A New Year's Thought

A New Year is about to begin. As I look back at this past year, I am reminded of my own growth stages. These occurred most when life proved more difficult.

This reminds me of the gospel story of the disciples out on the sea of Galilee during a raging storm, and suddenly they see Jesus coming towards them walking across the water. I've always thought of that as "a little miracle, Jesus walking on water."

But as I reflect back on my year, I see this story not just "Jesus performing a miracle." It is Jesus being where he did not want to be. If I think about it, the one place Jesus probably did not want to be that evening was in the midst of a raging storm on the Sea of Galilee. And yet, that is where he went, to meet up with his disciples, who were terrified because they thought he was a ghost. Talk about life not going as you might like....

During this past year, I have had my share of life "not going as you might like." Looking back, I can see how growth came from meeting the challenges of those times. And some of those times only came because of my choice to take a 'risk,' sort of like my own version of going out in the storm to "walk on water".

As I approach this new year, 2016, I continue to ask myself, what risks am I willing to take to reach my dream or to challenge my own self?

Do I walk into storms that I need to walk into?

Or do I stand on shore, convincing myself that it is better to be safe?

Unwrap the Bindings

I have noticed that spiritual people can have a tendency to over spiritualize everything in life, as though somehow every act came straight from the hand of God. I am not speaking of those who see the hand of God in events, but rather to those who exclude the human element of life, the human struggle, the human dimension. And when we do that, we forget the human effort needed to rise above human tendency.

Easter is just one sort of event. Christians all believe that Jesus rose from the dead, a day glorious and offering profound hope of immortality. What we often forget is, Jesus too, as a human being, had a choice. Jesus rose because he could follow through with his calling, he could let go of the past and move forward to his destiny, he could unwrap the bindings that held him and step forth into the light.

Think for a moment of what might have happened had Jesus held on to the pain and suffering he endured. What if Jesus could not let go of his suffering and humiliation? What if he had gotten "stuck" in the memory of what had happened and could not move past that?

It is unimaginable to think of Jesus stuck in death. And yet, that is how I sometimes live; stuck in a bad memory, in anger and resentment. Stuck in my bad luck, bad choices, unfortunate incidents.

What good is it to believe in resurrection, in eternal life, if I cannot rise above events here on earth? What good is it to hope for heaven when I live life as though in a tomb? For when I am stuck, I cannot hear the call to come forth. I am, spiritually stuck in death.

Jesus showed us the power of letting go when he stepped out of the tomb and into the light. He showed us the power of dropping our bindings and moving our sealed stone that keeps us imprisoned. He opened the sealed compartment of his tomb not by force, but by grace. Such is the power of letting go.

Jesus invites me to do the same. Easter is a reminder that eternal life starts here on earth, that rising begins with daily events, that each of us has a tomb requiring resurrection. Easter is a symbol for each one of us to come forth from the tomb of disappointments, disillusionment, judgements and resentments. I am called to live a resurrected life, to unwrap whatever binds me and holds me prisoner. I am called to grace, a grace that can perform powerful acts of God within my life, if I let go.

Let us each live resurrected, here and now, so that we witness to the power of believing.

A new way to celebrate Holy Week

Holy Week. A week of remembering, of solemn ceremonies, and of reflection and silence.

Only, not for me. Not this year.

Having lived the heavily ceremonied days of Holy Week in the monastery, I find it hard to think of these sacred days spent without being in church as one reflects and engages in the lessons and silence of services.

But I could not. My profession as a therapist on the road meant I was traveling both Holy Thursday and Good Friday. All day.

On Holy Thursday I thought: Well, if a client cancels, I'll take that hour to stop by a local church and spend the time in quiet prayer.

No one canceled.

So as I drove from home to home, and as I sat with client after client, I thought of the service at my church. I thought especially of the custom they have of the washing of the feet. It is done in silence, with the organ playing something appropriate, with everyone encouraged to come up and have their feet washed. I was moved the first time I went there because in the monastery, we all got our feet washed by the prioress. I had never seen it done in the local church. I was thrilled to be able to participate.

As I sat there with clients with this memory in the back of my mind, I yearned to be in a different place, in the church, getting my feet washed, smelling the incense, hearing the bells, seeing the candles.

And then I thought, but I am "washing feet" by listening to one client after another, offering the towel of empathy and compassion. That thought sustained me as I drove from house to house, missing the "ceremonies" of that day and instead living it out in real life.

On Good Friday, I had to schedule in two more clients, giving me ten total. It would be a long day.

I had been nourished on Thursday by being mindful, so I maintained the attitude of service,  and let my work with clients be my Stations of the Cross, my remembrance of the Passion, and my silent reflection.

I sat with a mom who had lost her son. She was struggling. As I sat next to her, her tears flowing, I was reminded of Mother Mary standing at the foot of the cross as she gave Jesus back to the Father. I was reminded of how we all have our piece of the Passion.

I am going to the Holy Vigil service. I will be in a church, enjoying the sight of the new fire, listening to the singing of the chant, smelling the incense and enjoying the services wholly. I will be enjoying age old traditions and ceremonies as I join in the celebration of the Easter mystery.

But I know now, I can celebrate these things, even if I am not in the church. I can celebrate it by my own awareness. I can celebrate it as I remember.

Good Friday Way of the Cross

Good Friday. A time for reflection. A powerful thought comes from what is termed by some as "The Way of the Cross" meaning Jesus walk from Jerusalem to the Mount of Calvery.

When I stop to reflect, I can see that I too have my own "Way of the Cross" journey. It comes when I find that my path, similar to a walk in the woods, gets muddy, and I get my feet dirty. It is when I find I cannot see the sun, or when the beauty around me ceases to amaze and I find myself pretty much alone.

I cannot image anyone who hasn't felt these emotions at some point on their spiritual journey. I believe the secret for weathering such times comes from remembering the truths that I  held when things were good. If I believe in something and it is true, going through a "muddy feet" period in my life does not make that truth any less real. It is during these times of less sun and less amazement that I have a chance to examine not just what I believe, but why. And sometimes the why is more revealing than I like to admit.

Do I believe because I love? Or do I believe because I fear hell, or damnation, or whatever happens to bad people? Is my trust in God just hope for security, that nothing bad will happen, or do I trust "even though I should walk in the valley of death"? Do I practice spirituality to feel good? Or do I believe because I have discovered?

All of these questions become clear during times of "muddy feet". Because, if my spirituality is for myself, then I will abandon it in times of stress and doubt and pain. But if I am in it for the Other, namely, for the Divine Being I do not yet know, then I will continue my walk, because I will know this too is part of the journey. All paths have mud puddles in them. And my spiritual walk is no different.

This is the "Way of the Cross": my walk that continues despite struggle.

Life is not a tragedy

Life is not a tragedy, writes L Giussani. Tragedy is what makes everything amount to nothing. Yes, life is a drama. It is dramatic because it is the relationship between our I and the You of God, our I that must follow the steps which God indicates. (343)

If only we could remember that when we have thoughts of defeat, worthlessness, and loss; when we feel that what I am going through, my disappointments, my discouragement, my failures makes life amount to nothing.

No better reflection could prepare us for Holy Week. Who, more than anyone, could have thought this way? Jesus. Three years of training his disciples, and they run when he needs them most. Three years of drawing unimaginable crowds, and they turn on him in his time of need. All the preparation, all the prophecies about Jesus and his destiny come to naught. And Jesus prays, "Father, remove this cup from me!" 

But God did not. And Jesus had to experience defeat, betrayal, isolation, public humiliation and death.

And we celebrate this week with great ceremony. Why? Because life is not a tragedy. For Jesus, all the trials of this week did not make him forget the relationship between our I and the You of God. It is Jesus going through the suffering of Holy Week that teaches us the value to be found in such things.

Tragedy is what makes everything amount to nothing. Let me not think in those terms. Let me rather believe I have something more, that defeat is only defeat if I forget the I and the You of God.

Remembering with tears....

The altar of the monastery where I once lived

I knelt down on the cold hard floor, leaning up against the back of the pew. Just the act of kneeling brought back memories, memories of the many holy weeks I spent in the monastery. In the silence that filled the church, with the organ quietly playing the meditation hymn, the past seemed very present. I thought about that past. I remembered what it felt like. And the tears came. I did nothing to stop them.

It was how I remembered.

You would have to know how Holy Week is kept in a monastery, and the impact it has upon the heart and soul to understand my emotion. Monastic custom required more silence than usual, a stricter fast, and many more prayers. These were not just acts....they were very consciously tied in with the passion account, the acts of remembering the story of Jesus and his suffering and death.

What I remember most was the silence. We did not speak at all those last days of Holy Week. The bells, too, were silenced, as was the organ. Only the bare chant remained, one of minor cords and sorrowful tones. All was simple. All was very plain.  It made the gospel come alive to the heart and soul.

I once thought I could never leave the monastery because, whatever else that happened, Holy Week ceremonies and customs were too precious to ever give up.

But I did give them up.

And so I wept on Sunday. I did not weep because I was sad. I wept because of the beauty of what I remembered.

A walk with the moon

Walking early this morning, the sight of the moon partially hidden by clouds caught my fancy. I was thinking about monasteries, and how when the boom of applicants in the 50s was replaced by scarcity of applicants in the 60s through to today, life changed inside the monastery. Thinking of the influx of the 50s, I realized that it was sparked by the recent war, with death and suffering very present to the minds of the young. In the face of such thoughts, many looked for something deeper, more lasting, more eternal.

Why do we have to face death and suffering before we make God a serious part of our daily lives? For a death sentence strikes fear to those of us who think little of the Divine Being. And learning about God now brings peace and joy.

My thoughts go to a deathbed I witnessed in the monastery, where the rather young sister was dying of cancer. Death was not fearful for her. She greeted it with a joy so profound and a peace so deep it is hard to describe. This attitude affected me very much, as I was one of her caregivers, and saw her suffering, her quick decline, and her willingness to accept it all. She had made God her friend, and so she could welcome death because she believed she was going to someone she knew, someone she had thought about often.

We too should develop a friendship with the Divine, and not wait for suffering or death to force the issue.

Which brings me back to my walk this morning. Seeing the moon shining through the clouds, it occurred to me that living without an awareness of spiritual things is like walking in the moonlight. We can see, but in a dim way. Faith has always been called a light, a light so steady that no suffering or death can dim it. More importantly, there is so much joy to be had in building a spiritual relationship with the Divine it is a pity we fail to seek it while life is going well.

Let's not wait for death to force spirituality upon us. Let us develop a relationship now, in the fullness of health. Divinity is waiting for us.

Living in Fog

Photo by Jerry Gracey, Jr.

Security. It is something we all seek. Yet, at the same time, it can be a trap. Security can deceive us into staying when we should leave, and accepting when we should question. Security can tell us to put down roots when we should be backpacking. Security can keep us banging our heads against a closed door when there is an open door behind us, if we would just turn around.

I know. Because I let security keep me in my place, banging my head against the door that was obviously closed to me, willing it to open. I lacked the courage to turn around and step out. I lacked because I had been trained to believe faithfulness required me to continue banging my head. It took time before I learned to risk all by turning around and stepping out into the unknown.

And yet, it was only when I risked all, when I stepped out into the unknown, that I began to live. In that risky and unknown place, I found door after door, which opened and opened and opened. And when a door remained closed, I learned to turn around again, and seek elsewhere. I learned truth can stand the test of questioning; that some sayings are mere platitudes and need to be discarded; that what I was taught to believe is different from what I learn to believe. I came to realize that God is big, big enough to let me make my own mistakes. That God is not hard on me….I am the one who is hard on myself. God invites me to question, to turn around, to seek and seek and seek until I find.

Somewhere I read that when we forget we are a pilgrim, we forget what faith is all about. I believe that now. I believe that because I have learned the gift that comes with living in the fog, with questioning, with taking risks. Sometimes we need that fog. We need it in order to grow and move forward.

Not set in stone

As beautiful as this is, it will not grow.

Deuteronomy 5:8 instructs You shall not make for yourself any graven image. We are prone to interpret that as false gods, the kind the early Israelites made and set up before themselves and worshiped. 

But is that the true meaning of Deuteronomy 5:8?

I think not. I think it is telling us, don't take an incident, an action, a thought or a value and hold on to it as though it alone is true. Because that is carving it in stone. And life is not like that.

That is death.

Life is change. Life is learning. Life is journey.

I think that is one of the many reasons why we are urged to forgive. Because to refuse to forgive is in effect saying that that one action, that one incident, is carved into my memory. I will never let that memory go. I will always look at that person in light of that one action. And that too is death.

We do the same with opinions. We get an opinion, and then we hold on to it, and refuse to see some other value or way of looking at it. In effect, we have carved that opinion into stone and then worshiped our ideal as the only one true.

And any graven image is a dead image.

To refuse to carve an image in stone is to honor life.

I have heard it said that 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. 

And so, the same can be said of setting ideas, memories, or events in stone. It is the opposite of growth, enlightenment, and transformation.

And scripture says, Jesus came that we might have life, a life that grows, matures, and changes.

The question of evil

The question 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?

Many have tried to answer this question. Theologians will speak about free will and original sin. Others will blame the power of evil and darkness. And some maintain it is all an illusion. But when you are the one struggling, these answers do not speak to the heart and soul.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross 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 pain away or make it good is to cheapen human suffering. To acknowledge it, to struggle and rise from the depths, that takes a strong and resolute soul. We have seen individuals who have endured much, even to the depths of despair, but have come out radiant and enlightened. They are powerful souls because they have faced suffering and overcome it. Their experience has taught them the power of compassion and encouragement.

Beautiful people do not just happen.  

They have let pain become vehicles of transformation.

Beautiful people do not just happen.

I need to remember this.