untitled misc.

Tonight I was reading from “Simply Surrender” a collection of St. Therese of Lisieux’s writings gathered and combined with devotional prayers by the editor John Kirvan.  I understand this book is one in a series of devotionals based on the writings of highly regarded Christian mystics, “Christianity’s most beloved spiritual guides” as it states on the back cover.  Here’s some snippets that touched me tonight.

When everything looks black, it is indeed a heavy cross.  But you are not always to blame when this happens.  Do everything you can to detach yourself from passing cares, and then rest assured that your Father will do the rest.

and here’s another…

Do not be afraid to tell Jesus that you love him, even when you do not actually feel that love.  In this way you will compel him to come to you and carry you, like the child you will always be, too weak to walk on your own.”

and this one is precious.  To quote too much more would really stretch the understanding of publishers and plagiarism, but the context is God’s mercy and ready embrace, like the Father of the Prodigal Son, unfailingly ready to take us back in forgiveness and love…

Our Lord has every imaginable perfection but — dare I say it — he has one great handicap.  When it comes to his love for us, he is blind.  His heart thrills with joy when he has to deal with those who truly love, and who, after each little fault, fling themselves into his arms, imploring forgiveness.  He says to his angels what the prodigal’s father said to his servants: “Put a ring upon his finger, and let us rejoice.”

No more tepidity for now!

I’m re-reading a book my spiritual director has re-loaned me again: “Crossing the Desert; Learning to let go, see clearly, and live simply” by Robert J. Wicks. Excellent book! I’d like to share a couple of quotes from it that are especially touching and/or convicting to me at the present time:

“Humility is the ability to fully appreciate our innate gifts and our current “growing edges” in ways that enable us to learn, act, and flow with our lives as never before. Prior to this important passage [through the narrow gate of humility] we may be drained by defensiveness or wander in our own desert chasing a false image of self that has nothing to do with who we are really meant to be.”

and another…

“[Humility] will also allow us to have the perspective, peace, and joy that comes when we know and value our ordinary transparent selves without wasting the energy it takes to add or subtract anything from whom we really are.”

and one more…

“Humility opens up a space for sound self-respect in lieu of inordinate self-doubt or unbridled self-assurance. A space for the courage needed to be ordinary instead of wasting all of our time chasing after what we believe will make us someone special.”

Let’s just say my growing edges are chafing a little right now. But the good news is I can see a little crack of light. I think I’m progressing toward that light that finally (maybe!) starts letting go of some of the wanderlust in the ol’ desert.

Time will tell. (Be near, oh God.)

Failure to Care?

Today’s quote comes from The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages” by Joan Chittister, O.S.B.

“After years of trying to achieve a degree of spiritual depth with little result, after a lifetime of uphill efforts with little to show for it, the lure is to let it be, to stop where we are, to coast. We begin to make peace with tepidity. We begin to do what it takes to get by but little that it takes to get on with the spiritual life. We do the exercises but we cease to “listen with the heart.” We do the externals – the church-going and the church-giving – and we call ourselves religious, but we have long since failed to care. A sense of self-sacrifice dies in us and we obey only the desires and the demands within us.”

(Chittister expanding on Benedict’s caution against being a Sarabaite, one who has a character “soft as lead” taking for themselves a law of what they like to do. A “most detestable” kind of monastic as described by Benedict. Italicized emphases in the Chittister selection are mine.)

********

One need not be a monastic to see themselves in this. I suspect a Sarabaite was “nice” enough, maybe even well-meaning enough. Chittister goes on to comment that this is a religious practice of comfort and being comfortable. A life filled with God’s love and joy tends to be one lived on the growing edges, I think, quite frequently. Growing edges aren’t always safe or cozy. Tepidity is comfortable. “Being good” can be comfortable. Looking good can be more so. Comfortable sometimes keeps us from living life to the fullest though, I think sometimes.

Heavenly Father, draw me ever nearer to your fiery heart of love, a place where all tepidity is banished and wholly out of place. Give me eyes to see as you see, ears to hear what I should hear and a heart that responds, that burns with love for you and my fellow creatures. Keep me from coasting to that valley where I fail to care. If you find me slipping and coasting back down the hill, lift me up to you until I can be made stronger to follow you more nearly and dearly. Nudge me out of the mere comfort zone and ho-hum complacency into the places where love is found, and is sorely needed. Let me live there and share there and CARE there. Amen.

Good for nothing…NOT!

Quoted from, “The Story of a Life, St. Therese of Lisieux” by Guy Gaucher, O.C.D.

‘St. Teresa says we must feed the fire of love. We feed this fire of love by searching for all the little occasions to please Jesus … for example, a smile,  a friendly word, when I would have preferred to say nothing or look bored, etc.

What matters is the essential and not the appearance, the kernel and not the shell.  Jesus strips us so as to show that he is the one who is at work.  And these   poor little souls, seeing themselves in such great poverty, are afraid.  It seems to them that they are good for nothing since they receive everything from others and have nothing to give.’

Good for nothing.  She knew what she was talking about. She who worked at painting, while sturdy peasants vigorously got on with the heavy community work, knew the humiliation of beng thought useless: ‘Several sisters kept saying that she was doing nothing, that it seemed she had come to Carmel to amuse herself.’

How does Jesus call you to feed the fire of love?  Do you suffer, either outwardly or inwardly by a judgment from others that you are useless and not contributing?  Remember that Jesus calls us to give what he desires, not what always  “looks good” or is manically “productive.”  Sometimes, Jesus just wants our time and our gaze, I think.  What does it do to our souls when we give too much attention to those (or ourselves, if we are the judger?) who judge our actions, particularly our actions of love? What do we lose when we strive to be productive at the cost of carving out time for listening and responding to the still small, maddeningly at times subtle voice of God?  I don’t know about you, but for me it sure is easy to be discouraged or humiliated or stressed out when I don’t feel like (or genuinely can’t be!) a “valuable” producer.  And yet, in my clearer moments I know that is making it all about me, and taking me farther from the Jesus I long for.  Much to ponder.  Much to pray over…

God is in the Here and Now.

“The family is not just a routine relationship; it is our sanctification. Work is not just a job; it is our exercise in miracle making” from the jan.5-may 6-sept.5 meditation

Also from the jan.5-may 6-sept.5 meditation: God is neither cajoled nor captured, the rule makes plain. God is in the Here and Now in Benedictine spirituality. It is we who are not. It is we who are trapped in the past, angry at what formed us, fixated on a future that is free from pain or totally under our control. But God is in our present, waiting for us there.

Quotes come from “The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages” by Joan Chittister.

Humility

courtesy of http://tinyurl.com/dx6cz6

The humble man receives praise the way a clean window takes the light of the sun. The truer and more intense the light is, the less you see of the glass.

Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation Chapter 25

Belated Ash Wednesday Ponderings/Confessions

Hey there! I have Episcopal readers, and I have some evangelical readers I think. If you’ve been with me a while, you may be aware that I was raised Roman Catholic. We Catholics “do Lent.” Episcopalians also “do Lent” though not quite to the same legalistic degree as the Lenten observances I was encouraged to as a child. But I wouldn’t abandon a Lenten season, and I see more Protestants are observing Lenten piety than ever.

Just now I made a page with the entire pre-Eucharist Ash Wednesday liturgy, as it occurs in an Episcopal church. You can find it here on my blog (and on the top margin, too!), with links to my original source material there. And I found a phrase of the penitential rite that was fitting for me, and my spiritual pathway of the moment. It is simply this:

…We confess to you, Lord.

Our anger at our own frustration, and our envy of those
more fortunate than ourselves,
We confess to you, Lord.

I appreciate the recognition and calling-out to our attention from our prayer book regarding this particular piccadillo as “sin” worthy of confessing, reflecting on, and repenting for. Okay, sure, envy of others is pretty obvious. One of those seven deadly ones, undoubtedly. But what of that first part: anger at our own frustration. How many “good” people work themselves into a lather over not being good enough, or competent enough, or perfect enough to be “worthy” to stand at their mere job or family position, let alone stand before the throne of (our merciful, forgiving, loving) God? (do I detect a little involuntary confessional head-nodding from my side of the computer keyboard???) And so often, these people (“people” equals me, too, of course; my bad!) believe this working of themselves into the lather to be evidence of their goodness and even a sort of repentant, sorrowful piety before an inflexible God. And yet, it’s just another twisted form of pride, isn’t it? Frustration that I am not perfect. <faux gasp!>

I missed Ash Wednesday services this year. I had a rough preceding week that made me part lazy, part exhausted, and part scatterbrained. Friday through Monday had me running from house to grandparents to hospital while my husband recuperated from an unexpected, slightly emergent heart procedure. (it is assumed to be a viral infection with greater than expected inflammation, and fluid accumulation…not likely to be an ongoing problem, but one that will require a few followup appointments with cardiology and hematology. Would welcome your prayers in that regard for a non-remarkable report after those appointments are complete!) Then Tuesday I had one of the worst days at work I’ve had in a long time. The new system contributed to my stress level. Some demanding patients, some legitimately so due to health status and/or disability, some unkindly so with no outwardly apparent explanation (but who knows what really goes on in their inner lives of course. <sigh>), added to my stress level. I was too busy to eat lunch, too busy to drink a sufficient quantity to even desire to use the restroom. Had to tidy up a few unfinished tasks after closing, and was late to a family function as a result. Just really didn’t feel like going to church on my much-needed day off on Wednesday.

Now I regret it though. I miss that “invitation, in the name of the Church, to an observance of a Holy Lent.” It’s just not the same in solitude as it is to be gathered in community as the body of Christ. But my missing it was the prompt for my reading over the liturgy here at home, sort of after the fact. It’s a good one. A rich and useful prayer, that is, this liturgy. No Ash Wednesday is complete without a prayerful meditation over Psalm 51 in my opinion. I recommend it and the rest of the Book of Common Prayer’s Ash Wednesday liturgy for your use or consideration.

But yeah, that whole frustration with self is a biggie for me at many times, and particularly right now with this new computer system at work. Must be patient with self. Must relax. Not easy.

Is there a part of these prayers that particularly speaks to you at your place in the faith journey/struggle as you’re experiencing it right now? Leave a comment, I’d love to hear from you!

I enjoy taking some time to wrestle prayerfully/thoughtfully with the spiritual and incarnational realities of our God during the season of Lent. Earthy, fleshy life and ministry with attendant joys and suffering. Spiritual, supernatural results and ripples of that ministry and resurrection life. Hmmm…. Much to pray over and ponder, no?

May you be blessed on your journey, whereever it leads you.

All I’ve Ever Wanted

Hey everyone! If you’re still with me, sorry for the lengthy absence. But I figured writing nothing was better than writing ABOUT nothing.

I’ve been pondering and feeling a bit guilty for awhile about my lack of a prayer discipline. I’ve been immersed in figuring out my new Christmas toy. An MP3 player. Never had one. Gave my mom a turntable to convert her vinyl collection to CD’s or MP3’s as she chooses. Gave me the bug to have all my music in one place, too. (Having a ball with my shiny new toy!)

It’s a trip back in time to relisten to old albums you nearly forgot you had. Especially with songs from your childhood, but in my case also one from my children’s younger childhood, that I never would have bought had it not been for them: the soundtrack to the movie, “Prince of Egypt.”

One of the songs has rather captured my attentions and self-examinations. As I recall it in the movie, the young adult Moses has early inklings of his true beginnings, and is conflicted over his true home/station/mission in life. In true musical fashion, he’s brooding while fondling the alabaster columns in his room, when music begins to swell in the background and soon he’s breaking into the following song in an attempt to quiet the inner conflict:

Gleaming in the moonlight
Cool and clean and all I’ve ever known
All I ever wanted
Sweet perfumes of incense
Graceful rooms of alabaster stone
All I ever wanted

This is my home
With my father, mother, brother
Oh so noble, oh so strong
Now I am home
Here among my trappings and belongings
I belong
And if anybody doubts it
They couldn’t be more wrong

I am a sovereign prince of Egypt
A son of the proud history that’s shown
Etched on ev’ry wall
Surely this is all I ever wanted
All I ever wanted
All I ever wanted…..

And it trails off, only to be joined shortly with a musical interlude that shows us cutting to his mother entering the scene and reassuring him of his proper place in the world, adding her own contribution to trying to squelch those inner voices in her son’s head.

This is your home, my son
Here the river brought you
And it’s here the river meant
To be your home
Now you know the truth, love
Now forget and be content
When the gods send you a blessing
You don’t ask why it was sent…

As these lyrics bounce about inside my own head, I wonder at my own self-assurances of soverignty and no need for roots, or God. I wonder about my life of privilege and how easily and frequently I fool myself into believing I’ve “earned it.” (on whose backs directly or indirectly does my privilege come, I wonder, much like Moses must have wondered, I suspect.) I wonder at how I fill my life with trappings and belongings and insist it’s all I ever wanted, in my own peculiar ways. And how I repeat it over and over again determinedly when that nagging wonder that there’s more to life than this tries to break in and make demands on me and my place in the world.

I mean, okay, it’s just one cheesy song, but here I am pondering it, curiously right in the midst of my newest trapping, taking my time and money and attentions. And yet, God finds a way to reach out to us, even still. Cool. Thanks, God.

Love of intention, re-pondered

Never give way to your feelings, she warned her sisters, and never rely on them either for your strength or your conviction. Having lost what she called “the sweetness of presence,” the alternative as a love of intention — an act of sheer will in the face of what emotionally feels impossible. This is the post-Christian spirituality of living heroically “as if,” not “because of” but “in spite of”.

I included this snippet recently in this post

I fear I’m finding myself in the midst of an unwarranted reliance on feelings for strength. And then needlessly beating myself up for being a “feeler.”

Hogwash!

Being a feeler is a great strength. Enjoying and PROFITING from the passion that feelings provide (when they are of the buoyant, ministry-enhancing variety) is both enjoyable and smart. Succumbing to negative feelings (doubts, feelings of lack of self-worth) and believing that they speak truth to you is silly. How do I reconcile this? Doesn’t it sound like straddling the fence, cherry-picking?

Maybe so. But I believe it is the truth.

Now, I just need to extricate myself from this lukewarm feelings quagmire. In some ways, that sort of lack of feeling-intensity is harder to deal with than frank discouragement. My current feelings are of mild (quite, quite mild) discouragement, but nothing approaching full-on dark night of the soul. To even intimate that would be insulting to those who have endured that struggle. Parallels, on a lesser scale, can be drawn and pondered though I think to my further enlightenment and growth. Lukewarm is not a fun place to be, having not even any obvious target to fight and pour one’s conquering or overcoming, battling energies into. <grumble> Litany of Humility, perhaps???

The love of Intention

The following snippets are excerpted from the article, “Toward a Post-Christian Spirituality” by W. Paul Jones in Weavings Jan/Feb 2009 issue.

Background: talking about lack of consolations in modern faith, lack of modern reinforcements for “easy” life of faith, etc. Example given is discovered journals of Mother Teresa’s struggles and doubts, and extended dark night of the soul.

Removed from consolations, caught tautly between longing and emptiness, Teresa became convinced that emotions are both unreliable and deceptive. Never give way to your feelings, she warned her sisters, and never rely on them either for your strength or your conviction. Having lost what she called “the sweetness of presence,” the alternative as a love of intention — an act of sheer will in the face of what emotionally feels impossible. This is the post-Christian spirituality of living heroically “as if,” not “because of” but “in spite of”.

And here’s a better couple of examples of phrasing “fake it till you make it” also found in the same article! How convenient so soon after my recent post on such a thing!

While taking the temptation of unbelief on herself (Teresa), her outward smile bridged others into belief. This was not pretending the untrue to be true, but was more like Augustine’s will to believe in order to understand, and Wesley’s instruction to doubting ministers to preach it until you believe it.

Hmm. On second thought, fake it till you make it is not too far from Wesley’s advice at all, is it?

Heavenly Father, brother incarnate suffering Jesus, help us to be faithful in spite of all that is around us. Console us if you can – cuz you know we’re not as strong as Mother Teresa. But in the final analysis, make us stronger, and bring us to you in the end. Amen.