Out of bed early this morning to do my walking. I had a cold and missed several days. Not too bad. About three miles, very early. A police car slows as I cut through the park. Maybe I should wait for the other walkers to come out.
They say our "monsoon season" started yesterday. Monsoon refers to a seasonal shift in the winds, which bring a change in weather. It happens the same time evey year and while we don't wade in water up to our armpits, we've had some summers where the rain total matches some monsoons in India. I looked it up.
We are experiencing another seasonal change. It's summer break for teachers. In days gone by, this was the layoff time when teachers relaxed, got their heads back, maybe did a part-time job to earn a little cash. Those days are long gone. Now the teachers work more hours to meet the "extended school year" our administrators brag about. Meanwhile the administrators don't want to tell about our jobs next year. JoAnne has been cut to twenty hours a week. I got a letter saying "come back next year" and "we'll tell you later what you'll be doing and what we'll be paying". Heck of a way to earn a living...
So the changes include JoAnne sitting with a calculator to figure if she can earn enough from early retirement, or if working an extra year at half-wages will result in reduced retirement payments from the State of Arizona down the road. Either way it doesn't look pretty.
So I'm walking every day in anticipation of working later without a car to commute in. No matter. Simplicity is a virtue in Franciscan life. And I'm not good with money anyhow.
But I'm not so good as a teacher, either. I lack "assertiveness", which is the same as saying I won't cut somebody's throat to get ahead. I seem to be the only person around who thinks that way. I get the impression people think I'm broken or something because I rather smile at people than condemn them. Maybe I make them nervous. So I was thinking about my future as a teacher while I was out walking, and thinking about the story I've been trying to write between teaching, and thinking about how maybe I'm not suited, really, for anything else but writing. And writing could be a gift to give to God, like teaching, right?
And it doesn't matter if anyone else ever notices, either way, because it's all God's business in the end, and he keeps his books well.
So even though it feels like we've failed--at least at the things the world says are important--we don't really need to be anxious because God is still in charge. And if people aren't hearing the words I write, maybe all I need to do is to find another mountain to write from...
Happy Monsoon!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Lack of Understanding
Perhaps a Candidate starts off naïve and faces a long journey to understanding. The honey days come to an end and the real work begins with a series of jolts, like a car breaking down on the highway. One is left standing in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but wits and a long coat, and a rough trail leading away to who knows where. That’s something like how it feels today.
Friday, June 11: Our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary begins on our last day at work for the 2009-2010 school year. Chaotic is a good word. We only work half a day and then we leave, rather in a hurry, without really saying goodbye to people as is our tradition. This year JoAnne was notified that her duty would be cut in half for the coming school year. After fifteen years she will be forced to work part-time, and surrender her company benefits. We make the ride home in shock, but we saw it coming.
Besides, today we have made plans. Knowing our situation, our daughter gave us a gift of money so that we could celebrate, which we do by attending a baseball game on a truly fine night. During the game while television cameras scour the stands for couples in love, JoAnne gives me a kiss that erases the years. We are, for a moment, back at the beginning starting out all over again, the two of us and God. It was some kiss…
Saturday, June 12: After doing chores we leave to Saint Mary’s to meet our Fraternity. We want to set up the dining hall for a celebration tomorrow. Four Candidates are making their profession at the 9:00 a.m. mass, and we’ll have a nice brunch afterwards, complements of the Parish Life Committee. There are clouds in the sky and the weather is soft, on the edge of rain. It reminds me so much of San Diego that I sneak away from my chores to stand in the parking lot catching raindrops with my face. While I’m thus occupied, a homeless man wanders over to rummage through the garbage can. He finds a bag of tortilla chips somebody threw away and takes them. A minute later he has made his way around the fence that separated us.
“Can you help me out?” he asks. “Could I get a sandwich or something…?”
He’s looking at the entrance to the church basement where the ladies in the kitchen are preparing tomorrow’s banquet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “We don’t give food here anymore…”
It’s a sad situation. After seven years of providing sandwiches to the homeless, Saint Mary’s cut orders to disband the ministry. It had gotten too popular. As the economy grew worse, more homeless people were coming. They were setting up camps in the parish plaza, unrolling sleeping bags on the steps and blocking the church entrance. As parishioners came and went, they would ask for money and food. Since several groups meet in the evenings, a lot of people were feeling alarmed, walking along the dimly lit sidewalks and paths. Meanwhile, the squatters were bringing beer and liquer to their night camps, organizing parties, dumping trash and using the gardens and buildings for outdoor bathrooms. One could smell the remains coming into church in the morning.
Our Diocese has a policy that persons seeking assistance should be referred to the Saint Vincent de Paul center downtown where they can find food, shelter, counseling, clothing and hygiene supplies. It is well-organized and well run, providing trained social workers and funded by donations from all the parishes. But even among the homeless, not everyone wants to spend time in that part of town, especially after dark. Saint Mary’s decided that the food program must end. And so I stood in the parking lot, blessed by God’s gift of rain in June, watching the homeless man walk away hungry while another across the street shouted curses at the top of his lung—toward villains only he could see…
Later that evening our daughter called asking to come over and talk. We met in the family room where she told us that her boyfriend’s mother just got thrown out of her apartment by another son. When she called the police for help gathering her belongings they told her that since the apartment lease was in the son’s name, they could do nothing to help her. Do nothing. The words stuck in my head. Then Ann asked us if we could find a spare a bed for the woman until she found a new place to live…
We said no. We’ve been down this road several times and came to the conclusion that our small home is unsuitable for sheltering the homeless. It’s not my call alone, because I live in a community, small as we are, and not everyone sees things the way I do. I am also responsible for their health and safety, and though I fail at the job often, I haven’t got the right to increase their stress just to satisfy my ego. Over and over I thought about the woman, how she now had to go find a motel, and how my daughter, who had only a day before given me money to celebrate with, would have to spend even more money for the room. Now the log that jammed in my head was drifting down to stick in my heart. I felt helpless.
But I am never helpless, even in the face of my own weakness or cowardice. I went into our chapel to pray. I took up my Rosary, which Mary once showed me can work like a sword, cutting through the gloom and illusions to let God’s like flow in. I took it in both hands and prayed like a warrior, surrounding myself with the strongest Saints and Angels I know. And I gave them instructions to fly to that hurting family and help them with the things they most needed: faith, peace and understanding. I prayed with conviction and faith—as best as I could muster. And when I prayed I felt power go out from me. I don’t need to know the result. I was praying as much for my confusion and inaction as for them. I was praying for God’s help.
Sunday, June 13. A lovely day. We get up early and do our simple chores. We’ve excused ourselves from ministering at Our Lady’s in order to attend the celebration at Saint Mary’s. We got there an hour early and helped where we could with final preparations for the banquet, but they are well organized. They have the Parish Life Committee who are all devoted to having monthly events and celebrations in order for parishioners to develop relationships beyond just attending Mass. In these economic times, I’ve already seen fruit of fellowship and compassion growing. So in a good frame of mind, I lose myself in the joy of witnessing people like us making their promise “to imitate the example of Saint Francis by living the gospel…” It’s a worthy hope.
Saint Mary’s Basillica is downtown, in the heart of Phoenix, and so it is a mixed population of cultures and economics. At Mass today one old man, not entirely “there”, prays his own prayers loudly and has to be asked not to play with a lighter in the old wood church. After Mass he takes his two bags of personal belongings and flows outside with the rest of the congregation.
We all move down to the basement social hall, which is beautifully decorated and fragrant with the aromas of coffee and banquet food. The hall fills and all the tables are taken. I flit like a hummingbird from table to table, determined to move out of my comfort zone and introduce myself to as many strangers as I can, to grow in Franciscan hospitality. Deep in my heart, I know I don’t want to go down the path of apathy and hope that my two experiences yesterday do not extend to a third.
Then a man stands behind me.
“Excuse me,” he says, “Can anybody here help me with bus fare?”
My hand flies to my pocket. There is still something left of the gift-money from Friday. We are still celebrating the wonder and joy of our sacrament. I pull out the money. I know the bus is more than a dollar, so I give him the larger bill, glad to let him have the extra. It was gift to me; I can share the gift with him.
But suddenly there are many people on their feet.
“You can’t be in here,” someone is saying. Two or three people surround the old man.
“He’s been here before,” someone says. “He knows our rules.”
“You can’t give them money,” someone else is telling me. Another face, “It isn’t permitted.”
Then, one of the Team Members sits beside me.
“You have to understand why we don’t allow it…” he says, trying to be kind. I stand up. I have to escape. Something is hurting. I suddenly don’t feel very good. I wander among the tables looking for friendly places, for eyes that didn’t see what I had just done, the offense I had just committed. Finally I find my Spiritual Companion and sit beside her.
“Please tell me,” I beg. “Tell me my mistake…”
She thinks it over for a moment.
“Here’s how it works. It’s like, if a man asks you for money to buy food, you don’t know if he’s going to really buy food. You have to be willing to go with him to a restaurant, sit down and order him something. Then you can pay for it…”
“Yeah,” I thought. “Like that’s going to happen…”
I grew angry as the day wore on, and I was glad when JoAnne said it was time to go. I wasn’t in a party mood anymore, and I wasn’t sure about the Franciscans. I know that Francis gave everything, even his clothes, to possess a heart of mercy. I also know that in the rule he gave us we are to honor the clergy and the authority of our Church. So when they say “don’t feed the hungry here” they probably have good reasons. But I don’t understand the reasons. And I don’t know why, later that day when JoAnne goes to visit a friend, I hide in the bathroom and cry.
I’m too soft for this work. If I ever earn some money, I’ll have to find someone who does it right, and give the money to them…
Monday, June 14. Walking carefully, trying not to trample the good feelings of our anniversary. We slide slowly into the routine of our summer layoff. JoAnne is researching retirement options: how much she can get from the federal government, how much from the state; how much she can earn working part-time before they say she is earning too much to be “retired”. As promised, I am taking the first, cool our of our summer days to work on the yard, which fell way behind during the school year. I also read where a man say that the principle of compounding works just as well with chores and goals as it does with money. A little bit invested regularly adds up to big accomplishments.
We don’t know what the next few weeks are really going to be like. We know that we want to continue with our Franciscan training and we both believe the honey days are over. I don’t know what my job will be like next year, though they told me on Friday they would like to have me come back. The details will have to follow in the mail as they figure out their budget. That’s the way public education works in Arizona. Meanwhile I am studying leadership and I intend to use the principle of compounding to make things happen for us, especially to make some money so that I have something to share with the poor. God will show me how and where even when to share it. It’s not the amount or even the money; God just wants to know that we are willing. And it isn’t just money he gives us, but love, talent, skill, knowledge, joy, hope, faith, shelter, food… We are the lamps he lights in the world so that others can find their way. At least one man writes that to succeed we must “…act before you are ready; you must give while your hands are still empty. Then you will see the real miracle called abundance…”
I just wish God had something sticky to fill my heart. When it broke yesterday, everything fell out. I guess he wants us to carry that emptiness, a small splinter of his Cross…
Friday, June 11: Our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary begins on our last day at work for the 2009-2010 school year. Chaotic is a good word. We only work half a day and then we leave, rather in a hurry, without really saying goodbye to people as is our tradition. This year JoAnne was notified that her duty would be cut in half for the coming school year. After fifteen years she will be forced to work part-time, and surrender her company benefits. We make the ride home in shock, but we saw it coming.
Besides, today we have made plans. Knowing our situation, our daughter gave us a gift of money so that we could celebrate, which we do by attending a baseball game on a truly fine night. During the game while television cameras scour the stands for couples in love, JoAnne gives me a kiss that erases the years. We are, for a moment, back at the beginning starting out all over again, the two of us and God. It was some kiss…
Saturday, June 12: After doing chores we leave to Saint Mary’s to meet our Fraternity. We want to set up the dining hall for a celebration tomorrow. Four Candidates are making their profession at the 9:00 a.m. mass, and we’ll have a nice brunch afterwards, complements of the Parish Life Committee. There are clouds in the sky and the weather is soft, on the edge of rain. It reminds me so much of San Diego that I sneak away from my chores to stand in the parking lot catching raindrops with my face. While I’m thus occupied, a homeless man wanders over to rummage through the garbage can. He finds a bag of tortilla chips somebody threw away and takes them. A minute later he has made his way around the fence that separated us.
“Can you help me out?” he asks. “Could I get a sandwich or something…?”
He’s looking at the entrance to the church basement where the ladies in the kitchen are preparing tomorrow’s banquet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “We don’t give food here anymore…”
It’s a sad situation. After seven years of providing sandwiches to the homeless, Saint Mary’s cut orders to disband the ministry. It had gotten too popular. As the economy grew worse, more homeless people were coming. They were setting up camps in the parish plaza, unrolling sleeping bags on the steps and blocking the church entrance. As parishioners came and went, they would ask for money and food. Since several groups meet in the evenings, a lot of people were feeling alarmed, walking along the dimly lit sidewalks and paths. Meanwhile, the squatters were bringing beer and liquer to their night camps, organizing parties, dumping trash and using the gardens and buildings for outdoor bathrooms. One could smell the remains coming into church in the morning.
Our Diocese has a policy that persons seeking assistance should be referred to the Saint Vincent de Paul center downtown where they can find food, shelter, counseling, clothing and hygiene supplies. It is well-organized and well run, providing trained social workers and funded by donations from all the parishes. But even among the homeless, not everyone wants to spend time in that part of town, especially after dark. Saint Mary’s decided that the food program must end. And so I stood in the parking lot, blessed by God’s gift of rain in June, watching the homeless man walk away hungry while another across the street shouted curses at the top of his lung—toward villains only he could see…
Later that evening our daughter called asking to come over and talk. We met in the family room where she told us that her boyfriend’s mother just got thrown out of her apartment by another son. When she called the police for help gathering her belongings they told her that since the apartment lease was in the son’s name, they could do nothing to help her. Do nothing. The words stuck in my head. Then Ann asked us if we could find a spare a bed for the woman until she found a new place to live…
We said no. We’ve been down this road several times and came to the conclusion that our small home is unsuitable for sheltering the homeless. It’s not my call alone, because I live in a community, small as we are, and not everyone sees things the way I do. I am also responsible for their health and safety, and though I fail at the job often, I haven’t got the right to increase their stress just to satisfy my ego. Over and over I thought about the woman, how she now had to go find a motel, and how my daughter, who had only a day before given me money to celebrate with, would have to spend even more money for the room. Now the log that jammed in my head was drifting down to stick in my heart. I felt helpless.
But I am never helpless, even in the face of my own weakness or cowardice. I went into our chapel to pray. I took up my Rosary, which Mary once showed me can work like a sword, cutting through the gloom and illusions to let God’s like flow in. I took it in both hands and prayed like a warrior, surrounding myself with the strongest Saints and Angels I know. And I gave them instructions to fly to that hurting family and help them with the things they most needed: faith, peace and understanding. I prayed with conviction and faith—as best as I could muster. And when I prayed I felt power go out from me. I don’t need to know the result. I was praying as much for my confusion and inaction as for them. I was praying for God’s help.
Sunday, June 13. A lovely day. We get up early and do our simple chores. We’ve excused ourselves from ministering at Our Lady’s in order to attend the celebration at Saint Mary’s. We got there an hour early and helped where we could with final preparations for the banquet, but they are well organized. They have the Parish Life Committee who are all devoted to having monthly events and celebrations in order for parishioners to develop relationships beyond just attending Mass. In these economic times, I’ve already seen fruit of fellowship and compassion growing. So in a good frame of mind, I lose myself in the joy of witnessing people like us making their promise “to imitate the example of Saint Francis by living the gospel…” It’s a worthy hope.
Saint Mary’s Basillica is downtown, in the heart of Phoenix, and so it is a mixed population of cultures and economics. At Mass today one old man, not entirely “there”, prays his own prayers loudly and has to be asked not to play with a lighter in the old wood church. After Mass he takes his two bags of personal belongings and flows outside with the rest of the congregation.
We all move down to the basement social hall, which is beautifully decorated and fragrant with the aromas of coffee and banquet food. The hall fills and all the tables are taken. I flit like a hummingbird from table to table, determined to move out of my comfort zone and introduce myself to as many strangers as I can, to grow in Franciscan hospitality. Deep in my heart, I know I don’t want to go down the path of apathy and hope that my two experiences yesterday do not extend to a third.
Then a man stands behind me.
“Excuse me,” he says, “Can anybody here help me with bus fare?”
My hand flies to my pocket. There is still something left of the gift-money from Friday. We are still celebrating the wonder and joy of our sacrament. I pull out the money. I know the bus is more than a dollar, so I give him the larger bill, glad to let him have the extra. It was gift to me; I can share the gift with him.
But suddenly there are many people on their feet.
“You can’t be in here,” someone is saying. Two or three people surround the old man.
“He’s been here before,” someone says. “He knows our rules.”
“You can’t give them money,” someone else is telling me. Another face, “It isn’t permitted.”
Then, one of the Team Members sits beside me.
“You have to understand why we don’t allow it…” he says, trying to be kind. I stand up. I have to escape. Something is hurting. I suddenly don’t feel very good. I wander among the tables looking for friendly places, for eyes that didn’t see what I had just done, the offense I had just committed. Finally I find my Spiritual Companion and sit beside her.
“Please tell me,” I beg. “Tell me my mistake…”
She thinks it over for a moment.
“Here’s how it works. It’s like, if a man asks you for money to buy food, you don’t know if he’s going to really buy food. You have to be willing to go with him to a restaurant, sit down and order him something. Then you can pay for it…”
“Yeah,” I thought. “Like that’s going to happen…”
I grew angry as the day wore on, and I was glad when JoAnne said it was time to go. I wasn’t in a party mood anymore, and I wasn’t sure about the Franciscans. I know that Francis gave everything, even his clothes, to possess a heart of mercy. I also know that in the rule he gave us we are to honor the clergy and the authority of our Church. So when they say “don’t feed the hungry here” they probably have good reasons. But I don’t understand the reasons. And I don’t know why, later that day when JoAnne goes to visit a friend, I hide in the bathroom and cry.
I’m too soft for this work. If I ever earn some money, I’ll have to find someone who does it right, and give the money to them…
Monday, June 14. Walking carefully, trying not to trample the good feelings of our anniversary. We slide slowly into the routine of our summer layoff. JoAnne is researching retirement options: how much she can get from the federal government, how much from the state; how much she can earn working part-time before they say she is earning too much to be “retired”. As promised, I am taking the first, cool our of our summer days to work on the yard, which fell way behind during the school year. I also read where a man say that the principle of compounding works just as well with chores and goals as it does with money. A little bit invested regularly adds up to big accomplishments.
We don’t know what the next few weeks are really going to be like. We know that we want to continue with our Franciscan training and we both believe the honey days are over. I don’t know what my job will be like next year, though they told me on Friday they would like to have me come back. The details will have to follow in the mail as they figure out their budget. That’s the way public education works in Arizona. Meanwhile I am studying leadership and I intend to use the principle of compounding to make things happen for us, especially to make some money so that I have something to share with the poor. God will show me how and where even when to share it. It’s not the amount or even the money; God just wants to know that we are willing. And it isn’t just money he gives us, but love, talent, skill, knowledge, joy, hope, faith, shelter, food… We are the lamps he lights in the world so that others can find their way. At least one man writes that to succeed we must “…act before you are ready; you must give while your hands are still empty. Then you will see the real miracle called abundance…”
I just wish God had something sticky to fill my heart. When it broke yesterday, everything fell out. I guess he wants us to carry that emptiness, a small splinter of his Cross…
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Pouring Oil
There is a story about a man in ancient China who sold oil from village to village. The women brought their oil jars out to the street where he would dip a ladle into his large jar and pour the oil in a thin stream into their smaller jars, without spilling a drop. One day he came upon a group of archers bragging about their skills as marksmen. They made fun of the man's simple job. He showed them what he did for a living, then invited them to try it for themselves. None of them could do it without spilling. I forget the moral of the story. Maybe you can figure it out.
I do, however, find myself stopping in the middle of my prayers because the Psalms keep talking about fear. In the same passages--sometimes in the same line--the writers talk about the great gift of God's love and in the same breath tell us we must fear God. How do we love and fear God at the same time without becoming dysfunctional? Figuring something must have gotten lost in the translation, I looked it up at BlueLetterBible.org. Translated directly from scriptures, the Hebrew word "fear" means... fear.
Sometimes it pays to keep asking. Looking down the list of definitions I found, near the very end, another word that is sometimes use to speak of fear. It translates as "pour" in English. Pour, as in pour oil from a big bottle into a smaller bottle, without spilling.
Whenever I have to pour something, like dark red wine on a table set with crystal and white linen, or when I pour paint into a pan hanging from a stepladder over the living room carpet, or even when I pour gasoline into the little tank on my lawn mower there's always a jolt of nerves because I know the consequence of making a mistake, the disaster that comes with spilling. It's fear. I'm careful at work walking with a full cup of coffee. I nearly freeze when the cough medicine is in the spoon and the wiggling child is across the bed. And I'll probably never be a Eucharistic minister because I'm terrified of dropping the sacred bread or the cup of blessed wine. The fear of spilling is with me in every endeavor that involves transporting something important from one place to another outside of a secure container. And when you stop and think about it, there's nothing so loose-lidded as human devotion.
I haven't written for awhile because God has been "pouring it on", or perhaps I should say "pouring it in..." He has been pouring his grace into my soul through the tiny opening which is my fearful heart. I for my part must navigate the stumbling blocks of life with my eyes clamped shut and what feels like both hands in my pockets. The concordance writers explain that the kind of fear we are talking about in Scripture recognizes both the wonder of God and the impossibility of our human hearts ever being adequate to his purpose. He wants to live from our hearts. But we do everything contrary to love. We cling to everything that is opposed to His nature, and try as we might--praying and longing for transformation--we cannot grow new hearts. It has to come from him.
Fear of the Lord they say is the beginning of wisdom. All I can do is bow to the One who pours the oil.
I do, however, find myself stopping in the middle of my prayers because the Psalms keep talking about fear. In the same passages--sometimes in the same line--the writers talk about the great gift of God's love and in the same breath tell us we must fear God. How do we love and fear God at the same time without becoming dysfunctional? Figuring something must have gotten lost in the translation, I looked it up at BlueLetterBible.org. Translated directly from scriptures, the Hebrew word "fear" means... fear.
Sometimes it pays to keep asking. Looking down the list of definitions I found, near the very end, another word that is sometimes use to speak of fear. It translates as "pour" in English. Pour, as in pour oil from a big bottle into a smaller bottle, without spilling.
Whenever I have to pour something, like dark red wine on a table set with crystal and white linen, or when I pour paint into a pan hanging from a stepladder over the living room carpet, or even when I pour gasoline into the little tank on my lawn mower there's always a jolt of nerves because I know the consequence of making a mistake, the disaster that comes with spilling. It's fear. I'm careful at work walking with a full cup of coffee. I nearly freeze when the cough medicine is in the spoon and the wiggling child is across the bed. And I'll probably never be a Eucharistic minister because I'm terrified of dropping the sacred bread or the cup of blessed wine. The fear of spilling is with me in every endeavor that involves transporting something important from one place to another outside of a secure container. And when you stop and think about it, there's nothing so loose-lidded as human devotion.
I haven't written for awhile because God has been "pouring it on", or perhaps I should say "pouring it in..." He has been pouring his grace into my soul through the tiny opening which is my fearful heart. I for my part must navigate the stumbling blocks of life with my eyes clamped shut and what feels like both hands in my pockets. The concordance writers explain that the kind of fear we are talking about in Scripture recognizes both the wonder of God and the impossibility of our human hearts ever being adequate to his purpose. He wants to live from our hearts. But we do everything contrary to love. We cling to everything that is opposed to His nature, and try as we might--praying and longing for transformation--we cannot grow new hearts. It has to come from him.
Fear of the Lord they say is the beginning of wisdom. All I can do is bow to the One who pours the oil.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
In Search of the Holy Spirit
Part I:
The Holy Spirit has filled the earth. I think this means we can find God anywhere. I haven’t been looking in the dark places because I have enough trouble finding him where the light shines brilliantly. But I know from stories that people have found God in some very dark places and times. The key seems to be able to look with simple eyes.
We make ourselves too complex to see God. It hurts and we don’t know the reason why. We are made to see God; we are meant to see him. It is his will, what he wants, what he longs for. Jesus saw God in us, and when we nailed him to the cross he could not see the one he loved in our behavior. This is why he felt abandoned. Looking all around he could only see the pain of sin. If this is what he sees when he looks at us, then the pain of crucifixion continues. One gift of love that the Father gives to his Son, Jesus, is to see us abandon our sin and our darkness, our unnatural complexity, for the sake of love.
I think sometimes in doing so we take upon ourselves some of his pain, at least for a little while. I have no other way to explain why, when we make up our minds to follow Christ, we are suddenly plunged into darkness…
Part II:
At the end of prayers yesterday evening there was a note in our prayer book. It says, “The Easter season ends with the conclusion of Evening Prayer.” Boom. Close the book, it’s over. That’s how it felt. Easter Season isn’t just the seven weeks after Easter Sunday. For me it begins earlier on Ash Wednesday. Though that day marks the beginning of the Season of Lent, the whole journey anticipates Easter and the days following, where we walk in the light, a light that was kindled even earlier, at the very beginning of Advent, with a message from Paul, “May the God of peace make you perfect in holiness.” He wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t possible. The whole journey throughout the whole year—indeed through our entire life on earth—is for that one purpose: to become holy. When I am sad, when I am lost in darkness, when I cannot see the love of God anywhere around or in me, I will remember that message, the message that drives our very lives: “May he preserve you whole and entire, spirit, soul, and body, irreproachable at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls us is trustworthy, therefore he will do it. “ 1 Thes. 5: 20-24
He will do it. That thing we long for with unbearable intensity, that thing that burns us with the very passion of Calvary, it is God’s own work. What can I do to save myself? Nothing. What will God do to save me? Everything. And so I make a journey, from light into darkness into light again. Over and over, each time losing something to the cross, each time gaining something of the cross. God, it hurts!
And if you asked me I could only tell you that I want it, want it, want it—for reasons I can’t put into words…
Part III:
I think it all makes me a bit dysfunctional. How can we take care of the practical needs of life when we find ourselves walking the passion of Christ? Part of the solution is the necessary simplicity of faith in dark times. It makes us poor, yes, but there can be great freedom in both poverty and bondage, particularly the bondage of the heart in love with Christ our Savior.
I went to the mountains for a weekend with my brothers and sister. When I arrived, those who had gone early had the camp ready, with tents pegged up and waiting. I just moved my stuff in under the cover and had an instant cell, a place to pray in privacy and wait for God to speak. I wanted him to speak so badly. But he sent wind. Three days and nights of it, unceasing, unrelenting, bending huge pines to the root. It was cold, dry, we weren’t allowed to have a campfire. I lit a small candle in my tent and prayed by the glow of a flashlight.
It felt holy. I had a picture of my family, a small bit of incense in a pocket shrine I carry when I travel. I had holy water from Lourdes. And I had desire. I was ready. In the psalm it said, “Bless the Lord, all you winds!” So they did, heartily. As the days passed I divided my time between praying alone and being with my family. I noticed people peeking into my tent where the small altar was set out of reach of the wind. We ate (a lot!), told stories, laughed, played horseshoes. I missed JoAnne terribly, so much that I began to question why I had come or if I could ever go camping again.
The campground is very high, nearly 8,000 feet, very beautiful and fun in its way, but I am not so young as I used to be. The thin air left me gasping and weak and now that I am returned, depressed from the extremes. It wasn’t as fun as I hoped. But God did speak to me in the very prayers I clung to for comfort. He told me that I don’t do it alone. I never do it alone. He never leaves me alone. Though I cry out with Jesus “Father! Where have you gone?” He isn’t gone. The Holy Spirit whom my heart was seeking, has already filled the earth. There is no place I can go where God isn’t already, and completely. That is what He wanted me to see, from the top of that high, windy mountain. The Spirit I seek has already been given to me. The journey in every season is already completed. All I have to do is be opened… Ephatha…
Part IV:
“Deep in the darkest night, you kindle a fire that never dies away.”
I didn’t understand that the Holy Spirit is fire. I heard the stories but I didn’t understand. The forest we camped in is under threat of fire. It was a hard winter with over five feet of snow. Some of it was still on the ground when we arrived. A large number of trees were broken off during the winter so there is a lot of heavy, dead wood laying around. One spark and the fire that comes will come hard. My brother swept the forest with his arm and said, “See how fires have opened up the woods!” A fire will come and the landscape will be changed. Perhaps I will see it again, perhaps not. I haven’t figured that out yet.
The fire of the Holy Spirit was kindled in me long ago, when I was baptized. There is nothing more for me to do to “earn” this grace. If I am a dark night, the fire is with me, in me. I don’t need to search for it. It has already begun its work of opening me up, this blog is proof. I couldn’t have spoken to you so freely about God in the past. Everything that is weak in me, everything that is sick or fruitless is being burned away. That is not merely conversion, it is the whole life of faith. It is what I long for and pray for and cannot do for myself. The Spirit comes hard on the forest of my soul and opens it up to let the light in, to start new growth. It’s no fun right now, but I have been praying for faith, and the pain I feel is a sharing, yes, with the saving agony and the joy of Christ. The Season of Easter is over, but the grace continues. Like the great wind that sweeps across the Mogollon mountains, the Holy Spirit will not leave me alone. When the work is done, when the days of conversion are fulfilled, stillness and new life will follow. This is the springtime of my soul…
The Holy Spirit has filled the earth. I think this means we can find God anywhere. I haven’t been looking in the dark places because I have enough trouble finding him where the light shines brilliantly. But I know from stories that people have found God in some very dark places and times. The key seems to be able to look with simple eyes.
We make ourselves too complex to see God. It hurts and we don’t know the reason why. We are made to see God; we are meant to see him. It is his will, what he wants, what he longs for. Jesus saw God in us, and when we nailed him to the cross he could not see the one he loved in our behavior. This is why he felt abandoned. Looking all around he could only see the pain of sin. If this is what he sees when he looks at us, then the pain of crucifixion continues. One gift of love that the Father gives to his Son, Jesus, is to see us abandon our sin and our darkness, our unnatural complexity, for the sake of love.
I think sometimes in doing so we take upon ourselves some of his pain, at least for a little while. I have no other way to explain why, when we make up our minds to follow Christ, we are suddenly plunged into darkness…
Part II:
At the end of prayers yesterday evening there was a note in our prayer book. It says, “The Easter season ends with the conclusion of Evening Prayer.” Boom. Close the book, it’s over. That’s how it felt. Easter Season isn’t just the seven weeks after Easter Sunday. For me it begins earlier on Ash Wednesday. Though that day marks the beginning of the Season of Lent, the whole journey anticipates Easter and the days following, where we walk in the light, a light that was kindled even earlier, at the very beginning of Advent, with a message from Paul, “May the God of peace make you perfect in holiness.” He wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t possible. The whole journey throughout the whole year—indeed through our entire life on earth—is for that one purpose: to become holy. When I am sad, when I am lost in darkness, when I cannot see the love of God anywhere around or in me, I will remember that message, the message that drives our very lives: “May he preserve you whole and entire, spirit, soul, and body, irreproachable at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls us is trustworthy, therefore he will do it. “ 1 Thes. 5: 20-24
He will do it. That thing we long for with unbearable intensity, that thing that burns us with the very passion of Calvary, it is God’s own work. What can I do to save myself? Nothing. What will God do to save me? Everything. And so I make a journey, from light into darkness into light again. Over and over, each time losing something to the cross, each time gaining something of the cross. God, it hurts!
And if you asked me I could only tell you that I want it, want it, want it—for reasons I can’t put into words…
Part III:
I think it all makes me a bit dysfunctional. How can we take care of the practical needs of life when we find ourselves walking the passion of Christ? Part of the solution is the necessary simplicity of faith in dark times. It makes us poor, yes, but there can be great freedom in both poverty and bondage, particularly the bondage of the heart in love with Christ our Savior.
I went to the mountains for a weekend with my brothers and sister. When I arrived, those who had gone early had the camp ready, with tents pegged up and waiting. I just moved my stuff in under the cover and had an instant cell, a place to pray in privacy and wait for God to speak. I wanted him to speak so badly. But he sent wind. Three days and nights of it, unceasing, unrelenting, bending huge pines to the root. It was cold, dry, we weren’t allowed to have a campfire. I lit a small candle in my tent and prayed by the glow of a flashlight.
It felt holy. I had a picture of my family, a small bit of incense in a pocket shrine I carry when I travel. I had holy water from Lourdes. And I had desire. I was ready. In the psalm it said, “Bless the Lord, all you winds!” So they did, heartily. As the days passed I divided my time between praying alone and being with my family. I noticed people peeking into my tent where the small altar was set out of reach of the wind. We ate (a lot!), told stories, laughed, played horseshoes. I missed JoAnne terribly, so much that I began to question why I had come or if I could ever go camping again.
The campground is very high, nearly 8,000 feet, very beautiful and fun in its way, but I am not so young as I used to be. The thin air left me gasping and weak and now that I am returned, depressed from the extremes. It wasn’t as fun as I hoped. But God did speak to me in the very prayers I clung to for comfort. He told me that I don’t do it alone. I never do it alone. He never leaves me alone. Though I cry out with Jesus “Father! Where have you gone?” He isn’t gone. The Holy Spirit whom my heart was seeking, has already filled the earth. There is no place I can go where God isn’t already, and completely. That is what He wanted me to see, from the top of that high, windy mountain. The Spirit I seek has already been given to me. The journey in every season is already completed. All I have to do is be opened… Ephatha…
Part IV:
“Deep in the darkest night, you kindle a fire that never dies away.”
I didn’t understand that the Holy Spirit is fire. I heard the stories but I didn’t understand. The forest we camped in is under threat of fire. It was a hard winter with over five feet of snow. Some of it was still on the ground when we arrived. A large number of trees were broken off during the winter so there is a lot of heavy, dead wood laying around. One spark and the fire that comes will come hard. My brother swept the forest with his arm and said, “See how fires have opened up the woods!” A fire will come and the landscape will be changed. Perhaps I will see it again, perhaps not. I haven’t figured that out yet.
The fire of the Holy Spirit was kindled in me long ago, when I was baptized. There is nothing more for me to do to “earn” this grace. If I am a dark night, the fire is with me, in me. I don’t need to search for it. It has already begun its work of opening me up, this blog is proof. I couldn’t have spoken to you so freely about God in the past. Everything that is weak in me, everything that is sick or fruitless is being burned away. That is not merely conversion, it is the whole life of faith. It is what I long for and pray for and cannot do for myself. The Spirit comes hard on the forest of my soul and opens it up to let the light in, to start new growth. It’s no fun right now, but I have been praying for faith, and the pain I feel is a sharing, yes, with the saving agony and the joy of Christ. The Season of Easter is over, but the grace continues. Like the great wind that sweeps across the Mogollon mountains, the Holy Spirit will not leave me alone. When the work is done, when the days of conversion are fulfilled, stillness and new life will follow. This is the springtime of my soul…
Friday, May 14, 2010
Giving Justice A Hand
Last night JoAnne and I attended a convocation of the Valley Interfaith Project where we heard a variety of stories from the community on local issues and concerns. There were a thousand people gathered from groups and associations of many kinds. These groups are organized for community action, and they form a strong coalition working at the grassroots for positive changes. The excitement was real.
It was the first time I can say I was being political. I could feel the underlying process, the real power of democracy. It reminded me of the activism of the Sixties and it gave me hope. I have been praying to be of use to God, as a Franciscan, to find my gifts and use them all while there is time. Change seems to be very important to God and time is the measure he uses, all for our benefit.
One speaker said that "justice is not real unless it is embodied". To me that means it's not enough to talk about things. We must act for change to happen. All my life I've been a talker. Last night I signed a form to attend another meeting in June. The Valley Interfaith Project is building energy for September and will be making itself heard in Arizona. But they are associated by commitment to larger associations reaching beyond our local cities and borders to link hands across the nation. I know I am just beginning, but I feel the connection. I am not just a talker anymore. I am giving my hands to the work of the Spirit in Arizona. How this will turn out I can't even guess. Maybe I will need another blog!
It was the first time I can say I was being political. I could feel the underlying process, the real power of democracy. It reminded me of the activism of the Sixties and it gave me hope. I have been praying to be of use to God, as a Franciscan, to find my gifts and use them all while there is time. Change seems to be very important to God and time is the measure he uses, all for our benefit.
One speaker said that "justice is not real unless it is embodied". To me that means it's not enough to talk about things. We must act for change to happen. All my life I've been a talker. Last night I signed a form to attend another meeting in June. The Valley Interfaith Project is building energy for September and will be making itself heard in Arizona. But they are associated by commitment to larger associations reaching beyond our local cities and borders to link hands across the nation. I know I am just beginning, but I feel the connection. I am not just a talker anymore. I am giving my hands to the work of the Spirit in Arizona. How this will turn out I can't even guess. Maybe I will need another blog!
Friday, May 7, 2010
Rain for the Spirit
The days are turning dry. My cactus, after a fat winter, have bloomed and are beginning to shrivel down. The bursage and brittle bush once brilliant with Spring flowers are looking more like natural desert bushes, leggy and lean. By the time real Summer arrives, they will be dead, almost.
It's called "estivation" and that means a strategy among plants that allows them to endure the tough desert conditions. They put their life into seeds and roots. The seeds scatter all over the land and wait, without changing, for conditions to be right. It may rain, it may even thunder and pour, but the seeds will not sprout if it is not enough. Among plants it might take twenty years or more for a seed to sprout.
As for the roots, that's also a pretty nifty development. The roots endure underground, also waiting for the right conditions. They have enough food energy stored to restore what appears above ground, even after it has dried to a crisp. If fire should come by, or an S.U.V., or a cow, and the dry stems and leaves are taken, it can grow a whole new top. The creosote bush, I am told, does this with such skill and determination that researchers suggest some creosote plants are more than forty-thousand years old! We should be so viable...!
So a person living in the desert has a lot to think about. One might walk out into the countryside on pale pink gravel and stand where there is nothing living at all--the whole land is bare. Another year, after a wet winter, go back to the same place and you can walk three feet above the surface of the land! The plants are so thick your feet don't touch the ground. Incredible!
I am looking for this same effect in the Soul. Our faith is like the creosote root that endures many seasons waiting for God's grace. When it comes, no matter how bitter the past, faith is there ready to grow.
I think whenever we pray, we should include a prayer for spirit rain...
It's called "estivation" and that means a strategy among plants that allows them to endure the tough desert conditions. They put their life into seeds and roots. The seeds scatter all over the land and wait, without changing, for conditions to be right. It may rain, it may even thunder and pour, but the seeds will not sprout if it is not enough. Among plants it might take twenty years or more for a seed to sprout.
As for the roots, that's also a pretty nifty development. The roots endure underground, also waiting for the right conditions. They have enough food energy stored to restore what appears above ground, even after it has dried to a crisp. If fire should come by, or an S.U.V., or a cow, and the dry stems and leaves are taken, it can grow a whole new top. The creosote bush, I am told, does this with such skill and determination that researchers suggest some creosote plants are more than forty-thousand years old! We should be so viable...!
So a person living in the desert has a lot to think about. One might walk out into the countryside on pale pink gravel and stand where there is nothing living at all--the whole land is bare. Another year, after a wet winter, go back to the same place and you can walk three feet above the surface of the land! The plants are so thick your feet don't touch the ground. Incredible!
I am looking for this same effect in the Soul. Our faith is like the creosote root that endures many seasons waiting for God's grace. When it comes, no matter how bitter the past, faith is there ready to grow.
I think whenever we pray, we should include a prayer for spirit rain...
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Tradition
Someone told me this weekend that, by tradition, a blog typically has an entry every day, sometimes several.
Oh.
The problem I see with that (as a poet) is the ordinariness of such daily dialog. Who wants to hear the dull details of what my dog is doing?
So then we get to the heart of things.
Life is not always exciting. I do not always have “great thoughts”. Even the Spirit of God (once our attention is fixed) turns to drum at the dull details that, taken together, so often make up the fabric of our difficulties.
We know that Jesus noticed the daily details, the feathers on a sparrow, the fibers in a blade of grass, perhaps how many seeds there are in a blossom of wheat, which way the wind is blowing… I’ve been getting the message without noticing: God is in the details. So, I suppose that in the spirit of a correspondent sending back bulletins from the wilderness, I might be a little more dedicated to the daily job of keeping you informed. I’m going to work this morning. They will be serving Nachos as a way of showing their appreciation for teachers (and other staff) during Teacher Appreciation Week. My siblings are planning a camping trip in a couple of weeks. My friend, Brother Damien, O.S.B. had earned his Doctoral Degree. The garden waits for my attention. It is getting warm outside. I will leave the laundry on the line this morning to get some fresh air. I am building a bird feeder.
And like most people I worry about many things, definitely not a Franciscan charism, but what the heck… Here’s a news flash:
I’m not perfect.
Oh.
The problem I see with that (as a poet) is the ordinariness of such daily dialog. Who wants to hear the dull details of what my dog is doing?
So then we get to the heart of things.
Life is not always exciting. I do not always have “great thoughts”. Even the Spirit of God (once our attention is fixed) turns to drum at the dull details that, taken together, so often make up the fabric of our difficulties.
We know that Jesus noticed the daily details, the feathers on a sparrow, the fibers in a blade of grass, perhaps how many seeds there are in a blossom of wheat, which way the wind is blowing… I’ve been getting the message without noticing: God is in the details. So, I suppose that in the spirit of a correspondent sending back bulletins from the wilderness, I might be a little more dedicated to the daily job of keeping you informed. I’m going to work this morning. They will be serving Nachos as a way of showing their appreciation for teachers (and other staff) during Teacher Appreciation Week. My siblings are planning a camping trip in a couple of weeks. My friend, Brother Damien, O.S.B. had earned his Doctoral Degree. The garden waits for my attention. It is getting warm outside. I will leave the laundry on the line this morning to get some fresh air. I am building a bird feeder.
And like most people I worry about many things, definitely not a Franciscan charism, but what the heck… Here’s a news flash:
I’m not perfect.
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