A new day...

Monastic life offers many insights. Like the value of sacrifice, the benefits of silence, and the comfort of community. It also taught me that each day is a new day, a chance to make another new beginning.

For many of us, new beginnings come with New Year's Day. A new calendar and a new number somehow sparks thoughts of turning over a new leaf. Resolutions are decided and commitments are made. But why do we limit ourselves to one day a year?

In the monastery, every day offered a new beginning. It came with the concept of metanoia, conversion, turning myself from what I am to what I desire to be. We focused on metanoia, which means literally turning around, moving from facing one direction into facing a different one. Metanoia is a concept that comes from the desert Ammas and Abbas. It taught me that every day I can begin again.

I continue the practice of Metanoia, because it teaches me that life need not be dull. I do not have to accomplish my desires and my dreams all in one day. I can work at it a little each day, in a natural and gentle way. For metanoia is organic, and speaks to the fact that life is a journey. And on a journey, each day offers new beginnings.

The benefits of forgiveness

Forgiveness allows tranquility to envelope the soul

I found it quite interesting that the article on forgiveness was not in a religious magazine. No, it was in Counseling Today, the ACA magazine for licensed, professional, clinical counselors. I'd like to quote a couple lines here.

What stands between many clients and a happy life is the often-elusive process of forgiveness.

Blockages people struggle with in their lives were linked to some sort of issue for which they needed to forgive someone.

Forgiveness isn't about the other person or about making someone else apologize or change--it is about setting yourself free.

Not forgiving creates an emotional prison, ties you to a person or an event that usually you would rather forget but are unable to.

I could go on. But I think the above quotes demonstrates quite well that forgiveness is about me, not about the other person. For when I failed to forgive, I become the prisoner, chained to the person or event I will not let go. Refusing to forgive keeps me very small, and small means many things: bitter, resentful, jealous, angry, hateful, stuck.

When Jesus said, forgive others as you want God to forgive you, he was in effect trying to remind me to keep balanced. Just as I do things that need forgiving, so too do others. Do not expect them to be something I cannot be.

Finding an article on forgiveness in a counseling magazine shows just how far reaching resentments can go. I do so much harm to myself when I refuse to forgive.

So the next time someone hurts or offends me, maybe my question should be, "Do I want to punish and damage myself over this?" If the answer is no, then it is time to let go.

 

Finding the balance between a monastic heart and life as it is

Inspiration often comes from outside of ourselves. Recently, reading another blog (Called Monks and Mermaids) I came across an interesting article that examines the Orthodox Church and the lessons it can teach us. In part, the article said: 

Orthodoxy is a monastic Church, a Church with a monastic heart where the monasteries provide the spiritual fathers and mothers...A Church without a flourishing monasticism, without the lived 'martyrdom' of an asceticism inspired by the Paschal Mystery of the Lord's Cross and Resurrection, could hardly be a Church according to the mind of the Christ of the Gospels, for monasticism, of all Christian life ways, is the one which most clearly and publicly leaves all things behind for the sake of the Kingdom...

As I read this, I thought of my own past monastic experience, one where the intense training I received brought me into a very different way of life, one so different that re-integrating into life outside the monastery has never ceased to be challenging. I thought of my constant struggle to identify with my fellow travelers along the way, my inability to communicate on deeper levels even with those of my own family, and how I have to constantly work to understand why certain things seem so important to those around me (such as name brands and name dropping and styles and all that stuff).

Monastic life does change a person. The question I have is, how does one change back? How far should one cling to the monastic persona, the monastic mindset, or the monastic heart?

For if I am really living out the challenge of Christ, I should be able to identify with all the people of God, and able to understand concerns and issues not my own. At least, that is my hope.

The Dreamer and the dream

Sometimes we go through many doorways before we reach our dreams!

Scripture depicts Joseph of the Old Testament as quite the dreamer. Joseph's dreams did not just humor him; they predicted his future. And Joseph went through trial and deportation, servitude and imprisonment before he saw the fulfillment of those dreams.

Joseph of the New Testament dreamed as well. His dreams often answered the nagging questions he held secretly in his heart. He listened to those dreams, and followed them.

Hans Selye is quoted as saying realistic people with practical aims are rarely as realistic and practical in the long run of things as the dreamers who pursue their dreams.

You and I have dreams. But what are we doing about them? Are we setting them aside so that we can be "practical"?  Or are we daring to reach out and do what we can to try and fulfill those dreams?

If the Gospels teach us anything, it is to believe. And part of believing is dreaming...of what could be, of what we are meant to be, of where life can take us. Dreams are doorways to destinies.

Today, let us think of our dreams. Then, let us set off to pursue them.

My image of God

The Trinity, by Mary Grace Thul, OP

I have often maintained that God is to us what we want God to be (see Road to Emmaus). So it was with interest that I read the following from Caryll Houselander:

There is a widespread idea today that it does not matter what our conception of God is like...but as our conception of God is, so we ourselves become. If we think God is hard, we grow hard; if we think God is a kill-joy, we become kill-joys; if we think of God as omnipotent secret police, all-present, all-seeing, all-terrible, we shrink from God, and the heart that shrinks from God shrinks to nothing. (From Lift Up Your Hearts)

Houselander's words do hold an important truth. Those whose God is severe do become severe and judgmental. Those whose God is kind and merciful are generous with mercy. And those whose God is vague and far away, well, they tend to flounder with no particular direction and no particular purpose.

In this light it is good to reflect on my image of God. Because it is the character I am taking on for myself.

Jonah, punishment, and me

I am like Jonah. As the story is told in Chapter 3 of scripture, Jonah went out to the city of Nineveh to announce that it was doomed. Only something unexpected happened. They repented, and then God repented of promising destruction. And Jonah? Well, he got mad that God did not destroy them. After all, Jonah went through quite a bit before making it to Nineveh. Jonah wanted God to fulfill the punishment Jonah had promised. Jonah wanted justice.

I cringe when I realize, I am like Jonah. When someone cuts me off on the highway, I say a prayer they will get caught by the cops. When someone insults me, I secretly hope for some mishap to come about, and convince myself that they deserve this. When bad things happen, I find a way to justify myself. Yes, I am like Jonah.

Being a Christian should make me different. I should be full of compassion and empathy. I should not look at people and hope they will get their due. So where have I gone wrong?

I put these tendencies to human nature and our natural response to danger.

And I admit, I am still on my journey. I have not yet arrived.

Living the questions...

In reading Clyde Crews book, Ultimate Questions, I like his statement No one escapes questioning; and in good measure we are defined in life and even in death by the nature of our own personal response (p. 3). I would go one step further and maintain that we cannot truly answer the question once and for all, that my personal response will change even as my life changes. That truly, no answer will satisfy me forever.

You know from your own experience even as I know from mine: answers never truly satisfy. What seemed right in one situation will not be so in another. Because answers are an attempt to make sense of it all, and sometime, life just doesn't make sense. 

But perhaps it is even more than that. Perhaps our dissatisfaction with former answers come because we have grown beyond that point. We know that the answer only half answered, and we need to find more. I think this is good, for it means we are seeking, and that is always a good thing

It also comes because, as we journey forward, we begin to look more to understand the questions than to need answers. In fact, the best answers come when we are seeking to unravel the question, to understand it fully, to see it from every side. Then our multifaceted question will challenge us immensely.

There is no getting around it. We all question. The important point is, do we live our questions? Do we sit with them and let them unfold before us?

Or do we grab for answers and run?

Learning to trust and surrender

Much of religious literature treats progress in the spiritual life as some sort of ladder, with each rung bringing us to a higher stage. It’s as though closeness to God can be earned like a college degree.

I recognize that yes, the spiritual life does unfold naturally, as we grow from the simple faith of a child to a more mature faith, like the adolescent, to a deep and mystical faith, like that of a mature adult. But I think real life is more obscure, meandering, and unpredictable.

In truth, I think of my spiritual journey not as climbing rungs of a ladder, but as deepening my soul and spirit. And I’ve learned that even when I am aware of Presence, I still have doubts, fears, and questions. I have learned to accept the very real fact that life has its ups and downs, and my vision need not be clear to believe or to love.

I think we tend to think of the spiritual life in this way because we want light to cast out all doubt, and moral courage to overcome all fears. I think such concepts come only from those who have not stayed on-board the sinking vessel of life, and searched for their own surviving hope and trust.
 
I say this because I see a danger in stages, in ascending, as though we can reach a plateau where we know better than others. I think this is a very dangerous kind of thinking. In some sense, we are all beginners, because we must be converted and turned to the Lord every waking moment of our lives. And in some sense we all have a part of heaven tucked into our heart and soul.

So, instead of seeking to climb to perfection, seek instead a greater openness to the spirit, an acceptance of who I am. And remember always the psalm, The Lord hears the cry of the poor. (Ps. 34)

Putting fire under your desire

Sometimes I grapple with the sayings and writings of great Christians. Take, for example, what Jean Leclerq says about Gregory the Great, whom he calls the Doctor of Desire: The importance given to desire confers on St. Gregory's doctrine an extremely dynamic quality. It is concerned with constant progress, for desire, as it becomes the more intense, is rewarded by a certain possession of God which increases it still more. The result of this desire is peace rediscovered in God, since desire is itself a possession in which fear and love are reconciled.

I find Leclerq's words a bit bland. I would like to put fire under it and proclaim, its all about desire! God cannot be possessed without it, nor fear vanquished, or struggle overcome. His phrase that we obtain a "certain possession of God", bothers me, because it makes God seem almost beyond our reach. And I'm not so sure fear and love can be reconciled. I'm more of the mind that love casts out fear; that fear can be overcome, that we can move beyond fear into a loving trust through a habitual response of trust. What we often lack is patience with ourselves, patience with the process, patience with the imperfections. It's as though we expect never to fail, and then berate ourselves because, what? we're human? God forbid!

God isn't unapproachable. God doesn't reign somewhere high above us, so that we must struggle to find even a "certain possession". Time and time again scripture and mystics tell us: God is in the depths of our hearts. The Divine Being waits patiently for us to find Divinity there. And desire can bring us to that sacred place.

The real power of meditation

I love this quote from Georges Bataille: Mere words have something of quicksand about them. Only experience is the rope that is thrown to us.

How many times do I find that a set of words that inspire me are forgotten down the road. Words gain power with experience, and "experience" starts with meditation.

Meditation has become popular in our time. Yet, for me, the real power of meditation comes through an atmosphere of silence.

A visit to a monastery recently brought this truth home to me. As I sat in my room reading, I physically relished the silence that enveloped me. The silence permeated the atmosphere, pregnant with self-discover, Presence, and mystery.  As I sat there, I thought, "Why do I not have this in my life?"

The truth is, though I love silence, I have allowed the noise of music or TV to invade my life, with cell phone conversations and social networking distracting me. I have let myself be duped.

Silence is to meditation what yeast is to flour. It breaks through languid thought and brings mere words to profound understanding.  It does this because it puts the breaks on the incessant flow of thoughts that come careening through our brains. It allows us to be still and quiet before the Divine Being.

In the day and age of multitasking, meditation will not work until we capture the atmosphere of silence, and find a way to integrate it into our lives.

And so, I start again. I bring silence back with me, and make it a solid part of my life.

Carved in stone

We go through many doors...

Sometimes we hold someone's image in our mind as one unchangeable. No matter the passage of time, we think of that person from that one time, perhaps even from one act or circumstance. In effect, we have carved that person in stone.

But no one stays the same. No one is set forever.

Perhaps that is why Deuteronomy 5:8 instructs You shall not make for yourself any graven image. We are prone to set things in stone, and then worship our ideal as true. When we do that, we are so wrong.

I look on my own past, and sometimes wish I had learned earlier and understood sooner. I wish I could have let go more. And matured younger. And stepped out sooner rather than later. I wish I had been more open, more able to question, and realized the difference between an image and a true self.

I wish I had not feared so much, and done so little. In a word, I wish that a lot of my past had been different. And I realize, it is all part of journey.

Michael Himes says if we say we know someone like a book, then we really don't know that person at all. Because we are not books. We are human beings.

If I need time to grow, if I make mistakes I later regret, or act in a way that I later abandon, then I need to allow another the same freedom. It doesn't matter if I cannot see a change, cannot discern the person's regret or difference.

All that matters is that I set that person free. That I let her find herself on her journey. Even as I need to find myself in journey.

Lead into contemplation

Sitting in stillness before presence

Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day. (ps. 139:12). The concept continues to haunt me. When I speak of darkness, I am speaking of struggle, of unknowing, of confusion. So to have the psalm say that to God, darkness is not dark cannot mean he makes light of our human condition. I think it means that what we see as darkness can actually be a source for great light.

I think back to the benefits darkness has given me in the past. It made me stop and reflect, it destroyed preconceived ideals and notions, and I sank deeper into meditation. I stopped asking questions, because real darkness blots out even the formulation of questions. Darkness made me silence, so that I opened not my mouth. I became still before God. And because my expectations were dashed, I just sat there in silence and waited. Without knowing it, darkness forced me into contemplative prayer.

Only later in looking back do I see the rich fruits that came from such darkness. I was concerned about what I was giving to God. I'd forgotten God had something to give to me. I could only receive it after I relinquished my agenda and sat still before the Divine Presence.  My darkness taught me a different kind of prayer, one of listening.

Perhaps that is the real meaning behind the phrase of psalm 139. The very trials that punish the soul often reveal the hidden beauty we've not tapped into. And we seem to need the darkness so that we push ourselves beyond what is comfortable, what is admirable, what is acceptable. Nothing can seem more devastating than to sit before God, dumb and knowing not what to say. And even as the soul groans, "Lord, what is it you want from me?" the soul is taking flight into a new type of faith, a new form of hope, into a light not known among mere mortals. Perhaps this kind of darkness releases the soul into the divine light of grace that brings the soul into a new sphere of understanding. Maybe this kind of darkness is no more than a cocoon where transformation takes place.

Darkness is not dark

Seeing and not seeing. It's often a topic here on Monastic Ponderings. We become conscious because we want to see. We practice compassion so that our hearts will respond better and know more. We meditate so that we are aware. It all implies a willingness to journey. But there is another aspect to our journey: a willingness to accept what that journey brings us.

It happens that sometimes I fail to see, not because I am spiritually blind, but because I don't like what I find. The product is not what I expected, I had hoped for more, or less, or better. I find myself in disbelief that after all I've done, this is the result? And so my journey has brought me to a point I do not want to be, with a decision I do not want to make, and a revelation I do not like. The resistance can be ever so slight, but resistance it is.

It just goes to show that no one ever "arrives" at a place where struggle ceases, despite rhetoric to the contrary. The journey will always have its challenges, and we will always have choices. Paul complained about his own battles, and the reply he received was "My grace is sufficient for you."(2 Cor. 12:9)

Perhaps this is the meaning of psalm 139:12 Darkness is not dark for you, and night will be light as the day. What I worry about is really of little importance, because I am prone to get it wrong. Knowing this should help. For revelation can be having our expectations thwarted so that what we think is replaced by what is. It's worth the thought. And isn't that what the journey is about anyway?

Remembering gifts

Friends. We all have them. But sometimes we do not realize just how many we have or how far they are wiling to go for us until we get into some kind of fix, and they come to our rescue.

This past week, I got myself into such a fix. Sure enough, friends from afar went above and beyond to take care of the situation for me. And I sat there and thought, I am so blessed.

The situation made me think about my forgotten gifts. Such as friends.  Especially friends that I do not see on a regular basis, but who are there for me none-the-less.

I think God is a forgotten gift. Like my friends, God is there for me regardless of my awareness. But often, it takes a need, a pain, or a struggle before I stop to think of the Divine Being. And unlike some of my friends, God is not far away.

It is good to remember: God is closer to me than I am to myself. It is up to me to remember...

The most beautiful people

The questions is as old as the ages, and has been asked in every language and in every religion. If God is loving and kind, then why do we have suffering in this world?

We are given many kinds of answers to this question: theologians will speak about free will and original sin. Others will blame the power of evil and darkness. But when you are the one struggling, these answers do not really speak to the heart and soul.

Elizabeth Kubler Ros offers a more profound answer. She is quoted as saying The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.

To explain away pain is to cheapen human suffering. To acknowledge it, to struggle and rise from the depths, that is the goal of every human sufferer. And we see this in individuals who have endured much, but not let that pain embitter them. They are powerful souls because they know suffering, and do not try to explain it away. They instead offer compassion, sensitive to the vulnerabilities of life, and the need for encouragement.

Beautiful people do not just happen. They are born of suffering, struggle, loss and defeat.

Thirsting for more...

Artwork by Mary Grace Thul, OP

For any sojourner on the way, The words of Sirach 24:18-21 can bring much hope: Come to me, all you that yearn for me, and be filled with my fruits; you will remember me as sweeter than honey, better to have than the honeycomb. She who eats of me will hunger still, she who drinks of me will thirst for more; She who obeys me will not be put to shame, she who serves me will never fail.

The words bring to mind that neediness is not something to be disposed of, but accepted. The concepts are counter to what most of us wish--that our desires never find fulfillment, but instead, are increased: she who drinks of me will thirst for more. 

The words bring to mind our usual reaction: when we enjoy things in life, we do not hang it up. We want more. (I think of popcorn, and how I can never have enough of it!)

I think Sirach is telling us in not so subtle ways that loving God should be a tangible and satisfying affair. That it should not make the heart satisfied, but begging for more.

I think the last line in this quote tells us something unique. It doesn't say, she who serves me will succeed, but she who serves me will never fail. I think there is a huge difference. Success can be personally satisfying, self-fulfilling achievement. It is also, in a sense, the end of the journey. And while a sojourner on this earth, our journey will not end. And so, by saying we shall never fail, the writer is in effect acknowledging the need to continue moving forward. In a way, the writer is addressing the realism of life, our ups and downs, our doubts as well as our faith. In all that happens, nothing need spell failure unless we let it.

It is good to remember these things as we travel forward. It is good to remember that thirst, desire, yearning works toward our favor, if we live in the spirit.

Standing in the fog...

You are standing in the thick of it, like a lost soul standing on a foot bridge with neither end visible. The fog does not lift, nor does it give a hint as to a possible destination. And you stand there, wondering if you should proceed forward, stay where you are, or return from whence you came. It is a moment of suspension, a moment of questioning.

I think we all have gone through such moments in life, when life does not proceed as we think it should, and we are left wondering, should we go forward or wait, act or surrender, trust in providence or proceed with hope? And the fog continues to hang around us, misty and wet, hiding our vision, dampening not just our hair but our spirit.

Perhaps Isaiah experienced this when he wrote Look down from heaven and regard us from your holy and glorious place! Where is your zealous care and your might, your surge of pity and your mercy? O Lord, hold not back, for you are father and mother, lord our redeemer.

No matter how deep your spiritual life, fog always brings some sense of confusion. It isn't that we do not trust. It is more that in our desire to serve, we find our role unclear. In our willingness to take the blame, we sometimes imagine the fog is our fault.

But psalm 40:8 tells us to know that in our waiting, we are heard. The psalmist prayers: I have waited, waited for the Lord, and he stooped toward me and heard my cry.

Surrounded by fog, we must not forget the gift of God. I recently experienced this gift, a moment when the Lord very much stooped toward me and heard my cry. It came in the form of a friend, whose conversation very much lifted my mind, soul and spirit. And though the fog did not lift, my spirit did.

Perhaps that is the lesson I am meant to learn. To appreciate the gift I might otherwise forget while I'm surging forward. Perhaps the fog is so I will take a moment to wait for the Lord. Or perhaps, I just need a friend to remind me of all of these things, so that despite the fog, I will not lose heart.

Going forward on the journey

Sometimes when I look back over my life, I wonder why I could not have taken the more "traditional" path: know what I want, pursue it, and then find contentment with what I get. This has hardly been my journey.

Instead, my pursuit has often left me wanting. I would stare at my achievement, and wonder why I did not find the satisfaction I expected. Reflection and time set me again on another pursuit, with much the same result. As I set out yet again, I cannot help but wonder, am I unique? Or are there others who also find that the first pursuit did not reveal the true desire of the heart?

Catherine of Siena tells us that, when we look back and see that life has been less than straightforward, there is a tendency to become discouraged. She writes we become frustrated with ourselves and abandon our spiritual practices, thinking God must not be pleased or satisfied with what we have been doing. That is the temptation, to yield to discouragement and stay with what one has.

But I believe that life is not meant to be straightforward, that we learn lessons only with reflection on the past. Then we decide how to make today's journey just a little bit better. Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee believes it is a matter of surrendering. He writes Love's union is stamped within the heart, and our own self is the only veil that separates us from this mystical secret. Once love has brought us Home, we realize the illusory nature of our ego; we come to know how we have always belonged to love--the ego, battered into surrender, melted down by longing, steps aside and allows us to glimpse this truth (p. 123).


Vision comes slowly.  I must continue my search, knowing that each surrender helps me tear away a little of the veil that separates me from the mystical secret in my heart. I must never give in to discouragement, but accept this for what it is, a life-long endeavor.

To stay true to my journey, I find it helpful to remember the words of psalm 18:1: I love you Lord, my strength.

Stay the pursuit. Only then will you come to the mystical secret of the heart.

 

Keeping the vision

A wonderful sermon yesterday challenged me to check my vision. The topic was the Magi and the star, Herold and the Infant. The message reminded me that the Magi and the King, according to the story in scripture, had the same knowledge. But each party responded in a very different way. The Magi wanted to find the Infant in order to give him gifts. The King wanted to find the Infant in order to take away his life.

The sermon got me thinking that we, too, look at life in a similar way: either with an attitude to give, or an attitude to take.

I think a lot has to do with the amount of fear we carry within ourselves. If we live with inner uncertainty, we live with fear of exposure, and will fight anything we think will cause us loss. All shadows will threaten. If we accept our broken condition and live with faith and trust, we will look through the shadows seeking to find the star of hope.

It is possible. Think of Viktor Frankl. Who could have endured the losses he endured? And yet he found meaning in his terrible ordeal. He writes, often it is just such an exceptionally difficult external situation which gives us the opportunity to grow spiritually beyond ourselves (p. 72). It is a matter of vision, looking beyond the situation at our feet.

There is a saying that life is what we make of it. I confess, I find that saying a little trite, dismissive of the pain of real human suffering. I would rather say, despite the sufferings we endure in life, we can look beyond and find the star of hope.

It depends on our vision.

Epiphany

The term has come to mean the dawning of a new light...when we see in a way that changes our lives.

Heather King writes that Christianity has at its center joy, but joy is born of brokenness, limitation, tension, paradox. The shepherds, who have never left their pasture; the wise men, who have traveled from afar.

To behold light means to see that paradox and not be scandalized. It means to know we are both seekers and the one found. It means being both afraid and unafraid.

The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom should I fear? we sing in psalm 27:1. We realize our courage only after we have tasted brokenness and bitterness. Light means more when we have known darkness. It is all part of our journey.

Accept the paradox called life. Then you may truly have a Happy Epiphany!

Feeling empty

I do not often admit to it, but today when trying to write a thought, I feel empty. No thoughts, no inspiration, no juice.

I suspect I am not the only person who has these days. There are some times when empty comes. And despite attempts to jump start thoughts, there are none.

I think that empty is good. Empty is a time to listen, instead of sharing. It is a time to check on being open, a time to stop. A time to reflect.

But how you can reflect when you are empty?

Simple. I am still. I stop trying to steer my journey and instead concentrate on surrender. Empty is good, because it reminds me that my journey is my journey. I often share the thoughts that I find helpful. Being empty helps me remember, not all thoughts are helpful to all. I have to accept that.

Surrender I think is the opposite to building. Sometimes when I fail to surrender to emptiness, I begin to build. But sometimes that building is not good building. I don't have to always build.

Surrender is a reminder of my frailty, my limits, my neediness. I am not god. I am a creature seeking Divinity.

Surrender is acting out this belief. It is letting God be God. It letting me be still.
 

Walking on the water: a New Year begins

A new beginning

A New Year begins, and for each one of us, a new challenge. Or not.

I repeat. For each one of us, a new challenge. Or not.

Remember when the gospel story of the disciples out on the sea of Galilee during a raging storm, and suddenly they see Jesus coming to them walking across the water? We tend to think of that as a nice little miracle, Jesus walking on water.

But in reality, it is not Jesus performing a miracle. It is Jesus showing us not to avoid the storm. If there was anywhere Jesus probably did NOT want to be, it was walking across the sea of Galilee during a raging storm, only to find that the disciples thought he was a ghost, and were more terrified of him then of the storm. But he went on.

That is the question I ask myself this 2012. What risks am I willing to take to reach my dream, to reach out to someone in need, to challenge my own self? Or do I stand back on shore, wanting safety?


How many wonderful things await us, but for fear of struggle, we stay back. We judge by what we think makes us happy instead of discerning the call that beckons us forth.

I am put in mind of something I read recently by Sy Safransky. He writes:  Years ago, I was trapped in a newspaper job I couldn't stand. Then I heard Graham Nash sing, "Make sure that the things you do keep us alive." The next day I walked to work, quit my job, and kept walking. Better to be a pilgrim without a destination, I figured, than to cross the wrong threshold every day.

Jesus walked on water into the storm. What am I willing to do? What am I willing to risk this New Year 2012? It may well tell the story of my true dreams.