying this truth to his own life, Nouwen wrote:

Words are very important. When we say to someone: "You are an ugly, useless, despicable person," we might have ruined the possibility for a relationship with that person for life. Words can continue to do harm for many years. It is so important to choose our words wisely. When we are boiling with anger and eager to throw bitter words at our opponents, it is better to remain silent. Words spoken in rage will make reconciliation very hard. Choosing life and not death, blessings and not curses often starts by choosing to remain silent or choosing carefully the words that open the way to healing.

(The same is true) when you write a very angry letter to a friend who has hurt you deeply: don't send it! Let the letter sit on your table for a few days and read it over a number of times. Then ask yourself: "Will this letter bring life to me and my friend? Will it bring healing, will it bring a blessing?" You don't have to ignore the fact that you are deeply hurt. You don't have to hide from your friend that you feel offended. But you can respond in a way that makes healing and forgiveness possible and opens the door for new life. Rewrite the letter if you think it does not bring life, and send it with a prayer for your friend. (https://henrinouwen.org)

The founder of L'Arche, Jean Vanier - anam cara (soul friend) to Nouwen and many others - puts it like this:

Genuine healing happens here (in the stability of ordinary life) not in miraculous cures, but through mutual respect, care, and love. Paradoxically, (our) vulnerability becomes a source of strength and wholeness, a place of reconciliation and communion with others. (http://www.jean-vanier.org/en)

Recently I was in conversation with a friend about knowing the difference between waiting in silence and indecision. As we spoke - and listened - I was reminded of something Fr. Jim O'Donnell told me during the time I was in spiritual direction with him. It was the start of Lent and I announced some grandiose plan to pray, fast and sharing time in a local halfway house. He listened patiently and replied, "Just try to be quiet for a few minutes each day and light a candle. Just light a candle, man. Anything else will go up in smoke because you need to practice small acts of devotion." I was a bit embarrassed

but knew he was right - and wasn't always successful that Lent even lighting a daily candle.

My insight to my friend was comparable: we learn to know the difference by practicing. Start small. Stay in your body not just your mind. And begin to feel what draws you towards life. Light a candle, man. Over time, you will grow a little bit clearer and your discernment will become stronger. But go slow. Stay small. Keep it simple. I love the way Vanier puts it in Community and Growth:

The ideal doesn't exist. The personal equilibrium and the harmony people dream of come only after years and years of struggle, and them only as flashes of grace and peace. Peace is the fruit of love and service to others. I'd like to tell the people in communities, "Stop looking for peace. Give yourselves where you are. Stop looking at yourselves, look instead at your brothers and sisters in need. Ask how you can better love your brothers and sisters. Then you will find peace."

Here's a song we'll be using this year as we celebrate the 46th anniversary of L'Arche Ottawa. I think she gets it right...

credits:
+ http://www.tendernesshealthcare.com

the journey of a man's heart...

For well over 30 years I have known that mentoring men is crucial in our sick, overly competitive, work-addicted, flesh-hating, misogynist, shame-filled, anti-intellectual, and bottom line culture. And, from time to time while I was in pastoral ministry, informal opportunities to do so arrived. By mentoring please know that I do NOT mean traditional spiritual direction. But rather something more like what John O'Donohue suggested with the Celtic term anam cara: soul friend. 

One of the tasks of true friendship is to listen compassionately and creatively to the hidden silences. Often secrets are not revealed in words, they lie concealed in the silence between the words or in the depth of what is unsayable between two people.

Older men with a modicum of wisdom and a bit of time-tested humility have something to share in reclaiming the role of elder. We need some quiet shamans and story-tellers who have spent time in the ashes helping our young men find their place in the 21st century wilderness. I was kidding Dianne earlier that I need to add "committed elder" to my Facebook "job description." It is every bit as important as musician, writer and Gwad (my grandson Louie's first scrambled attempt at "grand dad.") There is so much to say about this calling - so much joy and so many tears, too - but the hour is late and I am worn out. For the young and middle-aged men I love and have befriended perhaps this poem by O'Donohue's poem is all this night requires.

Beannacht / Blessing"

On the day when

the weight deadens

on your shoulders

and you stumble,

may the clay dance

to balance you.

And when your eyes

freeze behind

the grey window

and the ghost of loss

gets in to you,

may a flock of colours,

indigo, red, green,

and azure blue

come to awaken in you

a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays

in the currach of thought

and a stain of ocean

blackens beneath you,

may there come across the waters

a path of yellow moonlight

to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

may the clarity of light be yours,

may the fluency of the ocean be yours,

may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow

wind work these words

of love around you,

an invisible cloak

to mind your life.

don't take ANY of it for granted...

Today I practiced with my Famous Brother, Hal, some new songs for our upcoming gigs and then completed the songbook for my L'Arche community sisters and brothers in Ottawa. Tomorrow, my little man, Louie, starts kindergarten and we prepare to be away for a week celebrating the 46th anniversary of L'Arche Ottawa. A few thoughts... I remember like it was last month when Louie's momma went off to kindergarten.

... our other precious daughter is on a sojourn into the highlands of Scotland - and I am missing her mightily.

... last night on Facebook I saw this picture of my sisters and brothers at L'Arche Mountainview - and my heart ached to be with them.

... playing music today took me through decades of feelings as Hal and I worked on my prayerful version of Lou Reed's "Sweet Jane" among other great tunes.

... and for those paying attention, the weather is clearly shifting to fall as autumn is in the air in this corner of the woods. 

Reading this poem late last night put this wistful day into perspective. Please, beloved, as hard as it can be: don't take any of it for granted.

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade
BY BRAD AARON MODLIN

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.

After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something.

the blessings of playing in a band...

One of the deep joys of moving out of full-time pastoral ministry has been the chance to make music with my band-mates in Famous Before We're Dead. Not that we didn't create and share music while I was in the church. We did. Boldly. Regularly. As a way of prayer and community building. But now I have both the time and freedom to go even deeper. This picture speaks volumes about why this matters to me: there is abandon into the groove, concentration on my notes as well as how they strengthen the group's sound, all experienced in real time. As Wynton Marsalis has said: On the bandstand with musicians you love and trust, you are completely absorbed in the movement of the song even as you work to listen carefully to the surprises that always arrive and celebrate what the other players are creating, too. It is an embodied prayer as well as something cosmic.

Last night was the first time we've played under optimum circumstances: a sound man worked the PA board, we had played the day before and knew what to watch out for re: possible mistakes, we were focused and psyched, the room was filled with people who love music, we were close enough to hear and communicate with one another. And, we understood this was the moment to stand and deliver. The gig was part of the prize Hal and I won at Infinity Music Hall earlier in the year: an opportunity to play live in the Bistro. The owner of the club was present. So were a few recording engineers. We needed to bring the magic together in a way that satisfied the crowd - especially those outside our circle of friends - even as we showed the professionals what we could bring to the table. And, thanks be to God, it happened. There are still things to work on, to be sure, but there were sublime moments as well - and tons of fun.

One of the highlights for me was when the sound man said, "I want to be a part of this band!" It was that much fun. Tomorrow at band practice I am certain Hal and I will dissect the evening in detail. It needs to be done to keep the music alive. But this is moving in the right direction. As one of the players said: It was inspiring to be a part of this tonight. He was right. It was a gas.Three personal insights came to me this morning as I pondered what the whole groove meant. 

+ First, playing original music matters. In a "listening room" (as opposed to a bar) people are willing to take a risk on substance. The music must still be entertaining and accessible. Beautiful, too. But if the audience makes the effort to leave their homes and enter a club, it means they are open to new sounds and insights. Our songs need to tell stories: they must take individuals into a place of love as well as challenge by way of invitation. One of the truths I have experienced at "open mics" is that some players have a lot of passion, talent and conviction, but they beat the audience over the head with heavy-handed messages that are simply exhausting. Sharing original music requires finesse, poetry and humility. Lots of practice, too because our new songs must sound every bit as polished as the songs we buy on ITunes.

+ Second, each song - whether an original or a cover - must be so well practiced that it can be moved in the set list according to the mood of the room. Last night, some on the spot substitutions were called. This reflected both the feel of the room as well as the energy of the band. They were the right calls, too but required seamless shifting of instruments and focus. The band leader needs to be attuned to the crowd even as he/she takes the pulse of the musicians on the bandstand. Slipping in an unexpected, self-deprecating blues in the middle of our first set was a brilliant deviation - and each of the players rose to the occasion. There was trust taking place mixed with expertise, a willingness to take some well-calculated risks alongside the awareness that the band was capable of rising to the moment. I've played some gigs where such changes were needed, but the leader didn't feel the arc of the groove. So rather than build excitement, the song substitutions killed the room's energy. It was gratifying to me to see the polar opposite take place at Infinity as one led us deeper. Or as Sly used to say: "I want to take you higher!"

+ And third, I suspect we still need to find a few more popular cover tunes that we love as a band that can help us keep the audience fully engaged.  I was convinced of this when we brought a late addition, Bob Marley's "Stir It Up," into the mix. Not only did those who knew the song sing out with vigor, but even those unfamiliar with the 1972 classic reggae song were moving and shaking their booties. Even the little children got it - and that made their parents believers, too.  We are committed to doing interesting songs - no rehashing "Freebird" or "Amy" for us - but one or two really fun and reasonably well known covers might bring a whole other layer of engagement. Its a fine balancing act and I suspect we'll play with this over the next few months.

One closing thought: playing live is so satisfying to me both for the joy and beauty we create together in these trying times, but also because it puts us in relationship to people we don't already know. Bards and story-tellers have always been the carriers of hope - and in the age of cynical bullies and political hacks, people are aching for a sign of hope. To welcome strangers with song, to lift their spirits and soothe a broken heart, to give a child a sense of wonder in a world saturated with bottom line obsessions is to move onto holy ground. Last night, during the first break, two little budding musicians came forward to look at the instruments. I invited them closer - pluck the strings on this upright bass I said - and it was magic. Owen told me that he wants to become a musician and play the cello. His sister wants to sing. It was confirmation that being there was sacred.

So onward we go. I'l keep you posted for our next gig and maybe you can join us! Blessings abound.

labor day reading...

A few insightful writers have already observed that the farewell events for the late Senator John McCain were carefully crafted liturgies of resistance. They were not a summons to radical or even revolutionary action, mind you, but rather reminders of what our better angels look like and how we might strengthen them. Susan Glasser wisely stated it like this in The New Yorker:


McCain’s grand funeral—the Obama adviser David Axelrod called it an exercise in “civic communion”—underscored a fact that is often lost about Washington these days. The city is much more bipartisan, in some respects, than it has ever been, (and) more united than it may currently seem, in its hatred of Donald Trump... (Without every mentioning his name) the funeral service for John Sidney McCain III, at the Washington National Cathedral, on this swampy Saturday morning, was all about a rebuke to the pointedly uninvited current President of the United States, which was exactly how McCain had planned it.(https://www.newyorker.com/news/letter-from-trumps-washington/john-mccains-funeral-was-the-biggest-resistance-meeting-yet?mbid=social_facebook)

Another wise soul, Eliot Cohen writing in The Atlantic, was equally pointed: the meticulous funeral liturgy was McCain's final invitation to the United States to reclaim the greatness of American ideals currently discarded by bullies and demagogues:  

McCain’s funeral was intended to remind his fellow citizens, as all the speakers said but as the ceremonies conveyed even more powerfully, that the United States is about the greatness of its ideals; that when it falls short, as it inevitably must do, that should occasion not cynicism but a drive to repair wrongs and build anew; that American patriotism is, as McCain warned us, the very opposite of blood-and-soil nationalism; that when America fails to lead abroad, darker forces gather and gain force, and minorities can be massacred with impunity, and dissidents can be safely strangled in underground chambers.

(https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2018/09/john-mccains-last-gift-to-his-nation/569200/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_term=2018-09-02T12%3A50%3A24&utm_campaign=the-atlantic&utm_content=edit-promo)

As the Reverend Dr. Susan Thistlethwaite has suggested it was a memorial service for the nation. And Charles Pierce of The Nation spoke of it as "a council of war just as McCain intended."This was a funeral with more than one purpose—to celebrate the passing of John McCain and to summon a rebirth of politics that did not so much reek of grift and vodka."

Make no mistake. Those are not patriotic banalities any more. The current president* has made them dead serious again. They are no longer frothy paeans to the greatness of America. They are compass points on a battlefield. They are no longer heard with half an ear and then forgotten. They are fighting words now. The president* knew it. That's why he spent the morning rage-tweeting and the afternoon playing golf. In dying, and in carefully planning his funeral in the way he did, John McCain has opened a second front.

(https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/a22893069/john-mccain-funeral-service/)

If you have a chance this Labor Day weekend, read these articles. They capture the essence of what this moment in history means for those who seek to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with the Lord. You don't have to be a fan of the late Senator to know that the US is wildly off course. We are "waist deep in the Big Muddy" of fear, dishonesty and naked greed. Bigotry and boorishness are the rule of the day. But McCain's wisdom, even in his dying, saw through the current haze to new possibilities rooted in our history and calling.

autumn paradox: a lesson in dying and rising...

September! How in God's name could it already be September 1, 2018? This morning, we played a farmer's market and clearly autumn was in the air. We played this same market three months ago at the start of the summer season, too. In-between sets I stood in stunned silence noting how so much of life has come and gone. Christine Valters Paintner writes that autumn reminds many of us of the impermanence of our existence. "It brings to us a deeper awareness that we live in a continual cycle of dying and rising." The spirituality of this season, therefore, invites us to notice what nature is trying to teach us. "The autumn leaves changing color," for example:

... are actually reverting to their original hue as chlorophyll is gradually blocked. As the trees begin to pull energy inward for the coming hibernation of winter, the chlorophyll in the leaves decreases and the vibrant shades we witness are the tree's true color. As autumn begins, we are called to reflect where we are being invited to surrender our masks and become more truly who we already are. With fall's energy of release, we are asked to consider the things, habits, beliefs, and attitudes that we are being called to let go of in the coming days.

(http://www.patheos.com/resources/additional-resources/2010/09/invitations-of-autumn)

I feel something of this as I look out on fields of rising golden rod basking in the wetlands sunlight behind our home. Like Paintner writes elsewhere, autumn has been paradoxical for me, a time of profound introspection. It "invites us to consider what we are called to release and surrender - what no longer serves us or what gets in the way of being present to the holiness of each moment - (and) invites us to gather in the harvest, to name and celebrate the fruit of the seeds of dreams we planted months ago." For decades not only was this the time when our children returned to school, but when I too resumed my liturgical and pastoral responsibilities. It was a fresh start with new adventures and challenges as well as the end of the simplicity of summer living. With neither children at home nor a church community to serve, I still sense the inward paradox of autumn speaking to me about letting go and becoming my truest self.

I hear the prayer of St. Francis saying: O divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it's in dying that we are born to eternal life. I hear the wisdom of Mother Earth singing much the same song. In the emerging church, the next four weeks are being called "the season of creation." It is a time to listen to the sacred in creation. An urgent cry to hear the holy beyond our anthropocentric biases and respond with compassion and justice. During the last decade of my pastoral ministry, my heart and habits were changed because God was calling me to surrender my arrogance and listen to the wind, the water, the animals, the trees and the mountains. Paintner believes that in holding this kind of release and receptivity together in tension, we find "that our letting go (often brings) the blessings of abundance."

Parker Palmer, a beloved mentor, observes that at age 76 "nature has become his trustworthy guide. All the “falling” that’s going on out there is full of promise. Seeds are being planted and leaves are being composted as earth prepares for yet another uprising of green."

It’s easy to fixate on everything that goes to ground as time goes by: the disintegration of a relationship, the disappearance of good work well-done, the diminishment of a sense of purpose and meaning. But, as I’ve come to understand that life “composts” and “seeds” us as autumn does the earth, I’ve seen how possibility gets planted in us even in the most difficult of times.

In the Christian tradition this is called "the Paschal Mystery" wherein the death of Jesus on the Cross becomes the Resurrection by the grace and love of God. This blessing is never automatic nor is it within human purview to control. And yet, at the same time, it is trustworthy and true. Living into this truth by trust is not simple. But it does give meaning and shape to our lives in much the same way as the spirituality of autumn. Parker writes:

The hopeful notion that new life is hidden in dying is surely reinforced by the visual glories of autumn. What artist would paint a deathbed scene with the vibrant and vital palette nature uses? Perhaps death possesses a grace that we who fear dying, who find it ugly and even obscene, cannot see. How shall we understand nature’s testimony that dying itself — as devastating as we know it can be — contains the hope of a certain beauty? The closest I’ve ever come to answering that question begins with these words from Thomas Merton: “There is in all visible things… a hidden wholeness.”

In the visible world of nature, a great truth is concealed in plain sight. Diminishment and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites: they are held together in the paradox of the “hidden wholeness.” In a paradox, opposites do not negate each; they cohabit and co-create in mysterious unity at the heart of reality. Deeper still, they need each other for health, just as our well-being depends on breathing in and breathing out. (https://onbeing.org/blog/autumn-a-season-of-paradox/)

To live into this trust - and I am a poor, bedraggled advocate of this blessing, to be sure - is not easy in our either/or, control mode culture. I am often assaulted by anxiety and have to practice a variety of breathing and walking meditations to reclaim God's equilibrium. I often tell others: I get it wrong at least as often as I get it right. But when I do get it right I know it is true. And even when I get it wrong, I trust it is right.

We live in a culture that prefers the ease of either/or to the complexities of both/and, we have a hard time holding opposites together. We want light without darkness, the glories of spring and summer without the demands of autumn and winter, the pleasures of life without the pangs of death. We make Faustian bargains hoping to get what we want, but they never truly enliven us and cannot possibly sustain us in hard times. When we so fear the dark that we demand light around the clock, there can be only one result: artificial light that is glaring and graceless and, beyond its borders, a darkness that grows ever more terrifying as we try to hold it off. Split off from each other, neither darkness nor light is fit for human habitation. The moment we say “yes” to both of them and join their paradoxical dance, the two conspire to make us healthy and whole.

Watching the quiet dignity on display at John McCain's funeral service at the National Cathedral called my heart back to Palmer's testimony. The tears I shed today with my nation reunited me with the invitation of autumn. And the promise of Jesus. And this paradox of living fully at this moment in time. So, like the pumpkins still on the vine in my backyard, I need to stay put for another year and grow ripe through another cycle of seasons. I will surrender a little of my desire to control my life and simply "behold" the gifts of the Lord as was revealed earlier this spring. And I will share the fruit of my heart and the Spirit quietly with those I love.

For when I try to fabricate a life that defies autumn’s diminishments, I end up in a state that’s less than human. When I give myself over to organic reality — to the endless interplay of darkness and light, falling and rising — the life I am given is as real and colorful, fruitful and whole as this graced and graceful world and the seasonal cycles that make it so. Though I still grieve as beauty goes to ground, autumn reminds me to celebrate the primal power that is forever making all things new in me, in us, and in the natural world.

Tomorrow the band will play a show at Infinity Bistro in Norfolk, CT. That will be sweet. Later in the week I will visit with a young man on a quest for deeper meaning in these weird days. We'll head up to Ottawa at week's end to join our community in the celebration of 46 years of compassion and tenderness at L'Arche. I'll sing some there, too and share prayers and study and work. As the month of September ripens, we'll have our grandchildren up for some harvest festival pumpkin picking. And still one more farmer's market with the band. I am so grateful.