The days are darker now, the nights longer. Often there's fog, mist and gloom. Conversations devoted to lamentation are part this time of the year, when the hours of summer sun seem so far away. It depresses lots of folks.
Usually I am quiet when conversations like that are going on since I can't join in with the complaining. The truth is that I love this time of the year. I'm very fond of dark, gloomy afternoons. I really enjoy the colors of winter, after the leaves are gone; the very subtle shades of gray and brown and dark green. Something in my soul wakes up when the days get shorter and the light gets dimmer. I've tried sharing my enthusiasm for cold, dim November afternoons, but you know what it's like when you're having a good session of grouchy conversation with friends and someone tries to be upbeat. Being quiet is the better part of wisdom at those times.
I can't trace my love of dim light to any one thing or event. I know that a dark afternoon with an easy chair and a lamp beside it always seems like an invitation to me: an invitation to read a really good novel or something that will take some concentration. And I have such good memories of childhood Saturday afternoons when my father listened to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio and my brother and I played on the living room floor with Lincoln Logs or our Erector Set.
(Those who are as ancient as I may know what I'm referring to when I say that we had an Atwater Kent console radio which was regarded as being very fine for "good music", and good music was one of my father's great joys, and one that he passed on to me.)
Whatever its root cause may be, I have a fondness for winter's darkness. Coming out of Compline at this time of the year is a treat for me. The dark at the end of the day, the Great Silence which is so thick it could be cut if only I could find the right knife, dim hallways, far away lights winking on the river, all seem very welcoming to me. I often go out to our porch just to sit for a few minutes and wait for the express train from New York to Albany which races past at a brisk pace, or for the passing lights of planes or artificial satellites, while the constellation Orion presides over the winter stars. Even when it's cold, I go often go out. I guess my nice layer of fat provides good insulation. Then there's my room, with the light over the bed and a candle in the corner. It seems so welcoming, so peaceful, so enfolding.
Best of all is prayer at night. I really don't have to start praying, prayer is just there. Sometimes I have to look for it to see how I can tune in to it, but it doesn't seem to be anything that I "do". It's part of the reality of the night and if I have to look, what I'm looking for is simply a way to get into what's there. But more and more it's just there, and what I need to do is turn my attention to it and settle in. I've written before here of the sense of fulfillment that I had in the months that I lived with a community that got up for prayer at 2:00 a.m. That was 30 years ago, and I still treasure those nights and I seek those times when I'm able to do it now and then. There have always been religious orders that included middle of the night prayer in their schedules.
Some years ago I discovered a society in England composed of people who pray at night. Some of them get up to pray an Office, some just turn their minds to God when they wake up. Some pray on the way to the bathroom and back. I will do the Jesus Prayer on my beads for a while. I don't know whether the society still exists or not, and I can't find them on the Internet. The one person I know who was a member has had a stroke and no longer speaks, so I won't find out from her. But having some support in this endeavor isn't a bad idea and I wish I was in touch with them, if they still exist.
That's my time, and my way. Maybe prayer finds you on sunny afternoons at the beach, or whenever. There are times when all of us suddenly awake to the reality of it. Prayer really isn't so much something that we do as it is awakening to the reality of the world and ourselves. Prayer is a part of who we are and of the world we live in. We discover our way to it as we go along, just by practicing and seeing what happens. Monks sing Psalms day and night. Some people find prayer awakening when they hear a siren. Some people find that level of their being when they are in the middle of a crowd of strangers. Whatever. The times and places are unique to each of us. The important part of it is discovering what our times are and then showing up.
And it does change things.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
At Night By the River
Several weeks ago I blogged about being called into our Church one night when I was very tired and thought I was too tired to go. Well, it happened again this week, in a rather different way. There seem to be two factors at work in these summonses - night/dark, and tiredness.
We've all been worn out this week. The week before was glorious: 2 celebrations of the 125th anniversary of our founding, a profession of life vows, a really productive meeting of our Council. It was really good, but it was also a major disruption for people who live by a schedule, as we do, and it took all our energy. Not only that, but we started this week in the Guesthouse earlier than we usually do, and we had to hit the ground running because we had a group of about 40 people from the Diocesan Staff of the Diocese of New York. It was a great group, and from what we hear they had a wonderful time, but......
So we've been going through the week, each of us looking for the time or the place for some recovery, some respite.
This time it was after Compline one evening early in the week. I always love the sense of quiet that comes over our place after Compline. It almost has its own texture. And as I was headed for my room and savoring the evening silence there came again the sense of an intuitive invitation, this time to come outside. And this time I wasn't quite so worn out as the last time so my initial resistance wasn't awakened. I just turned down the hall and went outside.
When I got there I did the thing that seemed most natural: I went to the edge of the little bluff that our buildings sit on and looked out over the river. This is what I do every night from the window of my room, so it seemed like the thing to do. And I stood and looked.
Then I thought about my regular nightly exercise of praying for the people whose lights we can see across the river. I've done this for many years and it's part of my bed-time routine. But here's where my resistance came into play. Doing even that simple prayer seemed like it would take more energy that I had. It just didn't seem right somehow, and I'm in the process of learning that at times like this it's best if I follow the promptings that got me to this place. So I just stopped making any effort and looked at the river and waited.
The first thing that happened was a puff of wind from the cold front that was moving thought tousled my hair. It was just like someone messing my hair with their fingers, sort of saying: "Hi." "Hi", I said back. Then I waited.
Then I heard the sound of the river. Actually the river makes layers of sound. When it's moving there is always a sort of grumble; a low sound just about at the threshold of what can be heard, the sound of millions of gallons of water flowing. And because there was a cold front coming through and a fair amount of wind was blowing I could hear the noise of the wind and the sound it makes when the wind hits the surface of the river and then the sound of the waves stirred up by the wind. It was a restless, high sound, the sound of ceaseless energy.
Then I waited again. And I became aware of the lights across the river - lights from houses that are now beginning to be visible again since the leaves are dropping from the trees, and street lights and floodlights on the Vanderbilt Mansion and lights in the park land around it, and a couple of lights down by the river shore, and over all of it, the winking of the laser-like beams from the radio towers on the hills back from the river.
I watched all of those lights, just letting the sight of it sink in and became vaguely conscious of the people and the life that each of them represented. Then the next thing was spotting a winking light just above the horizon that was moving very slowly; a plane, so far away that there was no sound connected to it, probably out over the ocean, which is 80 or 100 miles away to our southeast. As it crept slowly along, so far away, I thought about the 200 or 300 people on board and wondered where they had come from and where they were going. Many of the planes that cross the North Atlantic pass this way, so there is always much to guess about when you see their contrails - so many dreams and expectations and lives.
Then the smell of the night came to me - damp, moist, fresh, overlaid with the smell of fallen wet leaves. This is unusual. I don't have much of a sense of smell and never have had, so I tend not to relate to the natural world around me by its smells. This was an extra little gift. And then another little gift, the feeling of the old, warm, moist air mingling with the cooler dried air being pushed in. I'm not sure I've ever been so aware of a cold front coming through and sweeping the old air out before it. And I saw the textures of the clouds, low and thick, sweeping along before the wind.
This gradually melded into a sense of the river itself, this great conduit of life that has flowed back and forth between these shores for a couple of million years or so. The Hudson is actually an estuary from New York to Albany, but it is so nicely river-shaped that no one thinks of it as anything else. The Esopus People who lived here before the Europeans came called it "The River that Flows Both Ways" and their story was that they originally lived to the West and were told by a prophet that they should move and should travel East until they found a river that flowed in both directions. And we are, in some ways, their heirs.
And then, slowly and gently, I became aware at last of the unity of all who live here or who have ever lived here - those represented by the lights across on the other shore, and those on the plane and those who came before electricity was invented, and those who lived here before people were here at all and those who live in the river and on its shores and in the air above. The great unity that joins us all became very evident to me.
This is one of the places to which the spiritual path is said to lead - to the knowledge of our unity with each other and with all life and with the earth and with God. I stood and felt that oneness.
Then I realized I was hungry and went to get a bed-time snack of a nice trail mix that I have that consists of some dried fruits and some raw nuts and some seeds. It seemed like the right food for the right time.
I tell this story partly as an account of one monk's experiences in the living of his life in this place, and partly just to say that I don't think that what I experience is particularly unique. I think that God calls out to us with the experience of unity pretty much all the time, 24/7. We just sense that call rarely. Only when the veil that is constructed by our minds and kept in place by the busyness of our lives is drawn aside for a bit do we let the reality of that call be heard. But it's there. It's always there - always. We just need to learn to listen. And how you do that is particular to your own circumstances and the conditions of your own life. But the testimony of the holy women and men of the ages is that we are drawn to this realization and we need to open to it to truly know who we are and where we are going.
We've all been worn out this week. The week before was glorious: 2 celebrations of the 125th anniversary of our founding, a profession of life vows, a really productive meeting of our Council. It was really good, but it was also a major disruption for people who live by a schedule, as we do, and it took all our energy. Not only that, but we started this week in the Guesthouse earlier than we usually do, and we had to hit the ground running because we had a group of about 40 people from the Diocesan Staff of the Diocese of New York. It was a great group, and from what we hear they had a wonderful time, but......
So we've been going through the week, each of us looking for the time or the place for some recovery, some respite.
This time it was after Compline one evening early in the week. I always love the sense of quiet that comes over our place after Compline. It almost has its own texture. And as I was headed for my room and savoring the evening silence there came again the sense of an intuitive invitation, this time to come outside. And this time I wasn't quite so worn out as the last time so my initial resistance wasn't awakened. I just turned down the hall and went outside.
When I got there I did the thing that seemed most natural: I went to the edge of the little bluff that our buildings sit on and looked out over the river. This is what I do every night from the window of my room, so it seemed like the thing to do. And I stood and looked.
Then I thought about my regular nightly exercise of praying for the people whose lights we can see across the river. I've done this for many years and it's part of my bed-time routine. But here's where my resistance came into play. Doing even that simple prayer seemed like it would take more energy that I had. It just didn't seem right somehow, and I'm in the process of learning that at times like this it's best if I follow the promptings that got me to this place. So I just stopped making any effort and looked at the river and waited.
The first thing that happened was a puff of wind from the cold front that was moving thought tousled my hair. It was just like someone messing my hair with their fingers, sort of saying: "Hi." "Hi", I said back. Then I waited.
Then I heard the sound of the river. Actually the river makes layers of sound. When it's moving there is always a sort of grumble; a low sound just about at the threshold of what can be heard, the sound of millions of gallons of water flowing. And because there was a cold front coming through and a fair amount of wind was blowing I could hear the noise of the wind and the sound it makes when the wind hits the surface of the river and then the sound of the waves stirred up by the wind. It was a restless, high sound, the sound of ceaseless energy.
Then I waited again. And I became aware of the lights across the river - lights from houses that are now beginning to be visible again since the leaves are dropping from the trees, and street lights and floodlights on the Vanderbilt Mansion and lights in the park land around it, and a couple of lights down by the river shore, and over all of it, the winking of the laser-like beams from the radio towers on the hills back from the river.
I watched all of those lights, just letting the sight of it sink in and became vaguely conscious of the people and the life that each of them represented. Then the next thing was spotting a winking light just above the horizon that was moving very slowly; a plane, so far away that there was no sound connected to it, probably out over the ocean, which is 80 or 100 miles away to our southeast. As it crept slowly along, so far away, I thought about the 200 or 300 people on board and wondered where they had come from and where they were going. Many of the planes that cross the North Atlantic pass this way, so there is always much to guess about when you see their contrails - so many dreams and expectations and lives.
Then the smell of the night came to me - damp, moist, fresh, overlaid with the smell of fallen wet leaves. This is unusual. I don't have much of a sense of smell and never have had, so I tend not to relate to the natural world around me by its smells. This was an extra little gift. And then another little gift, the feeling of the old, warm, moist air mingling with the cooler dried air being pushed in. I'm not sure I've ever been so aware of a cold front coming through and sweeping the old air out before it. And I saw the textures of the clouds, low and thick, sweeping along before the wind.
This gradually melded into a sense of the river itself, this great conduit of life that has flowed back and forth between these shores for a couple of million years or so. The Hudson is actually an estuary from New York to Albany, but it is so nicely river-shaped that no one thinks of it as anything else. The Esopus People who lived here before the Europeans came called it "The River that Flows Both Ways" and their story was that they originally lived to the West and were told by a prophet that they should move and should travel East until they found a river that flowed in both directions. And we are, in some ways, their heirs.
And then, slowly and gently, I became aware at last of the unity of all who live here or who have ever lived here - those represented by the lights across on the other shore, and those on the plane and those who came before electricity was invented, and those who lived here before people were here at all and those who live in the river and on its shores and in the air above. The great unity that joins us all became very evident to me.
This is one of the places to which the spiritual path is said to lead - to the knowledge of our unity with each other and with all life and with the earth and with God. I stood and felt that oneness.
Then I realized I was hungry and went to get a bed-time snack of a nice trail mix that I have that consists of some dried fruits and some raw nuts and some seeds. It seemed like the right food for the right time.
I tell this story partly as an account of one monk's experiences in the living of his life in this place, and partly just to say that I don't think that what I experience is particularly unique. I think that God calls out to us with the experience of unity pretty much all the time, 24/7. We just sense that call rarely. Only when the veil that is constructed by our minds and kept in place by the busyness of our lives is drawn aside for a bit do we let the reality of that call be heard. But it's there. It's always there - always. We just need to learn to listen. And how you do that is particular to your own circumstances and the conditions of your own life. But the testimony of the holy women and men of the ages is that we are drawn to this realization and we need to open to it to truly know who we are and where we are going.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Celebration Continues
I'm late this week because of all of the events that have been part of the past eight days. Yesterday we had our noon meal early and then got into cars as fast as we could and went to New York City to the Church of St Luke in the Fields, for the second of our celebrations of our 125th anniversary. St Luke's is not too many blocks from the neighborhood in which the Order of the Holy Cross was founded. The parish in which we worked in the 1880's was called Holy Cross Church, and it was from that Church that we took our name.
Their particular ministry was to German immigrants who were at the bottom of the social scale at the time, and for whose benefit Fr Huntington, our founder, began the exercise of the social ministry for which he became so famous in later years. Holy Cross Church has been gone for a long, long time, but we have a long history of connection with St Luke's, and presently the parish sends a large number of groups to our Guesthouse each year and the parish clergy are frequently here for their own retreats, so it was really right for our celebration of 125 years since the Order's founding.
The West Park community was joined by Br David Hoopes and Br Carl Sword who are both resident and ministering in the City, so there was a nice group of us to sing Vespers of our Founder, which has as its antiphons quotations from the Rule Fr Huntington wrote for us. The Office climaxes with the antiphon for the Magnificat which is comprised of our Founder's last words at the time of his death in the 1930's: "Ask them to forgive me; tell them I forgive them; I want them to have joy; I will always intercede." It was a wonderful touch that these words were reported to us at the time by the Order's dear friend Fr Schleuter who was then the Rector of St Luke's Parish.
It was a perfect time for Vespers. It was daylight when we started, and as the Office proceeded the outside light got darker and darker and more of the light came from twinkling lights on the chandeliers which light the inside of the Church. The acoustics of St Luke's are good, but very different from the Monastery Church, but we rose to the occasion and chanted well. It was a very warm afternoon for November and the doors of the Church were open and an interesting number of people came from the street as the service went on, to look through the back door or to come in for a few minutes. It was not all that different from the occasion in 1884 which we were commemorating when our Founder made his vows and became the first member of the first American men's religious order in the Episcopal Church.
An address was given by Dr Esther de Waal, the renowned author, who is an old friend of Holy Cross and a Companion of our Order. She put our celebration in the context of famous Benedictines of the past, such as Aelred and Dunstan, and talked of Benedict himself and his longing for God. It was unfortunate that, from our seats in the sanctuary of the Church, the reverberation of the sound system off the walls kept us from understanding large parts of the talk. But her obvious involvement with her material, and her echoing of the longing for the divine that characterizes the monastic vocation, were so clear that I found myself carried into that longing and into the love that those who seek God in prayer always hope to find.
A nice reception finished the afternoon off very well, and also provided some astonishment to the caterer who said: "You people actually talk to each other!" He does a lot of New York events, and apparently seeing those who attended actually enjoying themselves and communicating with each other was something of a curiosity in his experience. After that several of us had a relaxed dinner with our brother Carl in the City, and then made our way home, arriving not far before midnight.
And I haven't yet mentioned the other event of our week of celebration and that was the Profession of Life Vows by our brother Bernard Delcourt which took place on Wednesday. It was a wonderful, wonderful occasion which was more than anything an explosion of joy. Our Monastery Church was packed for the event, and Bernard's brother and his family had come from Belgium for the service.
There are a good many moving moments in a profession liturgy, but this time I think that the two things that most people have mentioned were the chanting of the hymn "Come, Holy Spirit" with the congregation kneeling and Br Bernard lying prostrate on the sanctuary floor, and the chant which Bernard and the Community exchanged with each other, repeating three times: "Receive me, Lord, as you have promised, and let me live; and do not disappoint me in my hope."
Nor should I omit to mention the moment when Bernard knelt to make his profession, promising Stability, Fidelity to Monastic Life and Obedience for the rest of his life, and then signed the profession, which he had written out in his own hand, and rose to put it on the altar.
And then, of course, this being Holy Cross, we all went to the refectory for one of our chef Edward's magnificent spreads, which included an enormous Belgian Blue Cheese - which turns our to be both more mellow and more complex that the French blues that we are used to. (Bernard said afterward that he didn't know that there was a Belgian blue cheese - though he knows the town where it is made).
That, together with a 3 day long meeting of the Order's Council, of which I am currently a member, filled out a memorable and exhausting week. The house was very quiet today. We are all hoping for a gradual return to normal. Meanwhile we are savoring all that we have celebrated in the past 8 days.
Their particular ministry was to German immigrants who were at the bottom of the social scale at the time, and for whose benefit Fr Huntington, our founder, began the exercise of the social ministry for which he became so famous in later years. Holy Cross Church has been gone for a long, long time, but we have a long history of connection with St Luke's, and presently the parish sends a large number of groups to our Guesthouse each year and the parish clergy are frequently here for their own retreats, so it was really right for our celebration of 125 years since the Order's founding.
The West Park community was joined by Br David Hoopes and Br Carl Sword who are both resident and ministering in the City, so there was a nice group of us to sing Vespers of our Founder, which has as its antiphons quotations from the Rule Fr Huntington wrote for us. The Office climaxes with the antiphon for the Magnificat which is comprised of our Founder's last words at the time of his death in the 1930's: "Ask them to forgive me; tell them I forgive them; I want them to have joy; I will always intercede." It was a wonderful touch that these words were reported to us at the time by the Order's dear friend Fr Schleuter who was then the Rector of St Luke's Parish.
It was a perfect time for Vespers. It was daylight when we started, and as the Office proceeded the outside light got darker and darker and more of the light came from twinkling lights on the chandeliers which light the inside of the Church. The acoustics of St Luke's are good, but very different from the Monastery Church, but we rose to the occasion and chanted well. It was a very warm afternoon for November and the doors of the Church were open and an interesting number of people came from the street as the service went on, to look through the back door or to come in for a few minutes. It was not all that different from the occasion in 1884 which we were commemorating when our Founder made his vows and became the first member of the first American men's religious order in the Episcopal Church.
An address was given by Dr Esther de Waal, the renowned author, who is an old friend of Holy Cross and a Companion of our Order. She put our celebration in the context of famous Benedictines of the past, such as Aelred and Dunstan, and talked of Benedict himself and his longing for God. It was unfortunate that, from our seats in the sanctuary of the Church, the reverberation of the sound system off the walls kept us from understanding large parts of the talk. But her obvious involvement with her material, and her echoing of the longing for the divine that characterizes the monastic vocation, were so clear that I found myself carried into that longing and into the love that those who seek God in prayer always hope to find.
A nice reception finished the afternoon off very well, and also provided some astonishment to the caterer who said: "You people actually talk to each other!" He does a lot of New York events, and apparently seeing those who attended actually enjoying themselves and communicating with each other was something of a curiosity in his experience. After that several of us had a relaxed dinner with our brother Carl in the City, and then made our way home, arriving not far before midnight.
And I haven't yet mentioned the other event of our week of celebration and that was the Profession of Life Vows by our brother Bernard Delcourt which took place on Wednesday. It was a wonderful, wonderful occasion which was more than anything an explosion of joy. Our Monastery Church was packed for the event, and Bernard's brother and his family had come from Belgium for the service.
There are a good many moving moments in a profession liturgy, but this time I think that the two things that most people have mentioned were the chanting of the hymn "Come, Holy Spirit" with the congregation kneeling and Br Bernard lying prostrate on the sanctuary floor, and the chant which Bernard and the Community exchanged with each other, repeating three times: "Receive me, Lord, as you have promised, and let me live; and do not disappoint me in my hope."
Nor should I omit to mention the moment when Bernard knelt to make his profession, promising Stability, Fidelity to Monastic Life and Obedience for the rest of his life, and then signed the profession, which he had written out in his own hand, and rose to put it on the altar.
And then, of course, this being Holy Cross, we all went to the refectory for one of our chef Edward's magnificent spreads, which included an enormous Belgian Blue Cheese - which turns our to be both more mellow and more complex that the French blues that we are used to. (Bernard said afterward that he didn't know that there was a Belgian blue cheese - though he knows the town where it is made).
That, together with a 3 day long meeting of the Order's Council, of which I am currently a member, filled out a memorable and exhausting week. The house was very quiet today. We are all hoping for a gradual return to normal. Meanwhile we are savoring all that we have celebrated in the past 8 days.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
How Do You Celebrate When You're 125?
You don't get a chance to celebrate being 125 years old very often. But this month the Order of the Holy Cross is 125. Fr James Otis Sargent Huntington OHC made his profession of vows on the 25th of November a century and a quarter ago, and of course we had to celebrate - a more modest celebration, certainly, than our centennial celebration 25 years ago, but some event was clearly called for.
So this afternoon we had the first of the events, and it was a Solemn Vespers of All Saints Day together with the Dedicatory Recital of the new organ in the Monastery Church.
As it turned out it was a truly marvelous occasion. Br Scott designed an interesting and imaginative service which combined the celebration of Vespers with the recital. Vespers and the organ pieces were interwoven with each other. There were two very familiar All Saints hymns at the beginning and the end of the service. Then the organ pieces were placed between the singing of the Psalms and the Magnificat and the reading of the scripture lesson. Our chant harmonized beautifully with the organ music, which was both stimulating and reflective. I've never seen anything quite like it - the closest thing I can think of is a service of Lessons and Carols which you sometimes see around Christmas, but this service had a well thought-out shape and a real feeling of both movement and unity.
The organist was Erich Borden, who is the brother of our own Br Scott Borden. Their mother, Jane, gave the beautiful Pipe Facade which is high on the south wall of the Church and encloses the speakers of the organ. The organ itself is a digital instrument made by the Rogers Company. It was given by our dear friend Dr Lalitha Manoharan, who was close to us for many years and now after a long time in this country is again living near her family in India. The organ is an instrument of extraordinary flexibility and wonderful tone. It sounds splendid in our church, certainly much richer than the instrument that it replaced.
The music that Erich selected was entirely modern, and included works by Sigrid Karg-Elert, Jehan Alain and Daniel Pinkham, all well-known composers of modern organ music. The pieces were carefully chosen to display the breadth of interpretation of which our new organ is capable, and they were not only lovely but quite interesting as well. There were some breathtakingly rich moments in the pieces and some amusing ones as well - as in the Pinkham "The wind from the West", which is Movement IV of his piece "The Four Winds." You could hear the locusts being cast into the Red Sea from the passage in Exodus 10 that was the inspiration for the movement.
One of the great advantages of a digital instrument is that the console is movable. For this occasion we put it at the head of our choir, positioned so that the keyboard faced the congregation. This gave everyone a full view of the instrument and they got to see how Erich managed the controls and what his playing technique looked like, which is not something you usually get to see at an organ concert. It also gave anyone who was interested an opportunity to come up afterward and inspect the console - several people were obviously very interested in walking all the way around it - and Erich stayed for a long time answering people's questions and talking with them about the concert and about the organ.
We finished the afternoon with a reception, Holy Cross style, which featured our chef Edward's platter of meats and cheeses and luscious home-made brownies by Lori, our Guest House Administrator. It was one of the nicest receptions I can recall. The group was a manageable size, so that it was possible to have a real relaxing social time, and that is indicated by the length of time that people stayed. We were all obviously enjoying the time with each other and no one felt rushed to go.
All in all it was quite an afternoon. What better way would there be to celebrate being 125? Creative liturgy, marvelous music and good food with good friends. A very Holy Cross sort of celebration, and a small example of why on this evening I am feeling so content and happy and so proud of my community.
So this afternoon we had the first of the events, and it was a Solemn Vespers of All Saints Day together with the Dedicatory Recital of the new organ in the Monastery Church.
As it turned out it was a truly marvelous occasion. Br Scott designed an interesting and imaginative service which combined the celebration of Vespers with the recital. Vespers and the organ pieces were interwoven with each other. There were two very familiar All Saints hymns at the beginning and the end of the service. Then the organ pieces were placed between the singing of the Psalms and the Magnificat and the reading of the scripture lesson. Our chant harmonized beautifully with the organ music, which was both stimulating and reflective. I've never seen anything quite like it - the closest thing I can think of is a service of Lessons and Carols which you sometimes see around Christmas, but this service had a well thought-out shape and a real feeling of both movement and unity.
The organist was Erich Borden, who is the brother of our own Br Scott Borden. Their mother, Jane, gave the beautiful Pipe Facade which is high on the south wall of the Church and encloses the speakers of the organ. The organ itself is a digital instrument made by the Rogers Company. It was given by our dear friend Dr Lalitha Manoharan, who was close to us for many years and now after a long time in this country is again living near her family in India. The organ is an instrument of extraordinary flexibility and wonderful tone. It sounds splendid in our church, certainly much richer than the instrument that it replaced.
The music that Erich selected was entirely modern, and included works by Sigrid Karg-Elert, Jehan Alain and Daniel Pinkham, all well-known composers of modern organ music. The pieces were carefully chosen to display the breadth of interpretation of which our new organ is capable, and they were not only lovely but quite interesting as well. There were some breathtakingly rich moments in the pieces and some amusing ones as well - as in the Pinkham "The wind from the West", which is Movement IV of his piece "The Four Winds." You could hear the locusts being cast into the Red Sea from the passage in Exodus 10 that was the inspiration for the movement.
One of the great advantages of a digital instrument is that the console is movable. For this occasion we put it at the head of our choir, positioned so that the keyboard faced the congregation. This gave everyone a full view of the instrument and they got to see how Erich managed the controls and what his playing technique looked like, which is not something you usually get to see at an organ concert. It also gave anyone who was interested an opportunity to come up afterward and inspect the console - several people were obviously very interested in walking all the way around it - and Erich stayed for a long time answering people's questions and talking with them about the concert and about the organ.
We finished the afternoon with a reception, Holy Cross style, which featured our chef Edward's platter of meats and cheeses and luscious home-made brownies by Lori, our Guest House Administrator. It was one of the nicest receptions I can recall. The group was a manageable size, so that it was possible to have a real relaxing social time, and that is indicated by the length of time that people stayed. We were all obviously enjoying the time with each other and no one felt rushed to go.
All in all it was quite an afternoon. What better way would there be to celebrate being 125? Creative liturgy, marvelous music and good food with good friends. A very Holy Cross sort of celebration, and a small example of why on this evening I am feeling so content and happy and so proud of my community.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Reasons For Not Praying
Everyone who prays has to admit that we fail a lot in the task of praying. There are lots of times when we just don't pray. We don't do it.
Those of us who do spiritual direction know that we are not alone in this. "How is your prayer life?" is a question that often gets the answer "Oh, I feel so bad. I just haven't been doing it. I know I should, but I just haven't gotten around to it." (or, "I haven't made the time", or "I just can't seem to manage it" or whatever version we can find to describe our dilemma).
I admit it: this is definitely part of my life. I hear it a lot from other people, and I experience it in myself. More times than I would like to admit, my prayer life consists of not doing it.
There, I've said it.
Why? Well, that's the big question, isn't it? That's what I've been thinking about lately. What is the real reason here? I have a real urge to prayer. I'm a monk for God's sake! What are my excuses? What are the excuses that I hear from others? When I don't get around to it, what's going on?
There are a lot of different things here, but they fall in some definite categories. I could do this whole blog by listing reasons I've heard or said, but I don't feel like doing that. Instead, I'll give you three of my favorites, with some commentary.
I'm too busy.
This is a great one. It's very popular, and I hear it all the time. I even say it with some frequency. This is especially popular with Americans. Americans really love being too busy. We complain about it, sure, but we wouldn't be without it. It's part of our national character. I've heard it said that we are the only society that actively admires addiction to overworking. It may be killing us, but we love it. We derive a sense of importance from being too busy to pray. Being too busy indicates that "they" can't do without me and my work.
And there's the rub. There's a lot of emptiness underneath this one. We have to be too busy or we might not be important. Who are we if we aren't too busy? And prayer steps right in the middle of it here, because prayer involves sitting down and (gasp!) doing nothing. It deals with this excuse by facing it head-on. There's a sort of irresistible force meeting an unmovable object here. Being too busy is irresistible. Prayer is the unmovable occasion that puts itself directly in the way of this force. It forces us to examine just why we are too busy. And that is an examination that few of us want to make.
But it's an important examination. It may, in fact be crucial - even a matter of life and death. What are we doing to ourselves? That's what God asks us to face. What changes do we need to make? That's the big one.
I don't want to pray. or I don't feel like it.
Often this one isn't said directly, at least out loud. Usually there are other excuses offered. But when you get down to it, there is a lack of will or interest. We think we ought to have enough motivation to pray, but in fact, we don't. We may even think it's shameful to be this way, which is why we often don't say it to anyone, but there it is. It doesn't feel good, but we're stuck with it.
What to do? From my point of view the first thing to tackle is the sense of guilt. We're unlikely to get to the bottom of this one if it's feeding off our sense that we are "bad" or "wrong" because we feel this way. This is going to go around in circles, feeding on itself, until we can bring ourselves to just look at it. Forget the self-judgment. Can the guilt. This is just a fact. We're uninterested. Or we don't have the energy. Or whatever. It's just that. Not a judgment, just a reality. Once we get there we can look at it. What does it feel like? Where did it come from? Is there anything underneath here? The answers may not be evident right away. This is something that can take a good deal of patient observation. Don't worry. This is an examination that is a really good use of prayer time. Just take your lack of motivation and look at it, feel it, ask it a few questions. And then pause and see what the answer is. If it's silence, be patient. It may take some time for the situation to emerge.
Something is about to emerge.
This is often the result of the two situations discussed above. Being too busy and discovering that we just aren't going to pray can be important symptoms; symptoms that something is coming down the road to meet us. We often understand intuitively that something is coming up for us before we actually know what that agenda is. And our sense that something from down in our unconscious is about to rise makes us uneasy, jittery, unable to settle. No one likes to have their cage rattled and so we usually react by trying to keep things just as they are. So, prayer becomes more difficult. Sitting quietly and just letting God do as God wants to do with us is an open invitation for change; sometimes major change. And when we sense major change approaching we can do anything from getting nervous to shutting down altogether.
You get through this with the same attitude that gets you through so much else in the spiritual life: no judgment, no recrimination. If you can't, you can't. If you look carefully enough you can tell the difference between "I can't" and "I won't". "I can't" needs to be honored. I had a period of several months some time ago when the only way I could meditate at all was to get up in the morning, have my shower, make a cup of tea and then crawl back into bed with some spiritual reading. The tea, the gentle book, and some slow rumination was all I could manage, and then only if I was lying down. Honoring that managed to keep things moving forward gently until the time finally came that I could do something more focused. It turned out to be some old stuff - memories emerging from the far distant past, stuff I no longer need and that was ready to come out and go on its way, leaving me lighter and freer within. But I had to let it have its way before I got there.
Times when prayer and meditation are difficult or impossible can be very important transitional times. But for us to get the message that they always contain we have to approach them as though they were teachers; teachers who have come from far away or deep within to let us know what is coming next. It's really easy to get impatient or angry with ourselves when we fall into these behaviors, but treating them as enemies or sins is usually unprofitable. I try to remember the watchwords of my meditation teacher - no judgment, no recrimination. Difficult times can be wonderful teachers if they are welcomed as situations that just may be full of possibilities. Quietly facing them with questions such as "What's here for me?" or "What am I to learn here?" or just "What's this?" keep us facing in the right direction and keep us open. That's what's needed - an open heart. That will take us into the mystery that is unfolding.
Those of us who do spiritual direction know that we are not alone in this. "How is your prayer life?" is a question that often gets the answer "Oh, I feel so bad. I just haven't been doing it. I know I should, but I just haven't gotten around to it." (or, "I haven't made the time", or "I just can't seem to manage it" or whatever version we can find to describe our dilemma).
I admit it: this is definitely part of my life. I hear it a lot from other people, and I experience it in myself. More times than I would like to admit, my prayer life consists of not doing it.
There, I've said it.
Why? Well, that's the big question, isn't it? That's what I've been thinking about lately. What is the real reason here? I have a real urge to prayer. I'm a monk for God's sake! What are my excuses? What are the excuses that I hear from others? When I don't get around to it, what's going on?
There are a lot of different things here, but they fall in some definite categories. I could do this whole blog by listing reasons I've heard or said, but I don't feel like doing that. Instead, I'll give you three of my favorites, with some commentary.
I'm too busy.
This is a great one. It's very popular, and I hear it all the time. I even say it with some frequency. This is especially popular with Americans. Americans really love being too busy. We complain about it, sure, but we wouldn't be without it. It's part of our national character. I've heard it said that we are the only society that actively admires addiction to overworking. It may be killing us, but we love it. We derive a sense of importance from being too busy to pray. Being too busy indicates that "they" can't do without me and my work.
And there's the rub. There's a lot of emptiness underneath this one. We have to be too busy or we might not be important. Who are we if we aren't too busy? And prayer steps right in the middle of it here, because prayer involves sitting down and (gasp!) doing nothing. It deals with this excuse by facing it head-on. There's a sort of irresistible force meeting an unmovable object here. Being too busy is irresistible. Prayer is the unmovable occasion that puts itself directly in the way of this force. It forces us to examine just why we are too busy. And that is an examination that few of us want to make.
But it's an important examination. It may, in fact be crucial - even a matter of life and death. What are we doing to ourselves? That's what God asks us to face. What changes do we need to make? That's the big one.
I don't want to pray. or I don't feel like it.
Often this one isn't said directly, at least out loud. Usually there are other excuses offered. But when you get down to it, there is a lack of will or interest. We think we ought to have enough motivation to pray, but in fact, we don't. We may even think it's shameful to be this way, which is why we often don't say it to anyone, but there it is. It doesn't feel good, but we're stuck with it.
What to do? From my point of view the first thing to tackle is the sense of guilt. We're unlikely to get to the bottom of this one if it's feeding off our sense that we are "bad" or "wrong" because we feel this way. This is going to go around in circles, feeding on itself, until we can bring ourselves to just look at it. Forget the self-judgment. Can the guilt. This is just a fact. We're uninterested. Or we don't have the energy. Or whatever. It's just that. Not a judgment, just a reality. Once we get there we can look at it. What does it feel like? Where did it come from? Is there anything underneath here? The answers may not be evident right away. This is something that can take a good deal of patient observation. Don't worry. This is an examination that is a really good use of prayer time. Just take your lack of motivation and look at it, feel it, ask it a few questions. And then pause and see what the answer is. If it's silence, be patient. It may take some time for the situation to emerge.
Something is about to emerge.
This is often the result of the two situations discussed above. Being too busy and discovering that we just aren't going to pray can be important symptoms; symptoms that something is coming down the road to meet us. We often understand intuitively that something is coming up for us before we actually know what that agenda is. And our sense that something from down in our unconscious is about to rise makes us uneasy, jittery, unable to settle. No one likes to have their cage rattled and so we usually react by trying to keep things just as they are. So, prayer becomes more difficult. Sitting quietly and just letting God do as God wants to do with us is an open invitation for change; sometimes major change. And when we sense major change approaching we can do anything from getting nervous to shutting down altogether.
You get through this with the same attitude that gets you through so much else in the spiritual life: no judgment, no recrimination. If you can't, you can't. If you look carefully enough you can tell the difference between "I can't" and "I won't". "I can't" needs to be honored. I had a period of several months some time ago when the only way I could meditate at all was to get up in the morning, have my shower, make a cup of tea and then crawl back into bed with some spiritual reading. The tea, the gentle book, and some slow rumination was all I could manage, and then only if I was lying down. Honoring that managed to keep things moving forward gently until the time finally came that I could do something more focused. It turned out to be some old stuff - memories emerging from the far distant past, stuff I no longer need and that was ready to come out and go on its way, leaving me lighter and freer within. But I had to let it have its way before I got there.
Times when prayer and meditation are difficult or impossible can be very important transitional times. But for us to get the message that they always contain we have to approach them as though they were teachers; teachers who have come from far away or deep within to let us know what is coming next. It's really easy to get impatient or angry with ourselves when we fall into these behaviors, but treating them as enemies or sins is usually unprofitable. I try to remember the watchwords of my meditation teacher - no judgment, no recrimination. Difficult times can be wonderful teachers if they are welcomed as situations that just may be full of possibilities. Quietly facing them with questions such as "What's here for me?" or "What am I to learn here?" or just "What's this?" keep us facing in the right direction and keep us open. That's what's needed - an open heart. That will take us into the mystery that is unfolding.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
To Have Peace.....
Yesterday was our monthly Peace Vigil. I don't know whether I've mentioned this part of our life before, but I know I haven't talked about it lately.
It all started during Lent several years ago. We decided that we wanted to do something about praying for peace. We organized a day of prayer for peace and we advertised it in the area and among local religious communities. We had one of the monks in the church all day long and other people came and went, and we finished with a service of peace in the evening. It attracted a substantial crowd and the church was pretty packed for the evening service and a number of friends and clergy and sisters and brothers from other Orders took part.
Then during Lent we continued our vigil on Saturdays and invited our guests and people from the neighborhood to join us. By the end of Lent it had become part of us. We knew that we wanted to continue it, but doing it weekly seemed more than we were able to sustain, so we decided to do it on one Saturday a month. We still advertise to people in the neighborhood and those who are in the Guesthouse to join us. Sometimes people do come and pray with us. Sometimes they don't. But several years later, we are still at it, keeping vigil for peace.
We begin at Matins in the morning. Before the service begins we light a candle and I pray a prayer for peace as a way of dedicating the vigil and this place to the quest for a more peaceful world. Then at the end of Matins the vigil begins. One of the brothers takes a seat close to the altar and is there for a half hour, praying for peace. We take turns, a half hour at a time through the morning. At noon we have a special Liturgy of Peace in place of our usual Office. There is a hymn ("Peace Within Us, Peace Over Us, Peace Under our Feet....") a reading from Scripture, some silence and then we stand and read the names of all of our troops who have been killed in Iraq and in Afghanistan during the past month. Then we remember all of the citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan who have been killed (though we don't have their names), and the families and friends of all of them. There's another reading, this time by one of the more famous figures in the Peace Movement (yesterday it was Oscar Romero), some more silence and a closing prayer.
It's quite deep, and sometimes pretty intense. It was particularly difficult yesterday because the list of names from Afghanistan was very long and the longer the names were read, the more difficult it became to stay with it without breaking down. Nearly all morning there were people from the Guesthouse and from the local area who were praying with us, and that is a bit unusual. People said, as they often have, how moving it was to see one brother get up at the end of each half hour and give his space to the next monk, because it made the sense of unceasing prayer more real.
And, of course, all of this brings up the issues of what it's for. Is this worth doing? Does sitting quietly in a church once a month change anything?
Well, just what is changed is always problematical and the "results" aren't always immediately evident. "Results" aren't a very good way to measure prayer. A better measure would be whether this is something we feel called to. And there does seem to be an imperative about it: for a community dedicated to prayer it really does seem like we have to pray for peace quite independently of whether we can see anything happening. We just must do it.
Then there is the fact that things are changing. Slowly, gradually, things are changing. War is no longer celebrated in the way it used to be. It no longer is regarded as a glorious adventure. It is more often seen as a failure - the last refuge when we can't manage anything else. And that is progress. Changing the world by prayer is often a matter of centuries rather than weeks, and it certainly does wonders for a sense of humility about one's place in the whole scheme of change.
Of course, there is the one change that I simply can't deny. One of the things that is changed by this Vigil is me. If you want to have peace, first you have to be peace. That's the way it works. And I see it working.
My approach to the whole issue of peace, has changed and deepened. My sense of a need to be involved grows steadily. My intuition that God is involved in this great sweep of history that is moving us towards reconciliation has also gotten more compelling. I am not the same Bede who started this vigil-keeping. God is at work here.
In the end we do this simply because we must. We make sense of it as we go along, as we can. God summons; we see how we can answer. Given our life and what we have been called to, this response makes sense to us. And it's growing deeper - to that I can testify. It is good to be part of this growing mystery of the road to peace.
It all started during Lent several years ago. We decided that we wanted to do something about praying for peace. We organized a day of prayer for peace and we advertised it in the area and among local religious communities. We had one of the monks in the church all day long and other people came and went, and we finished with a service of peace in the evening. It attracted a substantial crowd and the church was pretty packed for the evening service and a number of friends and clergy and sisters and brothers from other Orders took part.
Then during Lent we continued our vigil on Saturdays and invited our guests and people from the neighborhood to join us. By the end of Lent it had become part of us. We knew that we wanted to continue it, but doing it weekly seemed more than we were able to sustain, so we decided to do it on one Saturday a month. We still advertise to people in the neighborhood and those who are in the Guesthouse to join us. Sometimes people do come and pray with us. Sometimes they don't. But several years later, we are still at it, keeping vigil for peace.
We begin at Matins in the morning. Before the service begins we light a candle and I pray a prayer for peace as a way of dedicating the vigil and this place to the quest for a more peaceful world. Then at the end of Matins the vigil begins. One of the brothers takes a seat close to the altar and is there for a half hour, praying for peace. We take turns, a half hour at a time through the morning. At noon we have a special Liturgy of Peace in place of our usual Office. There is a hymn ("Peace Within Us, Peace Over Us, Peace Under our Feet....") a reading from Scripture, some silence and then we stand and read the names of all of our troops who have been killed in Iraq and in Afghanistan during the past month. Then we remember all of the citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan who have been killed (though we don't have their names), and the families and friends of all of them. There's another reading, this time by one of the more famous figures in the Peace Movement (yesterday it was Oscar Romero), some more silence and a closing prayer.
It's quite deep, and sometimes pretty intense. It was particularly difficult yesterday because the list of names from Afghanistan was very long and the longer the names were read, the more difficult it became to stay with it without breaking down. Nearly all morning there were people from the Guesthouse and from the local area who were praying with us, and that is a bit unusual. People said, as they often have, how moving it was to see one brother get up at the end of each half hour and give his space to the next monk, because it made the sense of unceasing prayer more real.
And, of course, all of this brings up the issues of what it's for. Is this worth doing? Does sitting quietly in a church once a month change anything?
Well, just what is changed is always problematical and the "results" aren't always immediately evident. "Results" aren't a very good way to measure prayer. A better measure would be whether this is something we feel called to. And there does seem to be an imperative about it: for a community dedicated to prayer it really does seem like we have to pray for peace quite independently of whether we can see anything happening. We just must do it.
Then there is the fact that things are changing. Slowly, gradually, things are changing. War is no longer celebrated in the way it used to be. It no longer is regarded as a glorious adventure. It is more often seen as a failure - the last refuge when we can't manage anything else. And that is progress. Changing the world by prayer is often a matter of centuries rather than weeks, and it certainly does wonders for a sense of humility about one's place in the whole scheme of change.
Of course, there is the one change that I simply can't deny. One of the things that is changed by this Vigil is me. If you want to have peace, first you have to be peace. That's the way it works. And I see it working.
My approach to the whole issue of peace, has changed and deepened. My sense of a need to be involved grows steadily. My intuition that God is involved in this great sweep of history that is moving us towards reconciliation has also gotten more compelling. I am not the same Bede who started this vigil-keeping. God is at work here.
In the end we do this simply because we must. We make sense of it as we go along, as we can. God summons; we see how we can answer. Given our life and what we have been called to, this response makes sense to us. And it's growing deeper - to that I can testify. It is good to be part of this growing mystery of the road to peace.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Being Summoned
Sometimes things happen very unexpectedly. This is hardly news, but I think that often we have a tendency to think that it shouldn't be that way in the spiritual part of our lives. This week I came up against a completely unlooked-for moment when I was least prepared for it. Maybe that's exactly why it happened.
I'm getting over a cold. Right now I'm in that state that sometimes comes after a viral illness when my strength is very hard to get back. I feel great otherwise, but I haven't yet got any stamina. I'm in a good place, but very weak. I feel like I don't have the energy for even the simplest task.
Last night I was even more wrung out. A group of our Associates were here this weekend, so that has meant a lot of socializing and quite a few conversations in addition to everything else the day held. All of that took energy that I felt like I really didn't have. After Supper we had planned a reception for everyone. But when Supper was finished I went first to my room to lie down for a while, because I couldn't manage any other way. When I had a little rest I joined the reception for a time and then when it had begun to wind down I helped with the clean-up.
We finished all of that about 20 minutes before Compline. As I headed down the hall from the Guesthouse I was really feeling done in and I knew I was going to need some more rest. I decided to get to my room and lie down again, and I wasn't at all sure that I'd get back up for the Office when the bell rang. Where I really needed to be was on my mattress.
I went past the Church and glanced in as I went by. Someone had put on the lamps that we use for Compline and the light was low and the Church looked warm and welcoming. I love our Church at night and sometimes seek it out just to be there for a while because I find it so comforting. For me it's one of those Thin Places that I talked about a couple of weeks ago. But last night as I went by it got more explicit. It said: "Come in".
I hasten to make clear that I wasn't hearing voices. It was an entirely intuitive experience. But it was quite clear. An invitation was being issued and I heard it. I thought: "That would be lovely, but I can't manage it. I don't have any energy to put out. Just the amount of strength that it would take to get a bit centered is more than I have. This is an invitation I will have to politely refuse. As much as I love being in our Church at night, I'm not doing it this time."
The Church was having none of it. "Come in" it said.
"No!" I replied.
"Come in." it said. And all of the time I walked along the passageway that leads around the outside wall of the building it said: "Come in".
"Well," I thought, "it would appear that this isn't your usual thing. Looks like something 1s being offered. Maybe I can find a way to accept even with no energy." So when I got around to the other side of the Church as far as the north door I turned aside, put on my cowl and went in.
The light was soft and it felt good to be there. I took a seat in the gallery at the back. I was by myself for a few seconds and then one of the brothers came in and then one of the guests. The 3 of us sat there for some time in the silence that bathed the place.
It didn't take any time at all to know why I was there. The Church was full of a Presence. That's the only way I can describe it. Even saying the word "God" would be too limiting for what I found myself encountering. It was just a full, lively Presence. It was in motion, whatever that means. I guess it means that it didn't feel static. It was gigantic and it was The Divine, and it was also the sound of generations of monks who have chanted in that place and it was also the monks themselves. Maybe it was an angel or two - or two hundred. Who knows? It was the heavenly host. It was Life itself.
And it didn't require any energy to be there. I wasn't called in there to put out energy that I didn't have. I could just rest in what was being offered. I didn't have to take the energy to focus, because focusing wouldn't accomplish anything. All I had to do was be there, and let myself be filled with the Presence, the Life that had invited me in.
And as I did that, I realized that my exhaustion was vanishing. I was still tired - very tired. But that sense of having nothing left was slowly leaving. One kind of energy was being replaced with another. What a gift it was to be invited into that place, just when I was weak enough to actually perceive what was there.
Then more people came in and the bell rang and I went to my place in choir and Compline unfolded. Again I didn't focus - I hadn't the strength for that. What I did was just let the Office unfold and roll over me. And as it did all the familiar phrases penetrated my mind:
"that you will be our guardian and security",
"Hear my prayer, O God",
"for these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see",
"as we sing your glory at the close of this day....."
And then I went peacefully off to bed and to sleep. I'm very glad I said yes to the invitation.
I will not haunt the Church at night looking for it to happen again. However tempting that might be I know by this time that it's futile. Whatever was offered was for last night. Period. Trying to recreate spiritual experiences is a waste of good prayer time and can be a serious delusion. Tonight's experience will be different and probably much less interesting. But it will be whatever is offered tonight, and tonight I need to be with tonight, not with last night.
But I will ask myself whether there is a point in not summoning up so much energy when I go to pray. Might it not be just as good, or even better, to just be in that space and let what is being offered wash over me? Is that why the invitation came, at precisely the time when I had no energy to resist what was being offered? Do I just need to be there? Am I being shown that the energy I use in focusing might be a block to deeper prayer? Some exploration is in order.
One more thing. I wonder if those of you who pray would offer a prayer or two for a very small child in Arkansas named Lynley. She has the H1N1 virus and when her dad called me Friday night her fever was over 104, her pulse was 181 and she was having trouble breathing. I don't have to tell you what her parents are going through. The fever is better controlled now and that has made the other problems recede, but it's still serious and there is still a chance of pneumonia. Her dad was one of "my" kids when I worked in the Youth Ministry of the Diocese of Kansas and he and I are still in touch now and then. He'll really appreciate it if people are praying. And, of course, there are a bunch of other kids in other places in this country in the same situation who could use prayer as well. Thanks.
I'm getting over a cold. Right now I'm in that state that sometimes comes after a viral illness when my strength is very hard to get back. I feel great otherwise, but I haven't yet got any stamina. I'm in a good place, but very weak. I feel like I don't have the energy for even the simplest task.
Last night I was even more wrung out. A group of our Associates were here this weekend, so that has meant a lot of socializing and quite a few conversations in addition to everything else the day held. All of that took energy that I felt like I really didn't have. After Supper we had planned a reception for everyone. But when Supper was finished I went first to my room to lie down for a while, because I couldn't manage any other way. When I had a little rest I joined the reception for a time and then when it had begun to wind down I helped with the clean-up.
We finished all of that about 20 minutes before Compline. As I headed down the hall from the Guesthouse I was really feeling done in and I knew I was going to need some more rest. I decided to get to my room and lie down again, and I wasn't at all sure that I'd get back up for the Office when the bell rang. Where I really needed to be was on my mattress.
I went past the Church and glanced in as I went by. Someone had put on the lamps that we use for Compline and the light was low and the Church looked warm and welcoming. I love our Church at night and sometimes seek it out just to be there for a while because I find it so comforting. For me it's one of those Thin Places that I talked about a couple of weeks ago. But last night as I went by it got more explicit. It said: "Come in".
I hasten to make clear that I wasn't hearing voices. It was an entirely intuitive experience. But it was quite clear. An invitation was being issued and I heard it. I thought: "That would be lovely, but I can't manage it. I don't have any energy to put out. Just the amount of strength that it would take to get a bit centered is more than I have. This is an invitation I will have to politely refuse. As much as I love being in our Church at night, I'm not doing it this time."
The Church was having none of it. "Come in" it said.
"No!" I replied.
"Come in." it said. And all of the time I walked along the passageway that leads around the outside wall of the building it said: "Come in".
"Well," I thought, "it would appear that this isn't your usual thing. Looks like something 1s being offered. Maybe I can find a way to accept even with no energy." So when I got around to the other side of the Church as far as the north door I turned aside, put on my cowl and went in.
The light was soft and it felt good to be there. I took a seat in the gallery at the back. I was by myself for a few seconds and then one of the brothers came in and then one of the guests. The 3 of us sat there for some time in the silence that bathed the place.
It didn't take any time at all to know why I was there. The Church was full of a Presence. That's the only way I can describe it. Even saying the word "God" would be too limiting for what I found myself encountering. It was just a full, lively Presence. It was in motion, whatever that means. I guess it means that it didn't feel static. It was gigantic and it was The Divine, and it was also the sound of generations of monks who have chanted in that place and it was also the monks themselves. Maybe it was an angel or two - or two hundred. Who knows? It was the heavenly host. It was Life itself.
And it didn't require any energy to be there. I wasn't called in there to put out energy that I didn't have. I could just rest in what was being offered. I didn't have to take the energy to focus, because focusing wouldn't accomplish anything. All I had to do was be there, and let myself be filled with the Presence, the Life that had invited me in.
And as I did that, I realized that my exhaustion was vanishing. I was still tired - very tired. But that sense of having nothing left was slowly leaving. One kind of energy was being replaced with another. What a gift it was to be invited into that place, just when I was weak enough to actually perceive what was there.
Then more people came in and the bell rang and I went to my place in choir and Compline unfolded. Again I didn't focus - I hadn't the strength for that. What I did was just let the Office unfold and roll over me. And as it did all the familiar phrases penetrated my mind:
"that you will be our guardian and security",
"Hear my prayer, O God",
"for these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see",
"as we sing your glory at the close of this day....."
And then I went peacefully off to bed and to sleep. I'm very glad I said yes to the invitation.
I will not haunt the Church at night looking for it to happen again. However tempting that might be I know by this time that it's futile. Whatever was offered was for last night. Period. Trying to recreate spiritual experiences is a waste of good prayer time and can be a serious delusion. Tonight's experience will be different and probably much less interesting. But it will be whatever is offered tonight, and tonight I need to be with tonight, not with last night.
But I will ask myself whether there is a point in not summoning up so much energy when I go to pray. Might it not be just as good, or even better, to just be in that space and let what is being offered wash over me? Is that why the invitation came, at precisely the time when I had no energy to resist what was being offered? Do I just need to be there? Am I being shown that the energy I use in focusing might be a block to deeper prayer? Some exploration is in order.
One more thing. I wonder if those of you who pray would offer a prayer or two for a very small child in Arkansas named Lynley. She has the H1N1 virus and when her dad called me Friday night her fever was over 104, her pulse was 181 and she was having trouble breathing. I don't have to tell you what her parents are going through. The fever is better controlled now and that has made the other problems recede, but it's still serious and there is still a chance of pneumonia. Her dad was one of "my" kids when I worked in the Youth Ministry of the Diocese of Kansas and he and I are still in touch now and then. He'll really appreciate it if people are praying. And, of course, there are a bunch of other kids in other places in this country in the same situation who could use prayer as well. Thanks.
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