So of Course You Know What Happens Next...

     I have a temper. It's not like, always out there, bashing and crashing into things. But lately it's really been making itself felt, especially in situations where I'm given a job to do and no directions. Like most everything in the Fraternity, lately. To make it more complicated, everyone in leadership is doing double and triple-duty, so it gets confused. I'm thinking we should begin every conversation with "What are we talking about...?"
     The Holy Spirit goes ahead regardless of whether or not we have our head on straight. God's work gets done and we can either be there for it, or we can stand in the corner sulking. I prefer to do it well, but that's not always how it gets done. So, as we slide into the week before Christmas we are able to duck out of the mayhem and do other things: clean house, bake cookies, decorate the Christmas Tree. Thank goodness for holidays! They get me off the front lines and let other people have a vacation from me.

     At our last Fraternity meeting we received new Candidates. A year or so ago that was us, standing up in front of the community, making a (small) promise to embrace the period of learning and formation. It was a happy day for JoAnne and I, and it was the start of wonderful things. I say that the simple discipline of daily prayer worked a great transformation. I've found strength and willingness to work on my shortcomings. I've been given a lot of insight into God's will and his Gospel, as much as I can handle, really. And I've been able to sort myself out better than any other time in my life. I think that's another Gospel effect. Looking ahead, I can see where the life of service brings much change, in our attitudes, our desires, and especially our understanding and awareness of God's presence. I love my Fraternity. It is like any family where you wouldn't trade them for the world, but sometimes you could just brain them! Well, God has his way and his purpose. Here is where I stand, so this is where I serve.
     My hope then, is to grow as a servant, putting others first, learning patience and how to see things from other people's perspective. It's not all about me, and that's a good thing, really. It gets me off the hook. But there is a temptation to let service become something on the surface, with no substance, no real giving underneath. I would say that if it isn't driving you crazy now and then, you're probably not committing yourself. I know that God loves me and from love he has given me this path to walk, and I do love it. But there are so many things I can't say, I just don't have words for. So I search among the lives of the saints, finding new friends all the time. Ours is a big, eternal family. We should get to know each other.

     So I came here today to set up a new blog, actually, a place where I can talk about my brother, Pat, maybe tell his story, share his quirky brand of goodness with others. He lives like a parable--there is much to learn from knowing him. But I want you to know that even with the busy holidays, with all the distractions, this blog is my first love and I intend to see it through. It's all about the journey, like walking to Emmaus. Out here on the road, we can expect to meet God...

Feast of Saint Lucy

     Saint Lucy is the patron saint of the blind. Her name means “light” and comes from the Latin word for “lucid”, which means “full of light, clear and understandable.” Lucy lived in Syracuse, Sicily and brought her mother Eutychia to visit the relics of Saint Agatha in Catania. While there, Eutychia was cured of a bleeding illness. When Lucy came home, she refused to marry a pagan, who exposed her as a Christian. According to one tradition the governor ordered her to be blinded, but God restored her sight. Lucy was then martyred around the year 300.

SAINT LUCY,
     Whose beautiful name
Signifies light, By the light of Faith
Which God bestowed upon you,
Increase and preserve His light in my soul,
So that I may avoid evil,
Be zealous in the performance of good works,
And abhor nothing so much as the blindness
And the darkness of evil and sin.
     Obtain for me,
By your intercession with God,
Perfect vision for my bodily eyes
And the grace to use them
For God’s greater honor and glory
And the salvation of souls.
St. Lucy, Virgin and martyr,
Hear my prayers and obtain my petitions.
Amen.

     Last night JoAnne and I celebrated Reconciliation at Our Lady of the Angels. It was a very beautiful liturgy, shared by the community, in which we acknowledged before God our own weaknesses and asked for his help to change. Speaking to the priest, I realized it was time for me to make a commitment, and I placed everything into the light of God's judgment. I told Jesus I was ready to be his disciple, to give him all that he seeks, to follow in the footsteps of Saint Francis and to live my life for him in the manner of love.
     I sat down, then, in the midst of the Community and waited. It wasn’t long before God came to me and said,
     “I accept.”

     It was December 13, the Feast of Saint Lucy. In our Catholic community we love and honor the Saints. We pray for their help and devote ourselves to imitating their virtues. It’s a way of growing stronger in faith in Jesus, who is King of all Saints. Each one of these honored people showed in some way their devotion to Christ while they lived on earth, and all of them have the common charism of living the Gospel; all of them gave themselves completely to the will of God. I’ve known this tradition all of my life. It doesn’t matter so much when one decides, but it matters to God that one decides. He waits for it, sometimes our entire lifetime, and he honors our choice because we make it freely.
     I make note of the time, place and date of this story because of its sacramental context. Cleansed and absolved of my many sins, wrapped in the loving arms of my community, filled with hope, I made my declaration and I am noting it here with the same feelings of faith, hope and love. My decision is signed and sealed with his own affirmation. On December 13, 2010, I have become a disciple and have embraced Saint Lucy as my patroness. I think it’s wonderful that she was once Sicilian, like JoAnne. And like Saint Lucy, I hope Jesus will use me to bring light into the world. For I am one who, even in love with Christ, have been blind for such a long time…

     We settle into the Advent season with quiet comfort. It has been busy around us, but not too crazy. Since we need to be frugal, many of the plans and activities that used to drain us are no longer attractive, which gives us time to clean house and pray. Both seem suited to the season. I miss the old rush, the round of parties, the late nights wrapping gifts, but it's nice to get to bed on time, rest well and enjoy the days in simple ways. Most of all, we seem to gravitate to church, taking classes, going to special liturgies, we even signed up for an "evening retreat" with a favorite teacher.
     On Sunday mornings we are hospitality ministers. We greet people as they come into church and pass out song sheets. We scan the assembly to look for empty seats so those who come a little late don't have to stand in the back. We help take up the collection. We guide the lines to Communion and after Mass we pass out bulletins. People seem to like it. One man thanked me "for being here". I wonder sometimes if people, in their everyday lives, ever hear someone say "hello".
     The Advent season has its prayers and liturgies, and it's always been a favorite of mine. But I'm not sure if I prefer Christmas or Easter. Easter is preceded by the season of Lent, during which we pray and reflect, seeking to know our weaknesses and ways to improve ourselves. During Advent we also pray and reflect, but this is in anticipation of the great Feast of Christmas. In Advent we prepare for the celebration. At Easter, we celebrate our preparations.
     They tell us that Saint Francis loved Christmas and that Christmas is a day beloved among Franciscans. But Easter somehow seems more real to me, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because Easter celebrates the promise of our Lord's return, when all the world will be set right and peace will reign forever. Our hope is in the Lord and in his second coming. Christmas is the story of his wonderful gift of self while Easter is the promise of the fulfillment of his final promise, the one thing we still wait for. So while we live, we work to prepare for his return, and when he comes again, we will celebrate that work with him in his kingdom.
     I think that as my heart changes, my celebrations will change. Christmas, I suspect, will take on new meaning for me as the wrappings and glitter fall away. How do people celebrate when they find they are in love with God? For JoAnne and I, we go to church, and enter once again into the quiet joy, the songs and prayers, the faces and hearts around us. We take the Eucharist and once more we are made into one Body with all the others. These are truly our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers through Christ. At church, we are at home.

     And God is taking that and stretching it to fit the whole world...

Sailing the Sea of Faith

     At work during the week someone pinned a large piece of paper to the lunchroom wall. At the top of the paper they wrote "Things I Am Thankful For", and left it there, an invitation, or a challenge, perhaps, for the rest of us to contemplate and comment. It was an unexpected holiday greeting, a letter from everyone to everyone, or to be more exact, it was a letter from a few, to the rest of us.
     Just as unexpected, I am awake now wishing I could go back in the anonymity of the darkness and pin a list to that poster because in truth I found it difficult to be spontaneous. I needed to mull it over. It isn't that I find it difficult to be thankful, but that it seems too important to speak in haste. The comments that appeared during the week (there weren't many) were spoken from the surface of life: "I am thankful for my job...", "I'm thankful for my family..." and "I'm thankful that I am healthy..." All good sentiments, of course, but I didn't get the feeling anybody had lost any sleep thinking about it.
     For me, thankfulness opens the door to a great sea of understanding that we don't often risk. The ocean makes us nervous, and rightfully so, because we neither own it nor control it. It is big. To live on the sea means to go with great humility because pride embarks, but never returns. Thankfulness is like that. Pursuing it, following it, tracking it means going out among shifting waters. Our path disappears behind us. Past the horizon, we must find new signposts. We chart our course, but it is only lines on paper--looking up, there is nothing but the sea. That is the life of thankfulness. We go out into the immense heart of God and live in faith and trust.
     The journey of conversion is like making small trips. At first we stay inside the harbor learning the rigging and tackle. We practice our reckoning. We go from end to end and get our balance. We grow used to the sliding, rolling gate of the boat. But eventually we grow eager, dissatisfied, almost hungry for the sea. And so, one day, we head out of the harbor.
     Now we are in open water, but we hang close to the shore, keeping it always at our shoulder, like a walking companion. Day after day we venture farther out to sea, out on the rolling waves, still learning the wind, the currents, the heft of tides. It's a wonderful freedom but on the other side, the outside, there is vast emptiness, and it's scary. But over time cruising the shoreline loses its glamour. This boat is made for making journeys, and at last, as before, we leave the harbor well-provisioned and turn our back on the shore.
     I've never sailed, but I can imagine how it feels, pushing out directly onto the breast of the sea. Now everything is changed, everything is sea and seafaring, and though one is "green" at first, seasoning comes with time. We proceed according to our best skills and understandings and discover that while isolated we are never alone (radios are good metaphor for the connectedness of grace). All things working together bring us safely across the waters to our destination, land, always land. Nobody sails to arrive in the middle of nowhere. And the value of landfall is increased by the journey. We have crossed the open waters. We can now call ourselves sailors. But here's the catch. Once crossed, we are no longer in "our" country. The world has grown.

     I have come to understand, by sailing the sea of faith, that "catholic" is not the whole Christian world. Perhaps it's the contrast of new country, but I have found, across these waters, people who are better Christians than myself. It's not the card you carry that makes you a disciple, it's the years you spend sailing. There are storms out here, dangers and yes, sometimes loneliness. But we embrace them all for the chance to be free of the land, to stand the dancing road for a time until distance and the compass bring us someplace new. We go ashore on unsteady feet. We smell strange smells, taste new foods, listen to new stories, new angles, new perspectives and realize that we know the stories--we take out our own stories from our sea bag and swap them with those we meet and there, in a handshake or in a kiss, we recognize someone familiar. We know these people, and they are us.
     Perhaps we stay awhile, sharing. Perhaps it's just a tip of the hat and wave of the hand before we shove off to new destinations. But as we go from shore to shore across the great waters, we are stitching the many pieces of our world together in a cover that spans everything. Building the body of Christ one heart at a time. Making faith grow.

     Though most of my journeys happen right here at the keyboard of my computer, and though in most respects I have been a timid sailor, I can say this morning that I am grateful for the sea... and I am thankful for all those who have taught me how to sail.

Tom McNamara, Thanksgiving Day, 2010

     On Sunday, at our Fraternity meeting, we saw a short video about Medjogorie. I'm sorry if I haven't spelled it correctly but it's pretty new to me. I didn't know how big it is, or how long the visions have been occuring, or how the area has suffered through the wars and the visionaries and their priests and people have suffered. I didn't know that the whole town is Catholic and I didn't know that the shrine is under Franciscan stewardship. It's about Mary and about her message of God's love for all people, and that's the message Francis taught and we who would walk in his footsteps have the same vocation.
     But I also read this weekend that we are to find the way that is ours to accomplish this mission. Some teach, some proclaim the gospel, some serve, some create, some discover, some plant, some harvest. Some raise families. Some raise nations or raise the conscience of nations. Everyone is given the same message and the same job to bring it to all nations. We don't have to do big things. Sometimes small things have big results and maybe the best result is the change of a single heart.
     I have no great thoughts tonight, only the quiet hope and longing to be of service. My job as a Franciscan is to find out who I am and what I can do in this time of waiting for Christ's return. We are to wait like a bridesmaid with her lamp prepared, ready to run outside at His call. That's the nature of every Christian life. Preparation for what is certain. He will come, soon and very soon. And when he does we will all go out to meet him.

The Rock is Our Faith

     I don't know why I always think of these things at night. Maybe it's easier for the Holy Spirit to get my attention. In the day I am rushing, like a river in a hurry to get down a mountain. By night I am a single raindrop high on the peak, on a granite stone that never moves, just me, the earth, the sky, the wind which is Spirit all around and... light.
     This is a quiet place I've been searching for. I suppose I always knew where it was. Maybe I never turned inward long enough to feel the breeze on my face. But slowly, over time, Jesus has led me here, to sit on the stone and be still. There can be much life, much activity in stillness. I suppose the difference is that this isn't my activity, it's his. And so I take the time to step into the quiet and see what he is doing, and he shows me the Fraternity.
     From the visitor who enters our door for the very first time, to the oldest, most experienced member about to launch on the adventure of a lifetime, we are all desired and honored by God, each and every one of us. As is true in the full community of His own heart, nobody is without value, and our value is equal--the great blessing of his Heart. Some of us are conservative, some liberal, some in transition from one to the other and back again. All of us are on a journey, even if, for the moment, we are sitting quietly on the firm stone of his divine heart. That's what I was trying to understand. I was trying to figure out where I've found myself, why the storms swirl around me even here, how to still myself enough to hear and feel and see. The Fraternity is woven of people like myself, all of us blustered and driven by this current life--disturbed like the surface of a wind-blown pond. Yet this wind we so often seek shelter from is the breath of the Spirit, creating us new each moment. Even our quiet silence breathes with the passion of his close touch. It is all so profoundly intimate that even as we struggle and strive to touch him, we are changed.

     Outside the weather is changing. They say a large storm is coming. My daughter, traveling in Colorado, says it is already snowing. Here in the desert we might get some rain, chilly days, a freshening of the land, relief for the parched cactus, warm food indoors. Just in time for the holiday. But outward change is nothing compared to the change he brings to our hearts. From stony hearts to hearts made for loving--it is the answer to our prayer: that we might come to a place where we can see and know, beyond our individual weaknesses, the power he brings, the power to be united in faith, one Body in Christ where all are welcome, all are valued, all are loved. And every one of us can find Peace.

The Rule of Love

     It's one-thirty in the morning and I've been awake for at least an hour. I was going to catch up on sleep, but...
     I took four days off work for some surgery and recovery and thought Friday would be a quiet day back, just to get into the swing of things. Before noon I'd helped get one kid suspended and another well on his way to similar difficulties. It's not that they were little angels, of course. Like teetering rocks at the brink of a cliff they just needed a little push... and I was there to lean on them.
     So the Holy Spirit wakes me up for a little reflection time and I realize how easily I'm pushed over the edge myself, how easily a kid with an attitude sets me off. It's why I work in Special Education--my students have plenty of problems, but they don't have attitudes. So after tossing and turning and realizing sleep has fled, I came here to try and work things out.
    
     I've come to a conclusion that the difference between myself and what I consider a successful teacher must be love. I don't mean ordinary love, an affection for children and belief in their potential. I mean real, converted, Gospel love that changes everything--an avid sense of purpose and direction that engages the world proactively and makes change happen. It's the love of Christ who changed Zaccheus and Matthew and Simon and the leper. It's the love that set the thief free forever, even as he was dying on a cross. It's the love I need if I am to continue following Him...
     There's nothing sappy about this love. There is also nothing weak or timid or uncertain or confused. Even more difficult, there is nothing independent about this love, for it is never my work. It is profoundly surrendered to the will of God, and if there was any identifiable mistake in my choices and actions this long day, it was that I failed to go first to God, to seek and to know His will.
     People who are not on the journey of conversion will never understand that last sentence. I never understood, and even now I have to read it over and over again because the light is only beginning to break through. Francis and Clare's great love was the love of surrender and conversion to love itself, more than a way of life. They accepted love as identity. Like Jesus on Calvary, they became love--and it was all God's doing. Well, it was like getting married: two people deciding to do it together.

     Today was God's proposal. Francis found it when he turned to look back at the leper and "discovered a heart of mercy". Clare found it when she rejected her family's plans for her life and followed the one who occupied all her senses. Both of them found, like me, that it was a life-work. A conscious decision to be converted, with all it brings.
     There will always be difficult children at school, kids on the brink of failure at life. My challenge, I suppose, will be to patrol the edge with ropes of love, to go out and rescue, to intervene, to draw them back, to show them a path of life by the expedient of modeling love. It's not a romantic idea--that would be my weakness. "Love," I heard myself whispering in the darkness, "is patient, kind, does not put on airs." It is meek, tolerant, willing to see more than one side of an issue, slow to anger, rich in mercy, building slowly on respect, never threatened by the long haul. It gets better with age. Love converts. It walks with the truth in its hands. It brings liberty to captives. It sets prisoners free. There is no distance love cannot go, no trial it cannot endure, no burden it cannot take onto its own shoulders. I understand now why God has chosen for me to work in public education. So many opportunities to love. So many opportunities to be converted.
    
     At two a.m. on Saturday morning, I don't have a clue how I will proceed, only faith that yesterday will not be wasted, that the difficulties I experienced are no match to God's will, no match to real love. That what he sees, knows and plans for all of us will come to fulfillment. God rules. Creation follows. That's the plan. And God, Jesus tells us, is love.

     The long light of autumn slips across my porch, spangles through the curtains and spatters over the family room floor and wall. It is November now, after many days of waiting. Though we waited for it, longing for cooler days, the light brings sadness for the strength of summer is no longer in its hands. It is the Old Light, the light that remembers, and I am profoundly moved.
     In Arizona, summer can be so strong as to cause forgetfulness. Winter clothes need to be aired by the expedient measure of draping them over the backs of chairs. The furnace grill must be hosed and scrubbed, the filter washed. Our puppy, Francis Clare, can't resist the hose and drenches herself while I work. So I grab a bar of soap, rub her down, shower her off and leave her running in the still-green grass to dry in what's left of the sunlight. She's had her first bath.
     Indoors I'm at loose ends. I dislike this time of year, this slant of light, this sorry waiting for the inevitable darkness. Over and over I must remind myself that "there is a light that has overcome the darkness." Yes, I have to pray my way into November.
     But it's a good lesson when I think of all the things I get myself into only to find I must pray, usually to be rescued. I don't need to be rescued from autumn, for it is a season rich with celebrations. Today we are remembering veterans. Tommy put our flag up, stretched beneath the porch eaves, clear and shining in the platinum light of the all-too-early afternoon. I can't help thinking I need to go into the chapel and get on my knees--something I owe God, perhaps, or just a sense that I must be avidly open and ready.
    Tommy's birthday is in three days. We will go to the restaurant for sandwhiches and salad, a rare night out these days. I worked on the car, cleaning and charging the battery, shaking dust out of the filters. It's due for a day at the shop, a good going-over for all the ordinary things cars tend to need about the time one makes the last payment. Katie stopped in and is looking well and happy. She's been seeing her doctor and has made decisions with good results. It's nice to know she is well. Marie and Ann are both working and going to school, very busy, but pretty sure they will stop by on Thanksgiving. Then it will be advent and the sweetest season of all begins; the wanting, the waiting, the hoping, the fulfillment of the infinite promise.
     Is my heart ready? So many simple things, tidied up and stored away. A great longing has grown all summer, like a new tree in the garden, still young, but promising both flower and fruit. Soon, soon enough we will go down to the church to be received by the Secular Franciscan Order. The date has been set: June 13, 2011. And as we wait, as we prepare, all things are gently removed from our hands. At least in heart and soul, we hope to go naked into His arms, and live.

     A cup of coffee would be nice about now; laughter, visits from friends. Perhaps I'm just reacting to my time in the hospital, the necessary ministrations of the surgeon, the ambivalent results, the plan to watch, wait, take care, keep healthy. Growing, I suppose, never ceases. I am eager for the distractions of the holidays, but even as I confess it, I'm pretty sure I will turn from it. Because there is someone out there with something more for me. This is the year of giving, and the exchange will be mutual. Two-way. Covenant.

     I can feel him waiting somewhere, out where the wind is blowiwng and the clouds are hurrying, where the desert speaks hymns of praise and the flowers of tomorrow dream of blooming...

Theater of Creation

Not everything is sumblime. Most of life, I suppose, is as ordinary as washing dishes. But God is in everything and that sort of changes the tenor of the game. I'm wondering tonight how much we should be looking for God in what I call the "holy ordinaries..."
     Several things have been drawing together to help me with this. First is the presence of God in everything he created, like a fingerprint. There is grace in all of creation, and we can go from grace to grace simply by walking from flower to tree to stone to rainstorm. To annoint ourselves with the natural world is to bathe in grace, and a healthy spirit craves such encounters.
     Then there is the grace in all people, since we also are creatures and by the same action, God's grace is present. So we go from hand to hand, person to person, voice to voice, constantly bathed in his presence.
     But it is just as true for our interior life, for we ourselves are created and imprinted by grace. Every thought, feeling, emotion, understanding makes God present. Granted, we need faith sometimes to believe it, but it means that as long as we have breath, we have God.
     So the spirit life needs nature, community and contemplation, to say the least. But I am never content with groups of three; I always look for the fourth, the completing element. And tonight I would have to say that the one other thing that is essential is God himself. No containers, no patterns, no plans or strategies. For faith to grow there must be undefended encounter with God. Direct encounter. The Old Testament writers warned against any attempt to do such a thing, as the encounter would mean death. But our saints tell us it is possible, not only possible, but destined. If not in the daily fabric of our lives, then eventually. Thomas Merton said it well when he said "There comes a time in ever man's life when he must stand on his own two feet in the presence of God."
     What this says to us, is that God wants to be intimate with us. To touch us without any protections, any barriers or distances. I think this touch comes in infinite forms, that anyone can have it but that we'd better abandon our predictions about what it will be like. Remember, God is present to us in things, people, even in our own selves. So what are we to do the day He steps out of the theater of creation and shows himself plainly?

     I think the best plan is to live in such a way as to be able to say, "I was expecting you..."
  

Where do I find God?

Sex is not a bad thing, but God has given us boundaries because of the life that comes through intimacy. Now, that being said, it occurs to me that life comes through every kind of intimacy. Blessed are those who understand this.

A hug is a moment of intimacy that brings life.
A conversation is a moment of intimacy that brings life.
Planting a flower is a moment of intimacy.
Sharing a meal is a moment of intimacy.

It goes on, and it is a worthy experience to contemplate life in this way. All life comes through intimacy. There cannot be life, where we do not touch.

I bring this to the table because of the Gospel yesterday in which Jesus teaches us that God is the God of the living, not the dead. I saw in one commentary these words: "To God, everything is alive."
     These are profound words because they mean in every direction we turn, in every encounter, we find life. But we have to be there. There has to be vulnerability. We have to touch life and allow it to touch us.
     Now consider this: it works both ways. We can open up to life, go out to meet it, let it touch us and in the encounter we can receive intimacy. But we can also go out to life, we can touch it, and in that gift we can give intimacy. And into every one of those encounters, life comes. Not through, but into. Present. Active. Now.
     Every ringing step, every thrilling breath, every sight, sound, beat of our heart, is filled with life. We are made intimate with Creation which God made good and alive. And so, as we awaken to this truth, we are changed. We become alive too, and life is in us--the life which is God.

    I have searched for God and God is helping me to find him. But today, when I go out to get the paper, when I meet my neighbor, when I pick a stone out of the yard or admire the autumn flowers--I am having intimacy with God, and God is making life in me.
     Perhaps this is why Francis loved Mary so much.

I'm sorry I haven't written lately. It's been a little busy; October is always busy in Arizona as we come out and begin living again after the heat of Summer. We had a lot happening, not the least of which was a visit from the NAFRA leadership for their annual convocation. (see http://www.nafra-sfo.org/ ) We were helping out with little things like taking tickets and serving cake, but they swept us into their events and experiences as though we were important people. I didn't know how to handle myself so I kept smiling and kept shaking hands. I think it helped since many of them were visiting Arizona for the first time and wondered "how we arranged such nice weather..." The truth is, we're having a drought so the Autumn rains have kept far away.
     But the thing I wanted to talk about tonight is a book that came into my hands at the school where I work. It is called "Willow" and it was written by Denise Brennan-Nelson and Rosmarie Brennan and it was illustrated by Cyd Moore. It is a story about an Art teacher who learns to let go of her art, a decision that liberates the creative power locked inside of her. It's a children's story, but I think as parables go, it's a good story for all of us.
    As an artist and a writer I know what it feels like to have inspiration locked up inside and no way to let it out. The answer seems simple enough. You just have to trust the art, trust it to create it's own path, trust it to live it's own life and not consume you.
    But artists know this inner force as a fire with such power that... well, it's scary. It takes us over and commands us to work all night in the grip of the creative impulse. John Paul II said it is "a sharing in the Eighth commandment; a commission to 'tell the truth' about the world and it's inherent beauty." Not a bad task for a Franciscan, I would say.
    But all my life I've been hiding the light, allowing only glimmers to escape before clamping down the lid and forcing myself to look and behave like everyone else. In "Willow", the art teacher, Miss Hawthorn, was cold and alienated from her world by the wall she built between herself and her art. There is risk to the vocation of truth-telling.

     And tonight, it reminds me of the Christian call to trust Jesus beyond all our wants and all our fears. That kind of courage, that kind of trust is what an artist must grasp to be fulfilled in their work. It's the kind of courage anyone must have to find and follow their vocation, for every work is sourced and completed in Christ. Those who wish to walk with him must take up the life He has given them, and live it to the fullest. In the living of that life, we are brought to completion.
     So here's to Miss Hawthorn who was brave enough to let go, and to little Willow who was alive enough to show her the truth. May we all have such angels when we need them.

Covenant Prayer

My Jesus--
Your Faith has made me a part of you
like a branch on a vine--
like an ear of corn tucked firmly
in the elbow of a cornstalk;
like a stone in the bottom of a stream,
or the scent of smoke on the evening wind.

In the night I cannot sleep
for the pounding of my heart as your hand
slips across my shoulder.
In my office chair I leap
for you have touched me.
Through each clamoring day
I breathe your penetrating breath
and, so strengthend by your quickening life,
break free into the holy silence,
to stand abandoned in the wind of your Hope.

I beg your permission:
to sell myself forever into the servitude of disciple life;
to exist, only when you think of me;
to know, only when you touch me;
to live, only when you grasp me--
or not at all.

Accept my challenge, Lord.
Defeat me soundly,
until there is nothing left of me...

but Love.

Noises Off

     JoAnne and I went on a silent retreat. I was going to blog about it, but I wanted to surrender to the silence. After the retreat, as is always the case, "coming back into the world" was difficult and I put off writing, trying to sort myself out. Now it's been a couple of weeks and I noticed something... I noticed the noise in my life.
     This isn't the first time I've noticed it. Actually, it makes some great stories. But this time I particularly noticed the noise inside my own head, how my thoughts are always swirling like a hurricane until I almost want to run away, find someplace quiet and just sit until it all goes away.
     Part of spiritual life is learning to turn off the noise, or at least learning to close an interior door between oneself and the noisy world. Our world is definitely full of noise. Televisions, music systems, even traffic in the street. Noises at night disturb my sleep. Noises at work tell me what's happening in and around my classroom, playground, caffeteria. It's not just the noise, but the way we need to be always listening in order to know what's going on. Part of gaining interior silence requires letting go of our involvement in the world. This is a faith issue. It means we are willing to let God take care of the world for at least a while.
    
     But like anything worthwhile, cultivating interior silence requires both effort and sacrifice, sort of like learning to do crunches, or eating healthy. I think part of wisdom (part of growing old and experienced) is learning the basic commerce of living and growing: if it's worth having, you usually will have to pay for it. There is another principle that goes along with this: beginners must start at the beginning, and there's no way around it.

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Idea jump...

I met a woman this week who does not believe in God or in the devil. These things--good and evil, she says--are the products of human thinking.
     I was so surprised by her frank assessment that I didn't know what to think. I realized after awhile that she believes in the supremacy of humankind. There is no source. We simply exist and have our effect on history.
     I, however, believe that I am not superior. In fact, I'm rather low on the creation ladder and wherever I go I must deal with the fact that there are more powerful beings than myself, and that at least one of them does not have my best interest in mind. In fact, the devil's great obsession is my destruction. And weak as I am I must constantly flee to God's protection. If I forget, or if I get smug and think I can do it on my own, well, the consequences hurt.
     I really don't know what to say to a person who doesn't believe in God. Except that it's one of those situations when it helps to withdraw into the silence, where the noise of the world falls away, to know and understand once again that God exists, that he holds me and my life in his Hands, and that he keeps me safe forever.

     Not even death can break his grip.

We are laborers in the Gospel,
planting a garden of dignity
where creatures and Creator meet.
Ours is a work of praise and celebration
gratitude and joy.
The Sleeper has risen from her dreams
summoned by Love.

We walk arm-in-arm with the problems of life,
bringing them to audience with the All-Seeing;
nothing escapes the gaze of Love,
hovering above dark waters.
God stirs in compost, making all things increase.


Time grows here reaching across to the Light.
In the branches of every-day living
we bear sweet fruit until
in all directions,
it is Love.

Walking in Light and Holy Darkness

"There is a light that can overcome the darkness. There is no darkness that will overcome the light..."

     We've been on retreat. I was deliberately silent, though I thought at first I would blog during the retreat to track our experiences and progress. We went Friday, Saturday and Sunday and now, on Tuesday, I'm only beginning to find my feet.
     I still don't want to go into detail about what we did or what happened, except to tell you that the man who guided us sang to us, beginning and ending every learning session, and often times in the process, because his songs were prayers, gathered and woven from many times and places but always uniquely his. They were mostly in the chant-forms of India, which means that while sung in a language I do not speak, they echo in me, like this morning, waking me and not permitting me to linger in bed. He taught us that the fire of God is within all of us, and through prayer, the fire can take hold.

     There is a light that can overcome the darkness.

     Another reason I can't sleep this morning is because I woke up understanding something about pilgrims. The minute you set foot on the journey, you become a pilgrim. The journey changes you and changes the way you relate to the world. Other cultures understand this, and they treasure and attend pilgrims as visitors from God. Americans don't do this, which may explain why other cultures attract us when we find ourselves "on the road" with God. The teachers become quite comfortable with their pilgrim identity and live neither here nor there, but in the journey, on the road, relying on the kindness and recognition of strangers who see them not as strange, but mobile, though their hearts may be quite rooted in God.
     This whole life is a journey and every one of us is a pilgrim. The only difference among us is that some know and understand who they are, and many don't. The first nice thing about our retreat was the way Father Cyprian introduced us to the world outside of our American experience. He showed us that we can approach the world not as conquerers, but as equals. We can sing each other's songs, we can share our stories, we can walk together for a little while with anyone we meet and be part of one another. It's so much better than shooting guns and making parts out of each other...

     The way of Christ is the way of peace. He came to make peace between God and humanity and thus among all people. But we must understand that peace--the peace that surpasses understanding--is not a one-time event that comes like a bucket of water dumped over our heads. Peace is a journey in which we meet many people, many teachers, in many times and places. Over time we lose track of ourselves and become changed, transformed into vessels for the Divine, who is with us from the beginning, even when we are unsuitable. Poor vessels, to hold such Treasure. But the nature of this life is that, while it is a journey, it is never a solo journey. We begin united with God, and find ourselves in everyone we meet.

     The trick is to keep what we find...

When Women Go Down to the Sea in Ships...

     Today we are celebrating the death of a woman who was like a mother to us when we were newly married and just beginning our family. We were invited to attend a Mass in her memory in Casa Grand this evening, but were unable to go. So JoAnne asked if I would like to reflect on her life and how she touched us. What JoAnne doesn't know is how she continues to touch me.
     Dorothy Campbell was in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War. From the moment I met her she impressed me with her strong, no-nonsense approach to life, to family, and to the world. When one of her sons showed signs of a learning disorder, she trained herself in advocacy and spent many years teaching families their rights--and school systems their responsibilities--where children with special needs are concerned. When Dorothy came calling, one soon learned not to argue. She spoke with authority, and her children grew up with confidence, all of them sharing her gift for reaching out to others in need.
     About a year and a half ago Dorothy was diagnosed with fast-spreading cancer and given no real hope of a cure. She began going to hospitals, and during one stay her children moved her to hospice care. That was our cue to make the journey to Casa Grand.
    As it happens, we were newly admitted into the Secular Franciscan Candidacy program. At a touching ceremony we were blessed and given small, wooden crosses to wear, the TAO of Saint Francis. I thought it was lovely, reminding me of days long ago when such signs were common among youth groups in the early days of the Liturgical Renewal. I had been keeping the cross in a drawer, wearing it only to church on Sunday mornings and putting it away in between. This day I decided to take it along, so I hung it around my neck.
     We got on the highway heading south at rush hour, so there was plenty to do just concentrating on traffic. The weather was changing. There were big clouds blowing in, and a steady wind across the desert that raised dust and curtained the sky. I was thinking about Dorothy and imagined her in the car with us, laughing as she so easily did. Ahead, the clouds were lining up. They reminded me of Navy ships in line, about to leave for the open sea. As they got under way they trailed rope ladders for last-minute sailors to climb aboard. I knew what Dorothy was thinking. She was eyeing one of the big ships. She had a new assignment and it was time to get on board. The wind picked up.
     "You'll never make it," I said. When Dorothy faced a challenge, she had a famous look. You saw it whenever someone said it was impossible. She gave me that look, as if she couldn't believe my lack of faith.
     "Well you just watch me!" she promised. And off she went, running across the desert. The golden ladder dangled down and Dorothy made a mighty leap, catching the rope in her hand and climbing on board. It was a big ship, a gunship, and as soon as she reported for duty, it came around and set off in a new direction. I had a sense they were taking directions from a new Captain...
     We found the Hospice center and went inside to discover not simply the whole family, but dozens of friends and relations. And they were singing, right there in Dorothy's room, as she lay quietly, eyes closed, already far away. I walked in wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt and right away people treated me in an unusual way. Not everyone there was Catholic, and I began to understand after awhile that many people there mistook me for a preacher. So I took the role of introducing and leading some prayers, reading from a Bible I borrowed from one of the nurses. It was a rich moment when people surrendered to the simple authority of one man reading the words of grace. From Revelations I read about the promises to all who live in faith, the hope to which we all cleave in Christ. And then, with her whole family gathered around her bed singing, Dorothy went on ahead, marked by the sign of faith.

     JoAnne feels all such anniversaries deeply. It is her gift. I have the memory of Dorothy leaping into her new life, for in our faith, life doesn't end, but goes on both in service to and in the presence of God. It is the one great hope to which we all cling in times of difficulty, doubt or waiting. Our time will come. We will each of us walk that road to Heaven (some may fly, some may sail...) and hopefully in that time those we leave behind temporarilly will give witness to the vibrancy and light of our faith. We are never truly separated, for in Christ there is no end, no distance. Even should we die, we will live forever. But Dorothy left me something.

     When she entered her new life, I was wearing my Tao, openly, clearly, and I was embracing the role that came with it, proclaiming the Gospel, giving witness to God's presence. Though I don't wear it openly every day, yet, I try to wear it outside every sunday. I have noticed that when I wear it out in the world, people notice and they defer to the sign as though I were commissioned to the task. They see it and they expect me to be Christian, to be Christ-like, to believe.
     I'm beginning to wonder if the greatest gift of becoming Franciscan will be the way the world holds me to the Gospel ideal: to go forth and bear witness among all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and proclaiming to them the Good News of Salvation. It may prove that the community--encountering the grace of a public faith--invokes the power of conversion.
     I have a feeling that the day is coming--perhaps it is already near at hand--when I will stop tucking my Tao inside my collar and begin wearing it, and my faith, publicly, come what may. I needn't feel nervous. Whatever lies ahead, I know there is an old Sailor in a big gunboat just over the horizon...

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Contemplation

     Three virtues are given to us by God so that we always know who we are. Faith is the gift that makes us family. Love is sharing in and knowing God's own nature. Hope is the one that caught my notice today. Hope is about our destiney, for one thing. I expect it has many more dimensions. Hope is our destiney.
     We are meant to live forever with Christ. What that will be like we can sample here on this earth, in this life. We will belong to him. That's what faith teaches. We will share his nature. That's what love teaches. But hope teaches us that our tomorrows will never end. We will no longer count the passing days, but we will live them, with him.
     Sometimes I think we need to step away from the "eternal alleluias" image of heaven and contemplate how personal it will be. When we go to him at Mass, and receive him in the Eucharist, when we hold him in our hearts and minds, bodies and souls, when we see in that Communion our union with all people, all creation, all time and all eternity--that's a taste of what heaven really is, not someday, but here and now.
     The kingdom of heaven is close at hand, yes, right here in our own hearts. We can go in and know...

A Story for the Saint Francis Fraternity

     Two Franciscans were walking through the country. One was old and experienced, professed for more than forty years and very wise. The other was young, a candidate yet to make his final vows. He had often heard of this old friar and was excited to spend time alone with him, so, as often happens between student and teacher, he did most of the talking.
     As they traveled, the young friar told his advisor all about himself, about his conversion to the Gospel and his newfound desire to imitate Francis.
     "But there's one thing I'm unsure of..." he confessed.
     "What's that?" the old friar asked.
     "Well, how did Francis do it? How could he give up his whole life to follow the Gospel?"
     "Well it's simple, really. Francis wanted God to be his whole life."
     "Oh!" said the young monk, falling silent. For awhile they walked without speaking. By and by they came to a river. The only way across was to wade. Fortunately, the water wasn't too deep, so in they went. As they crossed, the young man spoke again.
     "I want to be like Francis!" he blurted. "I want to live the Gospel. What must I do?"
     The old friar turned and looked at his companion.
     "The only thing you need is to want God!"
     "That's all? Just want God? But, how much do I need to want him...?"
     Without warning, the old friar grabbed him and threw him down in the water. The young man struggled, but the old man was strong and held him down. It didn't take long for the young man to start running out of breath, but still the old man pinned him beneath the water. Now the young man was desperate, struggling and thrashing until finally, the old man pulled him up. As his head broke the surface of the river he inhaled deeply. Sweet air!
     The old friar helped him to his feet and supported him across the river. As they climbed up the opposite bank he asked his young companion, "What were you wanting as I held you under the water?"
     "AIR!" the young man panted. "All I wanted was air...!"

     "Then if you want to follow Father Francis," the old friar advised, "that's how much you must want God."

The Miracle of Being Christian

    Our dilemma is that we are made weak and cannot save ourselves. But this is only the beginning of our story. Because we are meant to be strong in Christ, to move "from strength to strength", not weaklings in the world, but channels of the Holy Spirit and of the power of God.
     There was another story involving Jesus, boats, and a storm. In this one, Jesus is asleep on a cushion when the storm catches them. The winds blow, the waves grow, and the boat begins to sink. The disciples wake him shouting "Don't you care that we are about to go under?"
     I imagine Jesus dragging himself to his feet on the pitching deck, maybe still half-asleep, confused by the shouting and the uproar. He puts out his hand...
     "BE STILL!" he cries. Give me a minute, everybody. You know what it's like. But for Jesus, it happens! The wind falls silent, the waves grow calm, the boatmen, bailing water, turn and look. The companion boats draw near, picking up loose lines, resetting fallen masts. Lamps come on in the gloom. What just happened? What's everyone staring at? Jesus looks at his companions.
     "Where is your faith?" he asks, as if anybody could have done what he just did...

     Throughout our life, in our weakness, we are faced with situations that threaten to overwhelm us. Most times, we cave in and choose sin as a false solution. Yelling at people. Throwing away relationships. Fleeing the field. Dying to the opportunity.
     But our God is the God of all creation, holding all power in his hands. In our weakness he is ready to come. All we have to do is ask. It is our destiney. In company with the Spirit, we who are the Bride of Christ say "Come, Lord Jesus!" and he is with us. Not weak, as we are, but filled with glory and power. In his name, believers can raise the dead. We can fix what is broken, restore what has been destroyed. We can liberate the captive, heal the sick, shelter the poor, feed the hungry. There is no human need we cannot serve in and through Christ. Our big problem is that we don't know this, so we stay in our weakness, trying to do it alone.

     But I have seen it happen, here in this modern world, when people of faith claim their relationship as children of God, and God sends his power into the world through them.
     The days of miracles are not over. Our weakness is not our destiney. We are the children of God and our Father doesn't abandon us. Have faith, and when you are faced with human weakness of any sort, call on God. He will show you that you can calm any storm with a word.
     It's time to give it a try.

The Dillema of Being Christian

     The dillema of being Christian is that in our pursuit of Christ we often long to divorce ourselves from our weakness. But the weakness that comes with being human is given to us by God. It is so much a part of our nature that some of the spiritual beings called angels could not accept God's sharing of the Divine Nature with us by bequeathing us with souls. These angels turned against God and became what we know today as devils, our enemies. And so our existence on Earth begins, a tense life of warfare in which we struggle against the very thing God has given us.
     Christ came into the world, embracing human weakness "to take on the form of a slave", for that is what we are: servants of the authority of God. He required of himself obedience to the Father, which led to his death on the cross. The ultimate weakness is death. Jesus accepted it.
     Jesus shared our weakness, but he never sinned. We are weak in many ways, but unfortunately we are also very sinful. We need to learn that while weakness is necessary, sin is not required. Weakness is not merely unavoidable, it is necessary. Before celebrating the Easter Eucharist, we sing a prayer in church: "O neccesary fault, that won for us so great a Savior!" Knowing that in our weakness it was impossible for us to save ourselves, God set our life in motion on the earth, plagued by Satan who seeks our eternal destruction, who waits at every opportunity to oppress and mislead us. But Satan is not our weakness, nor does he make us weak. "In our weakness is Glory, in Jesus the Christ."
     We began as slaves to God's authority, but he has lifted us from slavery to call us his children. Human weakness is our treasure, given to us by our Father. Part of the task of living is to open up the gifts God gives us and learn to use them. We can't learn to use our weakness if we are avoiding God's authority and will. We are here on this earth because God wills it. We are weak here because God wills it. Our weakness makes us hungry for God and so we are restless, always seeking him. What happens, then, when we face our own weakness and contemplate it--not as an obstacle, but as an avenue to Christ? In our weakness is glory... In our weakness, Christ is waiting.
     Do we have the courage to know him?

     Today we went over to Saint Mary's to meet parents and children who will be attending Religious Education. It turned out to be a wonderfully large group of mixed needs--basic education, sacramental preparation, and behind the children, adults coming to learn about the Church. It was a wonderful energy, full of hope and expectation that made faith come alive. Or perhaps it works the other way around, that a lived faith creates new energy. Which I needed, because the day before I watched several documenataries about 9/11 and the memories left me wondering how a Franciscan, dedicated to the path of peace, responds to such incomprehensible error. I was at a loss.
     So I didn't sleep well, struggling with a cold, and thought I might miss Mass again. Second week in a row. That's a bad cold. I took what medicine I could find and just went, planning to sit near the door in case a coughing fit came over me. But then I started feeling better. And then I started feeling wonderful because I got to go forward to receive Him in Holy Communion. And then it all started to make sense.
     The proper response to incomprehensible evil in the world is always to turn to Christ. When in the name of faith people commit murder, condemn the innocent, burn holy books or otherwise support the agenda of death, and we, in contrast, are so small, we return to Christ. And he makes action. He restores us to health. He unites us to himself, and he gives us to the world in another way. Those were the three movements of my Sunday, and I understand that such is to be expected when we rely on Jesus.

     I like the approach of the leaders at Saint Mary's. How will we teach the children? We will be like the children, proclaiming faith openly, living it publicly, studying it avidly. We will be for each other, the children for the teachers, the teachers for the children. And that way, like yeast in the dough, we will all rise together.

     I started writing tonight to say something else, but it has abandoned me. I believe, however, that Christ is near, guiding me safely. I can go to bed and rest peacefully, looking forward to the hope of another day living the Gospel.

     Oh, there was a lady there today, a security guard. She watches the buildings. She watches the people come and go. She watches the Christians worship and teach. Today she came in to find out more about becoming a Catholic. As far as I could tell nobody's been talking to her about being Catholic. I guess she just likes what she's been seeing. We must be doing it right...

     September came during the night. I've been going around opening windows. I looked out the door to check on the world and the weather said "Hello! I'll be your guide and companion today." (It was cool.)
     Meanwhile, in the refrigerator, a batch of bread dough was thawing. Bread is remarkable stuff. I'm still learning (after forty-five years) how to bake some. It isn't merely that I'm a lousy student, but that bread itself is magical, a living thing that must be treated as such.
     I've heard that bakers, real bakers, put their dough in refrigerators overnight. It helps... do something. The next day they take it out and it's completely different than my usual stuff. You can touch it without getting all stuck, like it was putty or something. And today that's exactly how my dough comes out. I didn't just refrigerate it though, I froze it because I made too much and couldn't bake it all at once (homemade bread gets stale really fast.) So I put half the dough in deep freeze and figured "in a week or so..." I'd pull it out and save myself the trouble of making a new batch. Well, if you've ever made bread before you might know the magic combination of homemade bread and families. It just doesn't hang around long. So after a day I had to pull out the reserves and let it thaw, first on the counter, then in the refrigerator.
     Bringing us to this morning. Bread, being living stuff, sets its own agenda. Once begun it takes over and it doesn't matter if it's Thursday morning and you have to go to work in a few hours. You'd better be prepared to get out of bed and take care of the bread. Which is what I'm doing now. Or rather, the bread is on the stove rising, two beautiful loaves that look so real you could almost believe it. If I have succeeded learning an approach that works and results in improved loaves, then I'm almost halfway to understanding how to make bread!

     Anybody know how to get that shiny, crunchy crust? Anybody...?

     Not too long ago, someone told me that before yeast, wheat was practically indigestible. It is a hard seed, I know that from experience. I also know that when Jesus was walking through the field on a Sabbath he was breaking off heads of wheat and eating them, just like that. Either he was really hungry, or he was like so tough... I sort of like thinking of Jesus as a tough guy, once in awhile. Anyway, somehow, somebody figured out that if wheat got wet and yeast got into the bowl, it would get all soft. Then if it got near a fire it would bake up and you could eat it and, hey! This could be pretty good. But when I try to imagine the yeasty, sticky, gooey mess they must have been working with, and why would anybody throw it on a fire? I mean, if you lay in bed at three in the morning while the house is quiet and try to imagine somebody discovering how to bake up the first batch of bread--those must have been some really tough folks, in the old days.
     But that's probably how it happened. Somebody discovered that the same fire that cooked your meat could bake bread out of that messy bowl of wheat you were trying to soften and left too long (they must have done some grinding, somewhere in the middle of all that process) and then, there was bread. And it's been with us for so long, been part of the process of us growing and maybe even evolving that one might say that the basic building blocks of wheat and yeast are part of who we are. We have become what we ate.

     So... "unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains but a grain. But if it dies, it sprouts up and bears fruit, one hundred or sixty or forty-fold." And from that fruit God harvests a whole sack of wheat that he can grind, sift, soak, mash, mix up with grace to make it rise--all at once and everywhere at the same time. How it all happens is beyond understanding. But we know it takes time, and it's God's work. Jesus gave us bread that came down from Heaven, so that we can lay our hands on it and eat it and live forever.
     When I make bread, nobody in my house asks me how it all happens. Interesting story... but pass the plates and let's eat! WE have been given bread to feed the world and a share in the work of its making. Who's ready to roll up their sleeves and get busy? It may be hard, complicated work, but when that bread starts coming out of the oven... the whole House rejoices!

     Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go start warming the oven...

A Voice Like Ten Thousand Whispers

     "The Spirit blows where it will. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going."

     Sometimes following God is like sitting in a forest listening to the wind. It comes from far away and moves with a sound like ten-thousand whispers. Before the trees even begin moving it rises to a rush, sweeping along the mountainside, pushing through the foliage, looking for you.
     When the wind arrives, it is like dancing. Mind, heart, body and spirit, everything that I am gets up to meet it and we go out on the floor of the world. Oh, in the arms of God! We certainly draw attention.
     Then, whatever song drives the dance, it must fall away, and the Wind goes with it, sliding from my fingers, walking quickly along the path--one glance back as if to say "Are you coming?" The Journey resumes...

     For a time, we are earthbound. The best we can do is follow. It is not always light-footed, or gracious. But we carry with us the memory of dancing with the Wind. Over time, many encounters, we learn how to follow.

2 a.m.

    I woke up this morning at 2:00 a.m. It seems to happen a lot. What is it the body is doing at that hour that lights all the boilers and gets up steam? Night patrol?
    There are many things about our life as Christians that don't get discussed. There is a need for vigilance, since we are told always to "be sober and watchful". We are told that we have an adversary who is constantly on patrol, looking for a way to penetrate and invade. We are promised peace by the Prince of Peace, but he himself went hand-to-hand with the enemy. For a long time, I didn't want to accept the existence of real evil. It's tough to cure a problem when you pretend it isn't there.
     But I noticed that every time JoAnne and I tried to turn more faithfully to the Lord, problems would erupt. And I can talk about times when we, or our friends, had to take immediate action against evil. Best not to delay, instead, be ready, and know your tools.
     I lay in the darkness with these thoughts swirling until they began to fade and were replaced with good memories, thoughts of all the Franciscans who have helped us along the way. I thought I would get out of bed and email someone, just sort of reach out to reassure myself. Our book says Franciscans don't keep quiet when they are in trouble, but call on the community to come to their aid. I don't really need much tonight. Just reassurance.
     In November our Fraternity will have elections and choose new leaders (perhaps?). I realized that this is all new to me. I haven't be following camp for long so I've never had new leaders. I thought of the people who have been serving since I began, how I've gotten to know some of them, how they don't stand out in a crowd, and how my feelings about people have changed. When I started I didn't think being Franciscan was a "big thing". I thought I pretty much knew everything and the Fraternity would be a sort of spiritual sideline. Boy, was I wrong!
     I wouldn't trade my place here for anything (and God protect me from being tricked away!) These leaders are not ordinary people and they do not blend in. They are real Franciscans, living the Gospel and following Jesus, just as I hope to do. And when I was worrying about how maybe new leaders would not be the same, I realized just now that I don't have to worry about that. Even if they are different the Gospel, which illumines their path, never changes. Same or different, our leaders will show us how it's done. The changes in me will continue, and any one of them can stand in front of me and tell me how to walk. God's blessings stretch through his people. I want to learn how to live in such a way that he can stretch through me too...

     As for the other stuff, the fears, the doubts, the illusions, the misgivings... If Jesus himself didn't feel these things at two in the morning, I'll bet Francis did!

     May God grant us all a peaceful night's rest.

     I woke up from a dream. In my dream I found a lovely chapel in a monestary. At first it was old, dusty, laid out in choir with benches facing each other. I moved to the front and began to sing an old song I haven't heard in nearly fifty years. It is call the "O Canticles", a simple chant sung during Advent which anticipates the coming of the Lord. It is very beautiful as chants go, very easy to sing, and unlike other chants is written in a major key, without the sort of sad longing that characterizes so much chant. It's always been a favorite of mine.
     As soon as I started singing, the chapel changed. It was clean now, orderly, the dust was gone, and there were others in the pews around me, dozens of monks all singing the same chant. That was a treat for me because that's how I remember the song, prayed together in choir. When it was finished, the other monks got up and left, leaving me alone again in the echoing space...

     Perhaps some dreams are like prayers that God says, and because we are sleeping, quiet, we can hear them. When I woke up I was thinking about our journey, how far we have come in just a year and a half. How much we have changed. It isn't as though we set out to change. Rather, changes come to us like they come to seeds on the ground. The rains come, the wind blows, the sun shines and suddenly there is a new plant where there was nothing a day ago. JoAnne asked me last night to spend today helping her "thin out" our closet. She wants to begin letting things go. Whatever we don't need, whatever we haven't used in awhile, will go to charity or the recycling center. We want to make enough room in our lives to hear echoes. We want some space, inside and out, for God to flow in and find us. Today is Labor Day, for me, the beginning of the Holiday Season. This year we will celebrate our freedom.
    For it says in the Rule that we must become free to love God, and our teachers tell us that this freedom comes from God. We don't make it or do it to ourselves. But under His watchfulness we begin to see what we can Live without. We begin to crave it like the desert waits for water. This dream--where the music is filled with emptiness, holds no ornament, shows only the beauty of voices joined in prayer--was a sign of what God wants to give us, share with us. It is His language and he wants to teach it to us.
    God, in all his greatness and wonder, is simple. So is his Gospel. The two come together in our lives, if we want them. All we need to do is say "yes" and suddenly what was old and empty reveals its life. In exchange for the world, we are given Beauty...

Let's Go for a Walk...

   One of my favorite stories in the Bible has Peter in a boat on a lake at night in the middle of a storm. He is staring out through the wind and waves at Jesus, who is standing there on top of the water. It's such an insane moment, so completely incredible. Hours ago Jesus sent the Disciples ahead. The last thing anyone would have imagined is that he would come along on foot, and here he is, look as if he's just going to walk on by and leave them there. The others think it's a ghost, but Peter imagines a new possibility.
   "Hey!" he yells. "If it's you, tell me to come out on the water and meet you!"
   "Okay," Jesus answers. "Come, then!"
   The rest of this story hasn't been written yet. It involves you and I. We're in the boat too and we all get a turn. It works like this...

   I had a dream that I was walking on a mountain road. As I walked the road began to go uphill. As it went up it grew steeper. Steeper and steeper this road grew until I was climbing a mountain. Steeper still. Now I was climbing from boulder to boulder. Still it grew steeper. Finally I was climbing a vertical rock face, stretching from toehold to fingerhold. Still it grew more steep and difficult. Finally, after going as far as I could, I was stuck, "spread-eagled" they call it, with no more holds, no where to go. Realizing my predicament, I grew afraid.
   There's probably no way to describe my fear of heights (or is it fear of falling?) except to say I was in a bad way. So I called out to God to save me. Jesus put his hand on my shoulder and said "Stand up!"
   I looked around. I was laying flat on the ground on a path in a garden. There was no mountain, no cliff, no danger. Only Jesus standing among the flowers and bushes, and me, feeling rather foolish. Grateful, though. I was grateful to be off that mountain.
   And this is what I'm getting today. Peter was able to comprehend the possibility that things were not all they seemed, that everything we've been told about walking... might not be the whole truth.

   JoAnne wanted a glass of water. I got up. The clock in the kitchen said "three a.m."
   "Oh, brother!" I said (or something like that...)
   Hours later JoAnne is up again. I roll over and turn on the light.
   "Turn the light off!" she says, "It's only three a.m.!"
   I don't believe her. I've been sleeping for hours and it was three in the morning hours ago so it must be time to get out of bed, right? I check the clock in the kitchen.
   "It's still three a.m." the clock says.
   "How can this be?" I wonder.

   When the clock says "ten-fifteen" and when it says "ten minutes to three" it looks the same. Especially when you don't have your eyes open. I don't like clocks with electric numbers, by the way, but that's another story.
   Now, this brings us back to the Word. There's a passage I just read yesterday, quoted in the book I'm reading. It's from Jeremiah, chapter 29.

   "Yes, I know what plans I have in mind for you, Yahweh declares, plans for peace, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. When you call to me and come and pray to me, I shall listen to you. When you search wholeheartedly for me, I shall let you find me..."

   On a good day, we usually aren't seeing very clearly. Maybe with intense effort we get a glimpse of a possibility that things aren't what they seem. I know I've been fearful, and how much of the storms, the danger, the paralyzing anxiety is just illusion? In Christ, death has no power, no victory, it doesn't even sting. Yet we live our lives in bunkers, huddled behind heavy, locked doors, crying in the darkness without any hope of rescue. It's a terrible world we've made for ourselves... out of fear.
   The alternative is to stand up, get out of the boat, walk on the water and see what Christ sees. We are not alone. We are on this journey together and wherever we go, whatever seems to be true, Jesus sees it like it is, and we can see it too.

   We can spend our lives walking, arm-in-arm with Jesus, in the light, never alone, never afraid, moving like a crazy person from joy to joy as we walk out our lives in the light. It is right there for the asking. Call, pray, search for Jesus. Abandon your fears and stand up. We are saved...

The Secret Anticipation of a Greater Joy

   Today is the First of September. Yipee! Another Arizona summer gone. Well, as everyone around here points out to me, we have maybe another month of hot weather. It's like a marathon.
   But September is September. It counts. At least in my mind I can say "It's over! On to the Holidays!"
   For me, that's the real difference. This weekend is Labor Day. I'm going to meet my brothers and my sister for Sammiefest One. Having nothing more worthy to do, we will gather at Eileens' house. Everyone is bringing half a dozen sandwhiches to spread out on the table among chips, salads and casseroles. Then, like a buffet, each diner chooses among the delectable spread whatever appeals, entices or perhaps challenges. It's all great fun.
   Yes, I know. I've done the math. The weird thing about any kind of potluck is that, though each person brings enough food for everyone else to eat (six sandwhiches times ten adults equals five dozen sandwhiches) it never seems to be rediculously too much food. I know I can't eat like a twenty-year-old. But it doesn't seem to matter. Maybe among all us old guys there are now a lot of family members in their twenties, with friends and relations, to sort of harmonize and balance things out. Whatever the dynamic, it works perfectly. We're family and it feels right.
   Now, what this all means is that we kick off the "winter season" with a party and we keep right on partying 'till some time around Easter. And no matter what else is going on, politics, economy or just old age, we all seem to make it through to the day when we get out of bed, open the front door and look summer in the knees again.
   September marks the beginning of gardening season. It's the time when the empty seats at church begin to fill up again. It's the time when people actually seem to have time to get back in touch. We go outdoors, look around, take inventory. How are the neighbors faring? Which houses survived the monsoon? How many trees were knocked over? How tall is my lawn? I just had an interesting thought... I wonder if going to Heaven isn't a lot like September in Arizona? Will there be sandwiches...?

   But every year must be different. Not everyone completed the journey. Some of us have gone ahead to God's pot-luck, bringing the covered dishes which are our hearts. The Saints and Angels gather 'round the table to peek. Sweet smells, savory smells, all the fragrances of life lived. "The smell of someone who's ridden the backs of a thousand summers." There is something in the air now, if only a memory. September is the beginning of the season of drawing-in. Behind every gathering, every celebration, there is the secret anticipation of a greater joy.
   In October we will celebrate the feast of Saint Francis, eight-hundred and one years, I think (I'm not good with family dates). I needed a stopping place between Labor Day and Thanksgiving. December is for the quiet elegance of Advent and the deep-heart celebrations of Christmas. I love this time. Each year we are more simple about it, and yet it is all so much more profound. It goes quickly, really, but it is all so wonderful. These are the celebrations of the traveler, the days for Pilgrims. It doesn't matter if you're in town only a short while. The door is open, the table is set, the heart is eager to embrace you. It is the season of fellowship and bygones. It is the season of Holy Anticipation. Even now, on the first day of September, it is like stepping outside and breathing fresh air.

Apple Pies and Sledgehammers

   JoAnne and I have been discussing the difference between contemplation and centering prayer. I know... I don't get it either.
   Centering prayer seems to be a sort of mental-shift from our ordinary way of operating, like, turning off all the appliances in the house in order to sit in a chair and listen to the sound of your own heartbeat. Being quiet on purpose because in that quiet one can hear God speak in a different way.
   People who do centering prayer tell me it's quite wonderful. But I suspect people like myself, who are accustomed to the noise, find it difficult.
   Contemplation, on the other hand, must be very different from prayer. While I hear people talk about "contemplative prayer" I'm thinking it is prayer only in the broadest terms. Contemplation is to prayer what forest is to trees. So maybe the reason we can't get excited about centering is that we don't want to concentrate on a single tree, and miss the forest.
   The reason I bring this all up is that we are going on a contemplative retreat in October. If it's all about centering prayer, we're in trouble.

   While I'm writing this, my cat insists on invading. I won't let her up on my lap while I write--she's too critical. She tries to drop in from the top of my monitor and gets diverted back to the floor. So she jumps onto the narrow ledge between the monitor and the keyboard, standing directly in my way. I send her on again. Not to be deterred, she is back for another try, laying in that same two inches of open space so that she isn't blocking my view. But she's also impossible to ignore.
   And I find myself wishing the Holy Spirit would be like that, getting in my way with such perfect insistence that I cannot ignore it. But I seem to be blind. Blind and numb and deaf and completely insensate. I know with my brain that God is with me and will never leave. And it's a wonderful understanding, with plenty of room to grow. But to have God in my lap, so to speak, and to give God time and attention--those are the purposes of prayer. God doesn't come merely for me to talk to. Someday there must be an experience of talking with. But there seems to be a wall between us. And it hurts.

   People talk to me about prayer and contemplation like the aroma of apple pies on the breeze. I need prayer like a hammer, a big sledge hammer that can break a hole in the wall, break the wall to bits so small it can never go up again. God help me, I want to smash that wall so that it can never come between us ever again, and not only that, when the wall comes down I intend to run--I will run through the widening gap, even as the bricks are coming down, and when I find God on the other side, I will tackle him.
   Someone told me once to form a goal before going on retreat, to make effective use of the time alone with God. Well, God, there it is. Let's knock down the wall. When I come through, please be there to catch me...


Note: I think I mentioned that JoAnne and I are supposed to be journaling, for our Franciscan journey. JoAnne, and others like her, tell me how hard it is for them to write. Not everyone loves to do it. Our Guides, thankfully, aren't making a big deal out of it, knowing that not everyone finds a path there. But as I write I begin to understand that one of the gifts of writing--one of the jobs writers do, perhaps--is that my words can stand and serve for others' need to express the deep things. I can, in a sense, speak for the world.
   It isn't so proud as it sounds. There is a line in the Gospel about "a voice crying in the desert, 'Prepare in the wilderness a straight path for the Lord'..." It's like going out every day and clearing brush so that people can walk more easily. In our hearts, we all want to break through to God. Some people pray, some people serve. I write. And since I've been trying so hard to reach God, and since God seems to encourage my efforts, I'm willing to try harder for JoAnne and you and for anyone else who finds the word-path difficult. I believe everyone should search for and find the path that is theirs. I'm willing to do this one.
   I've been trying to find more time for prayer. I want to do more of the Hours. I've thought about trying centering prayer. Just this morning I was walking back and forth between the chapel and the family room, saying "I have only enough time for one. Which will it be? Prayer or writing?"
   As you can see, writing won the morning. But did praying lose? My understanding of contemplation is "doing that thing in which Christ meets you." What better place than the center of your own heart where you are most real, where you are the person God made you to be?
   For the essence of all prayer is God. We pray because God prays first. We live because God lives first. And we seek, because God has sought us first, from the beginning, and will never stop. God seeks us for ever...

   I have to stop now. Uh... the cat wants me. But I will come again tomorrow. Have a safe and happy journey out there in the wilderness of life. If you come to any walls, knock. If necessary, use a big hammer.