Her Morning Elegance… and Dreaming about Dreams
This video by Oren Lavie has been watched almost ten million times, so I imagine many of my readers will already be familiar with it. But I just discovered it this morning, and it seemed worthy of passing on.
I am reminded of the passage from the prophet Joel that we used to quote to each other all the time back when I was immersed in charismatic spirituality:
Then afterward I will pour out my spirit upon all mankind. Your sons and daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions; Even upon the servants and the handmaids, in those days, I will pour out my spirit. And I will work wonders in the heavens and on the earth, blood, fire, and columns of smoke; The sun will be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, At the coming of the Day of the LORD, the great and terrible day.
Okay, so the video is about a young woman sleepwalking, not an old man dreaming dreams. But I’ve never been afraid to reach for a connection. Here’s the question: what dreams are you dreaming? If you hang out at this blog, I suppose that means you are interested in the spiritual life, in some form or fashion. Where are your dreams taking you, spiritually? How does your spiritual practice show up in, or influence, your dreams?
And not just the dreams of sleep, either. When “the young men see visions,” I believe we should assign the most mundane and down-to-earth interpretation to this verse: through the splendor of inspiration, our imagination, our daydreams, and our capacity for wonder and hope and new ideas are all set on fire. As Peter Gabriel sang in his song “Mercy Street” inspired by Anne Sexton: “All of the buildings, all of those cars, were once just a dream in somebody’s head.” So if we take Joel at his word, there’s a level on which the spiritual life is about opening our hearts and souls and minds to the Spirit who will lead us to dream new dreams and envision new possibilities — but then it’s up to us to shake the dreams and visions loose from our heads and to make them real. Hopefully we’re talking about something other than just more buildings and more cars. I dream about people, hundreds of people, thousands, millions, finding joy and meaning and love and connection through silence and rest and community. I dream about us feeding each other and caring for one another and sharing our resources. I dream about songs of prayer and joy and laughter and delight ringing through heaven and earth. I dream about a world where the latest gadgets or the evening stock reports aren’t nearly as interesting as the latest efforts to create green, sustainable technology or the newest initiative to clean our air and our water and to find new ways of relating the human family to the rest of the earth.
What are your dreams? And how do you see those dreams flowing from the safe harbor within you to the world where they can be given to others?
Happy new year, everyone. May 2010 be a year of wonderful dreams come true.
Pandora, Ken Wilber, and William Blake
Ali at Meadowsweet & Myrrh has written a thoughtful and perceptive post in response to my review of Avatar that unfolds out into her own nuanced review of the movie. I would commend this to anyone who reads my blog. Here are my admittedly rambling and random thoughts in response to her articulate writing. Hopefully these thoughts, disjointed as they might be, can stimulate even further reflection and conversation for those who choose to read them. (more…)
Stay Tuned…
Ali at Meadowsweet & Myrrh has written a thoughtful and perceptive response/critique to my review of Avatar that unfolds out into her own nuanced review of the movie. I would commend this to anyone who reads my blog. I don’t have time this morning to write a response to her thoughts (my car is in the shop and I need to pick it up before I go to work), but I’ll do so either tonight or tomorrow, so stay tuned. Meanwhile, here are three quotations that might give you a hint as to where my thoughts are going in regard to Avatar:
The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.
— William Blake
I have one major rule: everybody is right.
— Ken Wilber
Jesus answered and said to them, “Go and report to John what you hear and see: the blind can see and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor receive good news.”
— Matthew 11:4-5
Grace and the Goddess: AVATAR as a Christian/Pagan Parable
James Cameron’s new film, Avatar, tells a story we’ve all heard before; as I commented on Twitter last night, it is Dances with Wolves meets Star Trek: Insurrection, with elements of The Matrix and Whale Rider thrown in. But Avatar is grander and more epic than any of these films, and of course, it’s a stunning achievement of CGI artistry. For its sheer beauty, go see it. But critics are whining that the story is “weak” or “boring” and I think they’re rather justified in their gripes. Nevertheless, I think it raises enough questions for someone like me, interested as I am in the interface between Christianity and indigenous culture, that it’s worth commenting on.
Warning: plot spoilers abound in the rest of this review. Read at your own risk. (more…)
Quote for the Day
If we live by faith we shall judge things very differently from the way people do who rely only on the evidence of their senses and so remain unaware of the priceless treasure hidden under appearances. If we know that someone in disguise is really our king we shall behave very differently toward him than will someone who sees only an ordinary man. He will treat him as such. Now, if we see the will of God in the most trifling affairs, in every misfortune, and in every disaster, we shall accept them all with an equal joy, delight and respect. What others fear and flee from, we shall welcome with open doors. The clothing is shabby and mean to the ordinary eye, but we shall respect the royal majesty hidden under it and feel a deepening of our love the more hidden and abject our king is. … Paradoxically, what we cannot experience by our senses stimulates, increases and enriches our faith. The less we see, the more we believe.
— Jean-Pierre de Caussade, Abandonment to Divine Providence
The Road Goes Ever On and On
“The Road Goes Ever On and On,” or so sings Bilbo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Advent is over. And as is typical for someone working in retail — even monastic retail (!) — for me it was a blur. It was a time of stolen moments of rest and reflection, rather than a truly immersed season of waiting. I leave Advent 2009 behind, still waiting, still waiting for the day, most likely after I retire, when the demands of my work will not compete with the call of the liturgical season.
I know I am not alone in this paradoxical place of waiting for the season of waiting. The key I took from this year’s Advent is my insight that Benedict’s call for monks (and, by extension, monastic lay associates like myself) to live “a continual Lent” can, it seems to me, be expanded to include “a continual Advent.” For aren’t we always in a place of waiting? We wait in line at the Post Office. We wait for traffic to clear up. We wait for a head cold to run its course so we can return to work. We wait for warm weather, and then we wait for cool weather. And on and on it goes.
Perhaps the real message of Advent lies in the invitation to celebrate all those times of waiting. To look for the hidden presence of God in all of our waitings, so that the line at the Post Office is no longer quite so annoying, or the unpleasant weather can be its own source of grace and wonder, enabling us to live in the present moment rather than just waiting our lives away. In other words, waiting is always something that happens in the present, in relation to something anticipated in the future. A prisoner waits for parole. A young lover waits to hear from his or her beloved. An elderly man like my father waits to die, not with morbidity or desperation, but with a serenity and placidity that I find both amazing and inspiring. Advent, I believe, teaches us to celebrate the gift of the present in the waiting-for-the-future. It doesn’t take away the power and the promise that the future holds. But it reminds us that, in a very real way, the present is all we have. We are always impoverished, and a sign of our poverty is our lack of ownership of either the past or the future. And of course, there is profound grace in this.
So while I am waiting for the Advent when I no longer have to work long hours and weekends, I am invited to celebrate each messy imperfect Advent that I am given. But not now. Now I am invited to celebrate the messy imperfect Christmas season that is now upon us.
And so are you.
Happy Christmas, and thanks for reading.
The Places that Scare You
The American Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön has written a book called The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times. I haven’t read it yet, although I like her work and so I hope to one of these days; but I’m mentioning it because the title alone is, for me, provocative. Sooner or later meditation or contemplation alone will take us to the places that scare us. Indeed, life will take us to the places that scare us. We lose a job, a relationship, a valued possession, our health. Worse than our own suffering is the suffering of those we love. And when loved ones die, or leave in any other way, a huge hole can emerge in our lives that seemingly nothing will fill. The Buddha very rightly noted in the first of his Four Noble Truths that suffering happens. Birth, aging, illness, death, clinging, separation, and other aspects of life all bring us to suffering. And no one likes to suffer, and so the places that scare us (or perhaps I should say, the places that scare me) are those places where suffering will possibly or probably or most certainly will come to me.
Since both Benedictine and Celtic spirituality are all about hospitality, I suppose the obvious question here is, how do we offer hospitality to our suffering, and to the places that scare us? I’m not sure I buy into Chödrön’s subtitle: is “fearlessness” really on the menu? Granted, Jesus told us to be not afraid; he also told us to be perfect (in that context he was talking specifically about loving those who do evil). I’m currently reading The Teaching of the 12, Tony Jones’ commentary on the Didache, and he sees in that ancient manuscript this kind of Gospel-inspired commitment to loving acceptance of even those persons we are tempted to hold in judgment. The Gospel is all about busting through judgment and judgmentalism and embracing radically those even whose actions or behaviors we find scandalous. I don’t know about you, but I’m not there yet. Just like I’m not to fearlessness yet. It seems to me that before we can be fearless or perfect in our love, we have to grow into it. And moving into the places that scare us, and accepting the fact that we are very much afraid, and by the grace of God, doing it anyway, is an important first step. Again by the grace of God, the fearlessness will come, later. But if we wait for fearlessness before we go to the places that scare us, we will probably just wind up immobilized.
I’ve been thinking about all this a lot lately, not only because I’m playing with the question of “tame spirituality” vis-a-vis “wild spirituality,” but also because I’m having a hard time settling on what my next book project should be. Basically, I have three options: should I explore mysticism again, or should I turn my focus back to something more Celtic, or should I write about my transition from Paganism to Catholicism? Guess which of the three scares me the most (simply because it is the closest to my own heart)? Why, though, should my own story scare me? Because of all the pitfalls I see along the way. I’m afraid that I will share too much of my own shadow, or that I will project too much of my own shadow onto either Paganism or Catholicism. I’m afraid that, in an effort to avoid the pitfall of projection, that I will retreat from being honest in talking about my experiences both as a Pagan or as a Catholic. In other words, to write my story, I must be fearlessly honest about myself, but also about all my experience, both in Pagan or in Christian circles. Such fearless confessional writing is different from the rather journalistic task of celebrating mysticism. And I fear that I am not strong enough or good enough to rise to the challenge that such a task presents to me.
Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway, says Susan Jeffers. And I agree with her. Sit in the middle of the fear, and breathe through it. We know we are alive when we go into the places that scare us, not to prove how macho we are, but simply to practice that hospitality that can give birth to true fearlessness. But knowing all this doesn’t make it any less scary going in. There’s another book out there that I’ve never read; it’s called The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear. I don’t know about other writers, but I deal with fear as a writer by bludgeoning my way through it. “Transcending” fear is a fine art that I have yet to master.
Maybe the reason why this blog strikes at least one reader as tame is because I’ve been shying away from the stuff that scares me. I suppose now that this is on my radar screen I need to do something about it. And I will, as soon as my hands stop shaking. 
The Right Way and the Wrong Way
In response to my comments about the forthcoming Catholic Prayer Bible: Lectio Divina Edition, where I complained because the ad for this Bible suggested that lectio divina culminates in “action” rather then “contemplation” (see Lectio Divina as a Tool for… Creating an Action Plan?!?), a Facebook friend of mine who is a Catholic author says the following:
I read your blog comments on the Paulist Press Lectio Divina Bible. I agree absolutely with you that contemplatio does not equal action, and that contemplation is an important element in lectio divina. However, I would not agree that lectio divina necessarily has four steps as described by Guigo II in the medieval work, The Monk’s Ladder. My writing advocates a broader and more ancient understanding of lectio divina that predates the four steps of Guigo II and offers a critique of Guigo II.
He’s going to send me a copy of his book (published by a reputable Catholic press), and after I take a look at it I’ll blog about it here. In the meantime, I thought it was worth commenting on the fact that all of our spiritual practices — not just lectio, not just meditation, not just contemplation — can take a variety of forms. (more…)
Watching the Woodstock Movie (Again)
This weekend I saw the recently released “ultimate collector’s edition” director’s cut of the Woodstock Movie (available on DVD and Blu-Ray). This was the third time I saw the movie; I originally saw it in the theater back in the late seventies, and then watched it on VHS sometime in the late 80s or early 90s. But the ultimate collector’s/director’s cut has about two hours of footage not featured in the theatrical release, including Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival, plus additional footage from the Who and Jimi Hendrix.
Having been too young to go to Woodstock (I was 8 at the time, I suppose I could have gone if someone took me, but obviously, that didn’t happen), the movie has been the heart of my understanding of Woodstock. When I saw the movie in the 70s, it was like a revelation to me: my first real introduction to so many musicians I would come to love: Joan Baez, Crosby Stills & Nash, Arlo Guthrie, Janis Joplin, and of course Jimi Hendrix. Seeing it on VHS a decade or so later just anchored my sense that Woodstock was a watershed event, both artistically and socio-politically.
What a difference an extra twenty years makes.
Don’t get me wrong; I haven’t gone all right-wing in regard to Woodstock. But I think the perspectives of age, of being a veteran of plenty of Pagan gatherings, and of considering Ken Wilber’s critique of “boomeritis,” all have given me perhaps a more balanced view of the festival. Watching the movie this time, I was struck by a number of things I hadn’t noticed before. Kids jumping the fence to get in, before the concert was declared “free.” The arrogant idealism, that suggested hippies and stoners were really going to change the world. The almost total lack of non-white people (except on the stage, but even then, Sly Stone and Jimi Hendrix were the exceptions). The liberal use of completely gratuitous vulgar language (for example, the Intermission card read “Interf***ingmission”). The kindness and tolerance (for the most part) of the townspeople and neighbors, all of whom were massively inconvenienced by the event. The fact that the army, the national guard and others were flying in food and medical supplies — economic realities that never seemed to be factored in to the “Woodstock Nation’s” smug insistence that they had a better way of living than the society at large. And of course, the huge garbage-dump that Max Yasgur’s farm became at the end of the festival.
The key word here is balance. I still think the Vietnam war was a horrible misstep; it is impossible to understand the 60s counterculture without considering the draft and the absurdity of that war as key factors contributing to its rise. The Hog Farm giving away food and the innocence of the skinny-dippers and the mud-sliders are all sweet to consider, even now. And the overall peace and love vibe, naive though it may have been, still seems to me a far better orientation of the mind than the cynicism that has reigned in our country pretty much ever since a certain president from California broke the law (less than four years after Woodstock), an existential malaise that only deepened when another Californian was elected president in 1980.
So I’m writing all this not to say sour grapes on Woodstock, or on my own youthful idealism, but to ponder how we can re-envision some of that hopeful idealism and commitment to gently transforming the world… only without gate-crashing and ignoring the contribution of all the “squares”?
Now, as for the music. What really struck me is how young everybody looked. And they were young — most of the A-list rock and rollers I mentioned above were all in their 20s when performing at Woodstock. Grateful Dead’s Pigpen, Janis and Jimi were all fated to die within a few years. Roger Daltrey oozes eros, and Joan Baez, dignified and reserved, exudes a maternal warmth (she was pregnant at the time). Grace Slick looks exhausted (scheduled to take the stage hours earlier, Jefferson Airplane was up all night and played at dawn). The guitar playing is phenomenal, of course, with memorable performances from Pete Townshend, Carlos Santana, Jorma Kaukonen, Jimi Hendrix (naturally) and Jerry Garcia (in an otherwise less-than-stellar 35-minute workout of “Turn on Your Lovelight”). Crosby, Stills & Nash and Arlo Guthrie were pretty sweet, and Joe Cocker — weird air-guitar-ish hand gestures on full display — was truly a joy to hear. John Sebastian was embarrassingly stoned. And on it goes. So if my sense of Woodstock’s politics may have changed with the passage of time, I remain as entranced as ever with the music, only now I am even more impressed because I see just how young those kids were when they played there. Really, really wonderful.
So watching the Woodstock movie again, I am reminded what the members of Grateful Dead used to say, impatiently, when journalists would ask them about the rampant drug use among their fans: “We’re about the music.” And I think Woodstock, far more than the politics of the anti-war movement or the idealism of the Hog Farm or the free love vibe of the hippies (which Hugh Hefner blatantly twisted to his own ends, as documented on the included bonus disc), is really all about the music. And what wonderful music it was.
One final gripe about the “ultimate collector’s edition” Blu-Ray and DVD: both come with all sorts of unnecessary extra packaging: an iron-on patch (as if we’re all still wearing denim jackets), a lucite paper-weight thingy, a mini-reproduction of the Life magazine that dealt with Woodstock, etc. What a waste. It reminds me of the stark ending of the movie, with its apocalyptic survey of the tons of left-behind garbage. Our generation really is pretty pathetic when it comes to paying lip service to environmental issues but then greedily consuming resources for the purpose of acquiring more disposable trinkets. I’m just saying.
Quote for the Day
You can’t have a light without a dark to stick it in.
— Arlo Guthrie, “The Neutron Bomb” from Precious Friend
“An Author is Not Famous Until After He Dies”
I don’t know who said “An author is not famous until after he (or she) dies,” but I do believe there is some truth to it. Last night I began reading Jean-Pierre de Caussade’s Abandonment to Divine Providence. 
de Caussade was a French Jesuit who lived from 1675 to 1751, and who gained some renown in his lifetime as a spiritual director. He did write one book that is now pretty much forgotten; meanwhile, Abandonment to Divine Providence was essentially redacted from the authors letters by another French Jesuit in 1861 — over a century after de Caussade’s death! A century and a half later, this book is now considered a classic of 18th-century mysticism as well as a brilliant call to the spirituality of the present moment; one could think of it as a Catholic response to Eckhart Tolle, only from the past.
But this is not the only classic of Christian spirituality that was published after its author’s death. Another French contemplative, the Carmelite lay brother Nicholas Herman (better known by his religious name, Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection), never set out to write a book — 
but after his death, a French priest who was an assistant to the Archbishop of Paris collected letters by Brother Lawrence as well as recollections of his spiritual counsel from those who knew him, and published them as The Practice of the Presence of God, which has not only become a contemplative classic, but its title, like “dark night of the soul” or “the cloud of unknowing,” has entered the lexicon of Christian spiritual formation: “practicing the presence” is a term that refers to any spiritual exercise or activity designed to foster awareness of God’s presence in our lives.
So Jean-Pierre de Caussade and Brother Lawrence, both Frenchmen, are two examples of Christian spiritual teachers whose greatest work was compiled by editors and published after their demise. The moral of the story is simple: be mindful of what you write, for somebody might try to publish it after you’re gone.
Why the Divine Office?
This morning, a reader of this blog posted these two simple questions:
The Divine Office: how important is it for lay Christians? How does it deepen our spirituality?
If I can answer the second question, that in itself will answer the first. The Office is important for ordinary Christians precisely because it does deepen our spirituality.
But how?
Just a few thoughts here. I believe the Daily Office deepens our spirituality because it immerses us in the language of prayer, it links us to the larger community and to the tradition, and it creates a habit of mindfulness of God. Let’s look at each of these in turn.
The Daily Office immerses us in the language of prayer. Praying the Daily Office, or even part of it, means reading, reciting and praying some of the loveliest and most inspiring written prayers of the Christian faith. Actually, of the Jewish faith as well, since the heart of the Office is the Psalms. The lyrical, eloquent, elegant language of the canticles, Psalms, antiphons and other elements of the Office teach us the language of prayer — language that can then inform and deepen our prayers offered in our own words. By the same token, these beautifully written prayers alleviate us from the need to always be coming up with something new to offer to God; in other words, the Office liberates us from the tyranny of having to continually improvise our own words of prayer, by providing us with prayers that have been meaningful and formative for Christians throughout the centuries. Which leads to the second point:
The Daily Office links us the larger community and to the tradition. There are many different varieties of the Daily Office, not only between the Orthodox, Catholic, Anglican and Lutheran Churches, but also as developed by various monastic orders within the various churches. So praying the Office does not create a stultifying conformity. But it does immerse us into a rhythm of daily prayer that integrates Scripture, Psalms, hymns, canticles, and other prayers offered to God as a form of ongoing praise and worship — and in so doing, links us to other Christians, around the world, many of whom are praying the exact same prayers we are, while others are praying something similar. Many people cannot or will not pray, for a variety of social, political, psychological, and even health-related reasons. When we pray the Office, we pray for those people as well. But what I also love about the Office is not only that it allows me to join in the worldwide chorus of praise here and now, but it also links me to the generations of people who have prayed these words, over the centuries. Some prayers, like the Phos Hilaron or the Te Deum, go back to the earliest days of the Christian movement. Others, like the Magnificat or the Benedictus, or found in the Bible. And I think it is particularly important to keep in mind that when we pray the Psalms, we are praying the very same prayers that Jesus himself prayed. So the Office links us to the Mystical Body of Christ, both throughout the world and throughout the ages (yes, it links us with the generations of praying Christians to come, as well).
The Daily Office helps to foster in us “the practice of the presence of God.” A meditation teacher once told me that the point behind a daily practice of meditation is to cultivate a way of being that transforms us every minute of the day. We call meditation a “practice” because in it we practice being more mindful, more relaxed, more open to the Divine Presence in our lives. It is my experience that the Office provides a similar training in ongoing mindfulness. But since the Office is grounded in language, it more specifically anchors us in the mindfulness of God that comes through the words we use to speak of, and to, the Great Mystery. Indeed, praying the Office before or after an extended period of silence is a particularly lovely discipline, in my experience: we create the space to encounter God both in words and in silence, and we carry that with us throughout the day.
So this is why I believe the Divine Office matters, even for laypersons. I should mention that I am very flexible in my understanding of the Office: not everyone has the time, or the self-discipline, to pray the entire Office, every day, with the correct antiphons, propers for the Saints’ days or other memorials, etc. It’s tempting to get overwhelmed by how complex the Office is, and then just give up on it. But that’s like saying that since I don’t play like Jaco Pastorius, I have no business touching a bass. Balderdash! I can enjoy the bass even at my humble and minimal level of skill; likewise, the Office can make a profound difference in our lives even if we just manage to get a few Psalms and maybe the Benedictus and Magnificat recited each day. Or whatever. Pray as you can, not as you can’t — this applies to the Office as well as to any other form of prayer. Taking baby steps to learn (and pray) the Office is immeasurably rewarding — and even just praying one or two canticles or Psalms a day can truly deepen our spirituality.
Let me finish by commenting on something I wrote above: about how the Office “liberates us from the tyranny” of improvising prayer in our own words.Let me be clear here: I am not arguing against conversational, informal prayer! On the contrary: I believe that true intimacy with God requires a balanced diet of silence, formal prayer, and informal prayer. What bothers me about when critics of the Office say “it’s better to pray using your own words” is that they are ignoring the fact that on some days we have no words to offer to God; on other days we might be bored, or uninspired, or simply will resort to saying the same banal things over and over again (“Lord, we just want to thank you for all your blessings today…” etc.). If my extemporaneous prayer ends up sounding the same day after day, then I may as well use the Office, where at least I am praying using the elegant, eloquent words of our spiritual ancestors.
If we reject formal prayer, we are cutting off one important means of maintaining a sustainable daily discipline of prayer. Now, I know there is the opposite danger of just meaninglessly reciting the Office without bothering to put our heart into the words we are praying, and yes, I’ve been there before. But what I’ve found is that if my recited prayer is that meaningless, I’m not interested in conversational prayer anyway, because the problem is not with the formal prayers, it is with me. So, actually, a discipline of formal prayer functions as an excellent barometer by which I can measure just how open my heart is to God in the first place. Finally, for those who prefer conversational prayer, the Daily Office thankfully allows times for personal, heartfelt prayer in the midst of the formal prayers, so that we can actually rely on the discipline of the Office to make sure that, every day, we take the time to check in with God — in our own words. In other words, if we are praying the Office in its fullness, we are offering God both formal prayer and prayer in our own words — each and every day.
Memorizing the Office (or, at least, parts of it)
I recently listened to a recording I have of the Anglican theologian Kenneth Leech, when he spoke at an Episcopal Church here in Stone Mountain back in the mid-1990s. Leech is a true treasure, and I’m excited to note that a new anthology of his writings have been published: Prayer and Prophecy, the Essential Kenneth Leech (after I get my hands on a copy, I’ll write a review of it). Anyway, when he spoke here in 1995, he made a comment that, listening to the recording now, I find inspiring, in its common-sense simplicity.
He was speaking about the Daily Office, and commending it to his audience, mostly Episcopal laypersons. He noted that “you can memorize entire sections of the Daily Office.” As someone who has been an off-and-on reciter of daily prayers for many years now, I must confess that it never occurred to me to make the effort to actually memorize it. Of course, the repetition of the prayers said every day — like the Magnificat or the Benedictus — means that by osmosis anyone will start to memorize them, but I think Leech’s suggestion is to be a bit more pro-active, and make the effort to commit these prayers to memory.
It seems to me that we can start with the Magnificat and the Benedictus, moving on to the Nunc Dimittis, the Te Deum, the Phos Hilaron, the Salve Regina, and then on to some of the more beautiful or meaningful of the Psalms, like 95, 51, 8, 19 and 121. And then there are other scriptural canticles such as found in Colossians 1 or Philippians 2. Memorizing these sacred prayers and songs just makes so much sense. With these prayers safely stored in our hearts, we become less addicted to the prayer books — participating in the Office, on at least some level, can more easily happen even in the midst of the busiest or most unpredictable of schedules.
So… I’m thinking my new year’s resolution for 2010 will be to memorize at least all the prayers and canticles I’ve mentioned in this post. And then on to the Psalms. Care to join me?
Quote for the Day
To give a love,
you gotta live a love.
To live a love,
you gotta be “part of.”
— Neil Young, “A Man Needs a Maid” from Harvest
The Advent Conspiracy
This makes so much sense on so many levels…
Advent is the great lost season of the liturgical year, lost in a swirl of concerts, parties, and yes, shopping. And I’m as caught up in it as anybody. But it is meant to be a time for contemplation — for “waiting” on the coming of the Lord!
So join the Advent Conspiracy — if your entire church isn’t involved, you can still be a “lone conspirator.” Slow down. Pray. Be mindful of how you spend your time in this holy season. And give just a few less gifts, and use the money you save to help those who are truly in need.
You can read more about the Advent Conspiracy here.
Quote for the Day
St. Paul says that the real sign that God the Giver of Life has been received into our souls will be joy and peace; joy, the spirit of selfless delight; peace, the spirit of tranquil acceptance; the very character of the beatitude of Heaven, given here and now in our grubby little souls, provided only that they are loving little souls. If, in spite of all conflicts, weakness, sufferings, sins, we open our door, the spirit is poured out within us and the first mark of its presence is not an increase of energy but joy and peace.
— Evelyn Underhill, The Fruits of the Spirit
Humility and Love
I had a chat with my friend Paco yesterday. Paco is a Lay Cistercian and shares my love of the contemplative life. He was my “angel” (my mentor/ “big brother”) during my novitiate as a Lay Cistercian, so we’ve become pretty good friends. I asked Paco to read the unedited manuscript of The Big Book of Christian Mysticism and he stopped by my office yesterday to tell me he had finished it. His main criticism of the book is that he felt I did not stress humility enough. “You mention it,” he said, “but I think we need to stress it as an absolutely central part of the spiritual life.”
We talked about this for a bit. We talked about how humility is not the same as low self-esteem — on the contrary, low self-esteem can often by a form of inverse pride, for pride is “all about me” and putting oneself down can be a subtle way of keeping one’s attention focused on the self rather than on God or on others. We talked about the relationship between humility and earthiness. We talked about how, ultimately, humility is about creating the space within us to receive God and God’s blessings. So humility is related to hospitality. Paco said with a twinkle in his eye, “it’s almost as if, the more humble we become, the more God is ‘forced’ to be present to us.” We both laughed at the silliness of his metaphor, and then I mused, “Perhaps the spiritual life ultimately can be reduced to two simple, fundamental choices: choosing humility instead of pride, and choosing love instead of fear.”
He beamed at me with a knowing smile. Yes, it really is that simple.
Prayerfulness — and further thoughts on “Tame” and “Wild” Spirituality
Yesterday I finished Prayerfulness. My copy of the book came from Amazon.com; I get books from them as part of their reviewer program, so I owed them a review on it. This is what I wrote:
Robert J. Wicks writes in the tradition of Joseph Schmidt’s classic, Praying Our Experiences: An Invitation to Open Our Lives to God — in other words, Prayerfulness is a thoughtful, grounded, and warm invitation to expand our concept of what prayer is and the role it plays in the ordinary moments of our lives. The subtitle of the book is descriptive of its message: awaken to life’s fullness! Prayerfulness is all about being alert, awake, mindful; paying attention to the stirrings of our inner lives in dialogue with the ever-changing circumstances of the world in which we live. The book really is a series of meditative reflections on topics such as honoring life’s fragility, facing sadness, and befriending our challenging emotions such as anger. Like many thoughtful and well-grounded spiritual books, at times this book is rather dry, although the author works to keep things interesting through storytelling. Perhaps the single most useful part of the book is the “Spiritual Mindfulness Questionnaire” — a series of thirty thought-provoking questions designed not so much as a diagnostic tool but rather as a portal through which we can move to find greater self-awareness in terms of both the gifts and the challenges of our spiritual lives. Wick’s reflections on the uses of each of these questions is particularly helpful. I recommend this book to anyone who is committed to responding to the Apostle Paul’s challenge to “Pray without ceasing” (I Thessalonians 5:17), in a healthy, mature, sustainable and truly mindful way.
Earlier this month I wrote a post in which I compared this book to John Crowder’s Miracles Workers, Reformers & The New Mystics, arguing that while Prayerfulness is the more grounded and truly wise of the two books, The New Mystics (with its colorful descriptions of miracle workers, both past and present) is wilder, edgier, and even just plain more fun.
Perhaps its telling that, even though I found Prayerfulness to be “at times… rather dry” and “less fun” than The New Mystics, this is the book I’ve finished first. Perhaps “tame” versus “wildness” is not all that compelling of a competition after all. I know that the main reason this question bugs me is because of the implication it has for my own writing. I want my work to be as mature and well-grounded as that of Robert J. Wicks, but simultaneously as exciting, in-your-face, and fun to read as the writing of John Crowder. Sigh. I suppose it’s dangerous to try to make music that is simultaneously soothing and danceable (although maybe some of the better chillout music comes close). If I’m not careful, I run the risk of my work failing both in terms of its readability and its wisdom. So, at the end of the day all I can do is try to be as true to myself, and my vision, and my faith, and my sense of where God is leading my writing, as best I can. And hopefully it will be wise and it will be wild. Not just wildness tempered by wisdom and/or wisdom tempered by wildness. But rather, something entirely new — even while it is fully grounded in tradition.
Okay, if I try to squeeze one more paradox into my creative aspirations I think my head will explode. Go buy Prayerfulness and give it to someone you love this holiday season (even if that someone is yourself). It really is a lovely book.
Quote for the Day
The hound that runs after the hare only because he sees the other hounds running will rest when he is tired, or go home again. But if he runs because he’s seen the hare, he won’t stop, however tired he gets, until he has caught it.
— Walter Hilton, The Stairway of Perfection
Lectio Divina as a tool for… creating an Action Plan?!?
I nicked the following graphic from the Paulist Press website, where they are promoting their new Catholic Prayer Bible: Lectio Divina Edition. It’s coming out in a couple of months; and when I first heard about it, I was excited at the concept: a Bible designed to support the practice of lectio divina. Wow. I was looking forward not only to acquiring my own copy, but to selling it through the store where I work.
But then I saw this graphic, and my anticipation turned to dismay. Look at it carefully: it boldly pronounces to the world that the four step process of lectio consists of reading, reflection, prayer, and action.
Action?!?!?!
I don’t know about you, but the last time I checked what Guigo II had to say, the classical model of lectio consisted of these four steps: lectio, meditatio, oratio and contemplatio. Okay, so lectio is reading, meditatio can be interpreted as reflection, and oratio certainly is a key form of prayer.
But since when is contemplatio a code word for action?!?!?!? Have we as a culture become so frightened of contemplation that we have to re-invent the very spiritual practices that were designed to foster contemplation, so that they function as self-help programs instead?
Okay, I realize I’m reacting to an ad. Maybe this was designed by some overzealous undergraduate intern who doesn’t know any better. Maybe the actual Bible will retain the original understanding of lectio. One can hope.
But — if this ad is accurate and the commentary in this Bible really does re-invent lectio divina as some sort of spiritualized goal-setting exercise rather than as an invitation to contemplation, then I cannot in good conscience recommend this book. We shall see.
Quote for the Day
Goodness of will in a person is God’s infused love, with which a person practices the things of God and all the virtues. Goodness of will is God’s grace and our own supernatural life, with which we struggle against every sin and win the victory. United with God’s grace, a good will sets us free, raising us up above ourselves and uniting us with God in a contemplative way of life. In turning inward to God, a good will is a spirit crowned with eternal love, while in turning outward it is the master of its exterior good works. It is itself the kingdom in which God reigns with his grace. In it lives charity, wich is our loving affection for God. When raised above itself, it is blessed and united with God. Through it we die to sin and acquire a virtuous way of life, and in it we possess peace and harmony with all things.
— John Ruusbroec, A Mirror of Eternal Blessedness
(from The Spiritual Espousals and Other Works)
Sorry, but I’ll be a little late…
Recently I signed on to be part of a “blog tour” — in which different bloggers would read and reflect on Tony Jones’ new book, The Teaching of the Twelve: Believing & Practicing the Primitive Christianity of the Ancient Didache Community. I was supposed to write about this book on December 7. Alas, the gremlins of miscommunication did their work, and I did not receive my copy of the book until Tuesday — the day after I was scheduled to offer my .02 to the trans-blogged conversation. My apologies to Tony Jones, to Paraclete Press and to anyone following the blog tour who came to this blog looking for my own unique perspective: obviously, my own sense of ethics mandates that I not write about the book until I have a chance to read it, and given that my life right now is pretty largely devoted to Christmas retail, it may be a couple of days (or so) before I get the book read. But under the rubric of “better late than never,” I will read the book, and comment on it as soon as I can, even though the blog tour itself will have officially ended.
In the meantime, if you want to see what other folks have said about this book, visit Paraclete Press’s Didache page — and scroll down to see links to all the blogs that have written about this book.
Vision
Today is the feast day of Juan Diego: the visionary of Mexico who received the apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe in1531.
In Mysticism: The Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness, Evelyn Underhill has a chapter called “Voices and Visions.” Julian of Norwich was a visionary. So was Birgitta of Sweden, Hildegard of Bingen, Catherine of Siena, and Francis of Assisi. Receiving visions seems to be very much part of the stock in trade of the mystical life.
The prophet Joel, whom Peter quoted in his Pentecost sermon, said “It will come about after this that I will pour out My Spirit on all mankind; and your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.” Dreams and visions: are they merely the neon lights of the inner life? A yawning trap into which the gullible and naive and over-imaginative will inevitably fall? Or is there some real and important connection between being conscious of Divine presence and Union with God, and a heightened or altered experience of vision? While plenty of the “A list” mystics like those I mentioned above were truly supernatural visionaries, does this mean that all of us are called to receive such visions? Or can one be a true mystic in a much more humble and down to earth way?
I’m pretty much an agnostic about all this. I rather agree with John of the Cross, who in the Ascent of Mount Carmel suggests that supernatural “apprehensions” or knowledge, while potentially a genuine blessing, is also fraught with both psychological and spiritual dangers, chief among them being the capacity for self-delusion, ego-inflation, and pride: the idea that “God has chosen me so therefore I must be really special.” John sensibly counsels his readers that “all heavenly visions, revelations, and feelings — or whatever else one may desire to think on — are not worth as much as the least act of humility… Consequently souls should not look for their happiness in these supernatual apprehensions, but should strive to forget them for the sake of being free.” Ah, yes. Do old men dream dreams and do young men (and women) have visions? You bet. But these things are less important than humility, charity, and true freedom in the Spirit.
I’ve always loved the idea that the Holy Spirit can break through our psychic defenses and bring to us knowledge or insight that can have a truly transformational impact on who we are and how we function in the world. And I believe such “interruptions” are possible, even in our hyper-cynical age. But I also believe that such things should be neither defended against, nor actively sought. After all, there are no guarantees: a true vision might be far more terrifying than comforting. In the meantime, so much wisdom and insight is available to us all, through the riches of Sacred Scripture and the writings of the saints and mystics, and through the ordinary work of trying to grow in humility, charity, and the virtues. We don’t need the “neon lights” of supernatural visions, most of us. And to me, this is cause for great thanksgiving.
Now, I titled this post “Vision” rather than “Visions.” And that is because, while I think for most aspiring contemplatives the question of supernatural visions is more of a potential distraction than anything else, there is still a pretty important relationship between mysticism and vision — as in “learning to see more clearly.” Perhaps what the contemplative life calls most of us to is not the dramatic experiences of a Hildegard or a Julian, but rather to a more gentle path of learning to see all things with the eyes of love. The more we learn to use our eyes (and our mind’s eye) to see with love and humility and compassion, the more we will grow in true mystical vision — even if what we “see” never has any whiff of the extraordinary or supernatural about it at all. For the contemplative life — what Richard Rohr calls in his newest book, “learning to see as the mystics see” — is both entirely down to earth and utterly transformational. It will help us to have a new vision: the vision of the mystics, which is nothing more nor less than learning to see ordinary things the way God sees them.
And that kind of seeing would be the most amazing vision of all. May God grant it to us all. Amen.
