Rest and Retreat

Chapter seven of The Monastery of the Heart is “Retreat and Reflection.” This, in essence, is what our little prayer group that meets on Wednesday nights is doing—retreating to reflect together on where we are versus where we want to be. As Chittister puts it,

This requires the cultivation

of a reflective soul

and a disciplined mind

that goes regularly into “retreat”—

into that space where we look,

first of all, at what we set out to be,

and then look consciously

at what we are now doing

to get there.

There is value in doing this together. There may be even more value in doing it alone. Both are necessary. Christian traditions of all kinds (not to mention other faiths) have always included a sort of “soul inspection,” often at the end of the day. All too often, this has become a self-flagellating catalogue of sins. Mind you, it’s important to look our sins squarely in the face. To confess them to ourselves, then to God, then to the person or persons we have harmed. But the inspection doesn’t end there.

In fact, perhaps it shouldn’t begin there. In the family book Making Heart Bread, authors Matthew Linn and Sheila Fabricant Linn speak of looking back at each day and asking what one is most grateful for first, letting the heart fill with that gratitude and love. Then, they say, one feels safer and is now ready to look at what one was least grateful for, or most troubled about, and care for those feelings.

In the context of soul-searching, if I look at the moments when my soul did follow the Holy Spirit to the best of its ability first, then of course I will be filled with joy and gratitude, because I know those moments were of God, not of me! Now, if I am also aware of moments when I failed to follow the Spirit, I can feel the regret and remorse without feeling overwhelmed or shamed or blamed, which is far more helpful in determining how to make restitution, if possible, and how to do better next time.

Retreat time is the flagship piece of the year

that sets the standard

for a rhythm of life that moves seamlessly

between contemplation and action,

between work and Sabbath,

between a regular retreat

and reflection days

throughout the year.

The Creator designed a life that would have these retreats built in: daily at morning and evening worship time, weekly on the seventh day, and several times a year during fasts and feasts. Why would we rob ourselves of these healing times?

Silence

Silence

Joan Chittister writes:

Silence. . .

brings us beyond the noise

of chaos and clutter and confusion

of a spinning world

to the cool, calm center

of the spiritual self.

(The Monastery of the Soul, ch. 5)

David writes:

My soul, wait in silence

for God only,

for my hope is from him.

(Ps. 62:5)

God, speaking through Isaiah, says:

Coastlands, listen to me in silence,

and let the peoples gain new strength;

let them come forward,

then let them speak.

(Is. 41:1, emphasis added.)

I have often noticed that some Christians—well, many people, Christian or not!—seem to be afraid of silence. I think that to come before God with our prayers, speak them all, then say Amen and go away is rude. God wants to speak to us, too, and he’d like the courtesy of a hearing.

Along with a large dose of humility.

What have you heard or felt in the silence this week?

Life, Death, Life

Within the months following my husband’s death in 2011, I told my pastor that one extremely comforting thing was that the grief was just pure grief. I didn’t have regrets or remorse, I didn’t feel there were things I wished I’d done, or had left undone, or done better. I knew that, before God, I had done the very best I knew to do, taken care of him up to and beyond my ability, by the grace of God. I had made it through the Valley, and now had only recovery to face. It seemed possible.

When, only nine months later, my young, quite healthy mother suddenly died, I felt machine-gunned off at the knees. It took me months to even consider that it might be true, let alone begin to deal with it. Only, now it was complicated grief. Guilt and remorse dogged me. Every single thing I’d ever done or left undone or done “wrong” since I was five years old roared up into my face and stoned me and beat me and broke my heart.

Last Thursday, in counseling, I realized I was now the one doing the shaming and blaming that used to come to me from the outside. I was judge, executioner, and victim all at once. Life imprisonment, torture---no punishment seemed great enough for my sin.

Then I went to the Maundy Thursday service. As I listened to the Bible readings of Jesus’ last supper, betrayal, and trial, it dawned on me—I’d lost sight of the cross!  Jesus had already served a life sentence on a penal colony called earth. He’d already accepted the torture and the death penalty. My sins, which were many, were nailed to the cross forever.

The next day, I took part in the community Good Friday service. I was asked to pray the dramatic Prayer of Lament that ended in tears at the foot of our small cross, nothing like the horrible instrument of torture that had killed my God.

Sabbath, I did my own little memorial service for my mother, in the woods she loved so much. I hung a birdhouse she’d made, sang one of the 200+ songs she wrote, and scattered some of her ashes. I cried. I told God I knew my sins were all burned up like those ashes, and that I would let the burden go and give God my sins and my remorse and guilt with them.

Sunday morning, the clouds were heavy. You couldn’t see if the sun had risen or not. But the Son did—with healing in His wings. And I rose with Him in newness of life. My grief is pure grief now. It still hurts. But, because He lives, Les and Mama will, too. And every day is one day closer.

I still have work to do—work God created me for—and God can make me strong to do it. I can be touched by sorrow and loss, I can weep, I can be broken. But I can’t be chained down by the demons of guilt and shame. They have no power here. The tears can run clear.

Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!!