Listen to the Call

Tonight I attended the second meeting of our little “monastery of the heart.” This time, after prayer and a song, we read together the introduction to Joan Chittester’s book, and I want to share with you a part of that reading.

As monastics of the heart we must

read the scriptures day in and day out,

till they ring in our ears,

and fill our hearts,

and become the very breath

we breathe. . . .

God is calling us lovingly always,

if we will only stop the noise within us

long enough to hear.

Benedictine spirituality, then,

Is a continuing call to take one more step

on the way back to the God

from whom we have come,

to turn consciously now and here

toward the God

to whom our entire lives

are geared.

The Prologue to Benedict’s Rule

demands of us

that we “Listen.”

Listen to everything.

Because everything in life is important.

Listen with the heart:

with feeling for the other,

with feeling for the Word,

with feeling for the God

who feels for us.

Listen to the Word of God,

the Rule says,

“and faithfully put it into practice.”

Most of all,

know that to seek God

is to find God.

One of the main questions that held our attention tonight was, “In what ways can we more intentionally immerse ourselves in the Word of God, ‘until it rings in our ears, fills our hearts, and becomes the very breath we breathe’?”

Monasteries of the Heart

This evening I attended the first of several meetings on Joan Chittister’s book, Monastery of the Heart. For those who are not familiar with her work, Chittister is a prolific writer of amazing spiritual depth. She is also a Benedictine nun. This book is her attempt to share some thoughts on the ways in which some of the ideas and ideals lived in communal religious life might be lived out in an “ordinary, everyday” life. She suggests we make monasteries of our hearts.

My own opinion is that the concept of communities of celibate men or women living in close quarters and often under rigid discipline has not always been a healthy or spiritually productive one. However, I do believe that most of the people who have tried this (for centuries on end) have had at heart the intention of coming closer to God, and that God has drawn very near to every soul who desires that closer connection. I know that I can learn deep truths from some of these fellow Christians: Brother Lawrence is one good example. I feel that way about Chittister’s writings. They are rich in spiritual truths and I have been blessed by them.

So I thought that for the next few weeks I’d take those of you who are interested to my meetings with me.

Tonight, after prayer that God would help us “listen with the ears of our hearts” (one of the Benedictine prayers), we read together the introduction of the book and discussed some of the questions it raised. One of these questions was, “Do you agree that seeking the Divine is an attempt to complete the incomplete? Why or why not?”

My own reaction to this was that there are two ways (at least) to see the term “incomplete.” One is something that is broken or inadequate. The other is something that is new, small, has not grown up yet.

I can’t explain why I always, as long as I can remember, from babyhood or at least toddlerhood, have been strongly aware of the presence of God around me and in me. I have never experienced the “search for God” that is such a huge and sometimes desperate part of the lives of so many. Yet I began to be aware, in a small way as early as 7 or 8, and certainly by 14 and up, of my need and desire to “grow up” in God—to “complete the incomplete” in that sense. I am still aware of that need and desire.

Throughout my life it is also true that there has been much brokenness—both damage done to me by others who had power over me in one way or another, and damage done to myself by my own unwise choices. So one of the ways I like to think of the Holy Spirit’s work is as a sort of “force field,” holding me and all my holes and cracks together while I’m mended from the inside out. Completing the incomplete.

Paul said we see unclearly, as in the dim mirrors of polished metal with which he was familiar. We don’t see the Whole—and only a few of the parts, for that matter. But together with God we keep putting the puzzle pieces together, discovering parts of the Big Picture as we go, and one day (oh, please, God, soon!!) the Picture will be Whole. Complete.

Come, Lord Jesus! And in the meantime, keep the shields up and our force fields of faith activated. Amen!

A Prayer for Coming Home

“Today I declare to the YHWH my God, with deepest gratitude, that I have come into the land that YHWH promised to give me. Wandering gypsies (not by blood, just by spirit) were my ancestors; they came from Normandy, from Scotland, from Ulster into the foreign land of the New World (and some were already here long before). They became a great family, loud and populous. They loved music and laughter and storytelling—oh, how they did love storytelling!—and fighting and arguing, for good or ill. . . but most of all, they loved their God and each other. And they loved this church.

When life treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing pain and sorrow and loss and poverty on us, we cried to YHWH, the God of our ancestors; YHWH heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression.

YHWH saw our tears and walked with us through the nights and the valleys. YHWH brought us out of the bondage of old sin and addiction with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, usually in quiet and unseen power, but sometimes with signs and wonders. Some of our women dreamed dreams and some of us saw visions and heard a song in the night.

YWHW brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk (from my goats) and honey (from the neighbor’s bees), a land that brings forth vegetables and fruits bountifully. Still, in this place, there is pain and sorrow and loss, and still YHWH of our mothers walks with us.

So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O YHWH, have given me. I share the milk and the eggs with Your beloved ones, and (when summer comes) I shall share the vegetables and the fruits and the herbs. I share the first of the stories and the best of the songs and the highest words of praise I can form.

I set it down before YHWH my God and bow down before YHWH my God. Then I, together with the friends and the strangers, the known and the unknown, the understood and the misunderstood who reside among us, shall celebrate with all the bounty that YHWH our God has given to us and to our community.

Amen!

Based on Deut. 26:1-11, with a little of Joel 2 and bits and pieces thrown in.

Shiny Faces

Moses’ face shone when he came  out from talking with God. The story reads as if it were literally true, since they had him wear a veil, and that may well be so. Privately, I wonder if the “physical” (for lack of a better word) presence of God isn’t radioactive. Having created the atom, God would know how to protect fragile humans from that, and it would explain (somewhat) the idea that God’s presence is either deadly and lifegiving, depending on one’s state at the moment.

On the other hand, the metaphysical shining that comes from someone who spends time in close communion with The Holy also sometimes makes people uncomfortable. Maybe it was the love in Moses’ eyes they couldn’t bear. He did tend to get a bit crusty, didn’t he? Maybe they were more comfortable with that. . . But when he was with God he forgot how irritating they often were and remembered that they were God’s children and in some sense, his, too.

Not only Jesus’ face, but even his clothing shone on the mountain when he was transfigured (literally, changed looks). Then again, his face, the face of God, was already veiled in human flesh because we couldn’t bear it. Do humans cling to the picture of an angry, vengeful god because that’s more understandable (given what we know of our inward selves) and because the shocking, far-reaching Love is almost unbearably bright?

When we, as a race--who originally lived in the Light and knew nothing different--turned away, we became unable to bear that Light. We created a veil, dozens of veils, hundreds of veils, and hid inside them. Jesus put on our veils and came inside to find us. We weren’t truly free until his veil of flesh was ripped apart.

By us.

That, too, is unbearable to look at. But if we do, if we hold our wavering, tear-soaked gaze on that Love, our faces get shiny. Some people don’t like it. All people need it.

Is your face shiny?