I am so sorry for posting the Sea-Worthy thing. It's not that what I said was necessarily bad, but it was sinful in that it caused me (and God forbid I should ever cause another person) to miss the mark.
Last night at Mass I realized how profane it is to try to capture a holy experience with words. To take a part of the Mass, especially a part that is so personal--the very words we say just before receiving Holy Communion and to try to capture their essence is impossible (because God is living, not static.)
There is nothing wrong with wanting to be sea-worthy, or able to withstand the waters, but the words, "I am not worthy to receive You" are so much more than that.
I am sorry for trying to capture God with a clever turn of phrase.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Vanity of Beans
Is all this--this striving to find the work that God has cut out for me-- an exercise in vanity?
I got the sweetest rejection I've ever had from Sister Mary yesterday. She thanked me for the offer to make a CD of my songs and donate all the proceeds to the monastery, but said that t wasn't something she could see happening. Too many details to work out. Her answer was so clear and sweet; I didn't feel bad at all. In fact I was thrilled that she took the time to respond to my email and explain why the CD thing wouldn't work out at this point in time.
But it made me realize how attached I am to whether people like my work or not. I am attached; I do care if my writing gets a good or bad response. I should (should?) be content to do the work: write the songs, sing the songs, make the rugs, knit the blankets, crochet the scarves, and cook the food, without caring so much whether or not they enhance my image. The important thing is: does the work glorify God? Does it bring comfort to people, or does it unsettle us in a way that makes us yearn for Him?
The work I do does not need to make me look good; the work I do should glorify God.
But I like work, and I like doing a good job. I like using the skills God gave me. It feels good to do the work and to know that I put my heart and soul into it.
It seems that when a certain chord is struck within us we start to seek God with an almost mindless passion---but when I say mindless I don’t mean stupid; I mean more than just intellect. I think of the way a little bean will push through the soil and then unfurl its leaves and reach-reach-reach for the light as if its life depended on it. Because it does.
I think that is what is happening when we are doing the work God wants us to do and doing it with the frame of mind that is most conducive to growth.
When I came home yesterday, after enjoying the high that came from Sister Mary’s email I opened the Seven Storey Mountain to page 224. Here is what I read:
“I began to desire to dedicate my life to God, to His service. The notion was still vague and obscure, and it was ludicrously impractical in the sense that I was already dreaming of mystical union when I did not even keep the simplest rudiments of the moral law. But this confidence of the reality of the goal, and confident that it could be achieved: and whatever element of presumption was in this confidence I am sure God excused, in His mercy, because of my stupidity and helplessness, and because I was really beginning to be ready to do whatever I thought He wanted me to do to bring me to Him…My internal contradictions were resolving themselves out, indeed, but still only on the plane of theory, not of practice: not for lack of goodwill, but because I was still so completely chained and fettered by my sins and attachments.” ---Thomas Merton.
Suddenly I saw how attached I was to getting my songs out there. Out where? I mean, really, God is everywhere and the songs are to God and for God. But they are also for comforting; I am a comforter. I feel, in my little bean-sprout way that I need to grow in this direction: giving comfort and sharing the infinitely rich and varied expressions of God’s love. The songs express love. That can't be bad. But being attached to whether or not they are ever heard by a wider audience runs the risk of feeding my vanity. It is good to grow and it is good to share our love of God, but not if we are just trying to make ourselves look good. I don't want to appear holy, but only to be holy.
I am very thankful that he showed me how attached I am to human approval. To extend the bean sprout analogy, He sees to it that I get turned ever so often so that I am getting sunlight from more than one direction, so I won’t grow all spindly and crooked; His discipline, the way He shows me my faults makes me stronger and more able to bear beans! Thanks be to God.
I got the sweetest rejection I've ever had from Sister Mary yesterday. She thanked me for the offer to make a CD of my songs and donate all the proceeds to the monastery, but said that t wasn't something she could see happening. Too many details to work out. Her answer was so clear and sweet; I didn't feel bad at all. In fact I was thrilled that she took the time to respond to my email and explain why the CD thing wouldn't work out at this point in time.
But it made me realize how attached I am to whether people like my work or not. I am attached; I do care if my writing gets a good or bad response. I should (should?) be content to do the work: write the songs, sing the songs, make the rugs, knit the blankets, crochet the scarves, and cook the food, without caring so much whether or not they enhance my image. The important thing is: does the work glorify God? Does it bring comfort to people, or does it unsettle us in a way that makes us yearn for Him?
The work I do does not need to make me look good; the work I do should glorify God.
But I like work, and I like doing a good job. I like using the skills God gave me. It feels good to do the work and to know that I put my heart and soul into it.
It seems that when a certain chord is struck within us we start to seek God with an almost mindless passion---but when I say mindless I don’t mean stupid; I mean more than just intellect. I think of the way a little bean will push through the soil and then unfurl its leaves and reach-reach-reach for the light as if its life depended on it. Because it does.
I think that is what is happening when we are doing the work God wants us to do and doing it with the frame of mind that is most conducive to growth.
When I came home yesterday, after enjoying the high that came from Sister Mary’s email I opened the Seven Storey Mountain to page 224. Here is what I read:
“I began to desire to dedicate my life to God, to His service. The notion was still vague and obscure, and it was ludicrously impractical in the sense that I was already dreaming of mystical union when I did not even keep the simplest rudiments of the moral law. But this confidence of the reality of the goal, and confident that it could be achieved: and whatever element of presumption was in this confidence I am sure God excused, in His mercy, because of my stupidity and helplessness, and because I was really beginning to be ready to do whatever I thought He wanted me to do to bring me to Him…My internal contradictions were resolving themselves out, indeed, but still only on the plane of theory, not of practice: not for lack of goodwill, but because I was still so completely chained and fettered by my sins and attachments.” ---Thomas Merton.
Suddenly I saw how attached I was to getting my songs out there. Out where? I mean, really, God is everywhere and the songs are to God and for God. But they are also for comforting; I am a comforter. I feel, in my little bean-sprout way that I need to grow in this direction: giving comfort and sharing the infinitely rich and varied expressions of God’s love. The songs express love. That can't be bad. But being attached to whether or not they are ever heard by a wider audience runs the risk of feeding my vanity. It is good to grow and it is good to share our love of God, but not if we are just trying to make ourselves look good. I don't want to appear holy, but only to be holy.
I am very thankful that he showed me how attached I am to human approval. To extend the bean sprout analogy, He sees to it that I get turned ever so often so that I am getting sunlight from more than one direction, so I won’t grow all spindly and crooked; His discipline, the way He shows me my faults makes me stronger and more able to bear beans! Thanks be to God.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
I Sigh With Open Mouth, Yearning for Your Commands
A year ago I made a commitment as an oblate to a religious order because I wanted to deepen my relationship with God. Like the psalmist I longed for personal direction; I could pray with all honesty, “I sigh with open mouth yearning for your commands.” (see Psalm 119)
So after the commitment ceremony I was so excited! I went right home and typed up my version of The Rule, trying to apply to my own life what St Benedict advised for monastic life. I couldn’t wait to get it in the mail to the director of oblates. I was crushed when she didn’t receive it with applause and esteem for my ability to write with insight, and she apparently didn't appreciate a little lighthearted humor either.
She said, “This is all about yourself!”
“Well of course it is.” I thought. “I live alone and I can’t tell anyone else what to do. This is the way I want to mimic life in a monastery because we imitate what we love. Like a little girl trying on her mother’s shoes I was trying on the Rule and trying to make it fit as best I could until I could grow into a mature oblate.”
She said, “As long as you say your prayers in the morning and in the evening, and go to Mass as often as possible you’ll be alright. If you can pray the Little Hours throughout the day that’s fine, but if you can’t just say ejaculatory prayers to Jesus when ever you think of Him; just tell Him how much you love him.”
I thought she was brushing me off, and I couldn’t believe she wasn’t thrilled to have me as an oblate. “Oh what wonderful things will happen now.” I had thought when I signed on. “The world is in for a treat!”
Pride is such a tricky sin. “How do we separate pride from the child-like certainty that God loves us?” That has been my year-long question. I have grappled with the intense longing for personal spiritual direction versus good direction of a general nature. I sigh with open mouth; I yearn for God’s commands! That is very up close and personal. I didn’t want just any old direction; I wanted a spiritual leader to direct me, myself, this individual. If I didn’t get the attention I wanted, them, “humph! “ I pouted. “I won’t be in your club, ha-ha”.
But finally I had the occasion to talk with Father James about my vocation; I told him I was already an oblate but it didn’t feel like enough--didn’t feel very solid. He asked me what the director of oblates told me to do so far. “What is her name?” He asked.
I was floored; I couldn’t even remember her name. That is how thoroughly I’d blocked the whole unpleasant experience of having my pride shot down at the very beginning of this undertaking.
But God is good. That very day a letter from the monastery came with a personal, handwritten letter from the director of oblates. She said I had been in her prayers and was asking if I still wanted to be an oblate.
Dear Sister, yes- yes- yes. I do want to be an oblate. And your instruction was very, very good. I am sorry it has taken a year for me to decide to follow it. My pride was layer after layer thick but your constant prayer (because it is your way of life and not just a fad) has finally managed to pierce through; I can see light! Thanks be to God.
So after the commitment ceremony I was so excited! I went right home and typed up my version of The Rule, trying to apply to my own life what St Benedict advised for monastic life. I couldn’t wait to get it in the mail to the director of oblates. I was crushed when she didn’t receive it with applause and esteem for my ability to write with insight, and she apparently didn't appreciate a little lighthearted humor either.
She said, “This is all about yourself!”
“Well of course it is.” I thought. “I live alone and I can’t tell anyone else what to do. This is the way I want to mimic life in a monastery because we imitate what we love. Like a little girl trying on her mother’s shoes I was trying on the Rule and trying to make it fit as best I could until I could grow into a mature oblate.”
She said, “As long as you say your prayers in the morning and in the evening, and go to Mass as often as possible you’ll be alright. If you can pray the Little Hours throughout the day that’s fine, but if you can’t just say ejaculatory prayers to Jesus when ever you think of Him; just tell Him how much you love him.”
I thought she was brushing me off, and I couldn’t believe she wasn’t thrilled to have me as an oblate. “Oh what wonderful things will happen now.” I had thought when I signed on. “The world is in for a treat!”
Pride is such a tricky sin. “How do we separate pride from the child-like certainty that God loves us?” That has been my year-long question. I have grappled with the intense longing for personal spiritual direction versus good direction of a general nature. I sigh with open mouth; I yearn for God’s commands! That is very up close and personal. I didn’t want just any old direction; I wanted a spiritual leader to direct me, myself, this individual. If I didn’t get the attention I wanted, them, “humph! “ I pouted. “I won’t be in your club, ha-ha”.
But finally I had the occasion to talk with Father James about my vocation; I told him I was already an oblate but it didn’t feel like enough--didn’t feel very solid. He asked me what the director of oblates told me to do so far. “What is her name?” He asked.
I was floored; I couldn’t even remember her name. That is how thoroughly I’d blocked the whole unpleasant experience of having my pride shot down at the very beginning of this undertaking.
But God is good. That very day a letter from the monastery came with a personal, handwritten letter from the director of oblates. She said I had been in her prayers and was asking if I still wanted to be an oblate.
Dear Sister, yes- yes- yes. I do want to be an oblate. And your instruction was very, very good. I am sorry it has taken a year for me to decide to follow it. My pride was layer after layer thick but your constant prayer (because it is your way of life and not just a fad) has finally managed to pierce through; I can see light! Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
An Army of Mighty Warriors
If my anguish had a sound it would sound like the cry of a peacock.
You know
that haunting,
almost human scream
that seems too big a sound for a bird to make.
It is a sound that causes the last rays of sun to run
from the encroaching darkness
and for shadows to begin to crouch in the alleys and behind the dumpsters.
It is a sound that can make the stones hurt.
And the trees weep.
And the first stars of evening to appear apologetically, as if they are sorry to be the bearers of bad news.
We all have crosses to bear.
I want to share this story with you because whatever your cross, I don’t want you to feel alone.
When I was growing up there were peacocks that roamed about by the peanut mill not far from my house. They always screamed at twilight. Maybe they cried at other times too; if they did I never heard them.
I have a memory of walking home one twilight. This memory does not exist in a liner story line. Instead it is like one of those disco mirror balls
that spin around and around,
and on each of the little,
individual mirrors
I can see my face contorted
in different expressions of anguish: Anger/Fear/Sadness/Despair/Anger/Fear/Sadness/Despair/Anger/Fear/Despair…it just spins around and around until I’m nauseous.
I don’t remember how old I was when this happened. All I know is that I still had to abide by the house rule that all kids have to be home before the street lights came on. So I was walking home, and because it was twilight the peacocks were screaming like violated children. I glanced through the window of a house I was passing by and I saw a fat lady shoving a piece of bologna into her mouth. I could see into her house because it was darker outside than it was in her kitchen. Her skin was ashen; her hair was the color of grease.
The ball spins and other images are reflected:
An alley.
Some mean boys with greasy hair
saying greasy things to me as they leaned out of the car windows.
The radio is blaring. The noise hurts my ears.
The ball spins so fast it makes me dizzy and the images are blurred.
The sky is three layers of subsequently darker blue, impossibly blue.
I am fighting mad.
Furious.
Terrified.
Spitting gravel mad.
I can’t tell you what happened because it’s all jumbled up.
And that day was yesterday or maybe it was really a dream.
I don't know.
Things can happen in dreams that do not happen in real life.
But one thing I know, even though I don’t want to know.
This is what I know:
Sometimes a person can be crushed, broken, and torn apart even under the most beautiful sky, even when the sky becomes a fan of purple and cobalt blue, hiding the ruby, half closed eye of an indifferent sun.
Where did those colors come from?
I wonder.
How has the sky exploded into color?
If only I could make sense of the colors.
I can smell honeysuckle
but I can’t see where it’s growing.
The lady eats more bologna.
Now, many years later, as soon as the first lavender smudge of twilight appears in the sky I cringe in spite of myself. No matter how many times I remind myself that I am safe I still dread evening, I still fight the anguish that almost suffocates me every time the sun sets.
Praying the Liturgy of the Hours, and knowing that an entire army of people are praying too, makes it so much easier to bear. I didn't realize how much easier until I didn't have it for a few days.
Suffering is an inevitable part of the human experience, and we all have been wounded in one way or another. But I know that healing is possible. I can honestly say that even though I still struggle, my days are filled with far more joy than sorrow. But it seems to me that the more God reveals to us about His suffering, and about our own suffering, the deeper, if ever more mysterious our joy.
I don't understand it.
I am one warrior fighting a very dark enemy, but when I pray the Liturgy of Hours, especially with others, I know I am in the midst of an army of mighty warriors.
I thank God for putting the right books, teachers, friends, foster parents, doctors, social workers, religious leaders and lay ministers (including, maybe especially, divineoffice.org)into my life. I thank God for all the quiet trees and mountain brooks, the music, the poetry and the visual arts that I believe God uses to resonate our souls from a broken state into something wholesome. I thank God for giving us the capacity, as human beings, to become stronger by sharing our vulnerabilities.
You know
that haunting,
almost human scream
that seems too big a sound for a bird to make.
It is a sound that causes the last rays of sun to run
from the encroaching darkness
and for shadows to begin to crouch in the alleys and behind the dumpsters.
It is a sound that can make the stones hurt.
And the trees weep.
And the first stars of evening to appear apologetically, as if they are sorry to be the bearers of bad news.
We all have crosses to bear.
I want to share this story with you because whatever your cross, I don’t want you to feel alone.
When I was growing up there were peacocks that roamed about by the peanut mill not far from my house. They always screamed at twilight. Maybe they cried at other times too; if they did I never heard them.
I have a memory of walking home one twilight. This memory does not exist in a liner story line. Instead it is like one of those disco mirror balls
that spin around and around,
and on each of the little,
individual mirrors
I can see my face contorted
in different expressions of anguish: Anger/Fear/Sadness/Despair/Anger/Fear/Sadness/Despair/Anger/Fear/Despair…it just spins around and around until I’m nauseous.
I don’t remember how old I was when this happened. All I know is that I still had to abide by the house rule that all kids have to be home before the street lights came on. So I was walking home, and because it was twilight the peacocks were screaming like violated children. I glanced through the window of a house I was passing by and I saw a fat lady shoving a piece of bologna into her mouth. I could see into her house because it was darker outside than it was in her kitchen. Her skin was ashen; her hair was the color of grease.
The ball spins and other images are reflected:
An alley.
Some mean boys with greasy hair
saying greasy things to me as they leaned out of the car windows.
The radio is blaring. The noise hurts my ears.
The ball spins so fast it makes me dizzy and the images are blurred.
The sky is three layers of subsequently darker blue, impossibly blue.
I am fighting mad.
Furious.
Terrified.
Spitting gravel mad.
I can’t tell you what happened because it’s all jumbled up.
And that day was yesterday or maybe it was really a dream.
I don't know.
Things can happen in dreams that do not happen in real life.
But one thing I know, even though I don’t want to know.
This is what I know:
Sometimes a person can be crushed, broken, and torn apart even under the most beautiful sky, even when the sky becomes a fan of purple and cobalt blue, hiding the ruby, half closed eye of an indifferent sun.
Where did those colors come from?
I wonder.
How has the sky exploded into color?
If only I could make sense of the colors.
I can smell honeysuckle
but I can’t see where it’s growing.
The lady eats more bologna.
Now, many years later, as soon as the first lavender smudge of twilight appears in the sky I cringe in spite of myself. No matter how many times I remind myself that I am safe I still dread evening, I still fight the anguish that almost suffocates me every time the sun sets.
Praying the Liturgy of the Hours, and knowing that an entire army of people are praying too, makes it so much easier to bear. I didn't realize how much easier until I didn't have it for a few days.
Suffering is an inevitable part of the human experience, and we all have been wounded in one way or another. But I know that healing is possible. I can honestly say that even though I still struggle, my days are filled with far more joy than sorrow. But it seems to me that the more God reveals to us about His suffering, and about our own suffering, the deeper, if ever more mysterious our joy.
I don't understand it.
I am one warrior fighting a very dark enemy, but when I pray the Liturgy of Hours, especially with others, I know I am in the midst of an army of mighty warriors.
I thank God for putting the right books, teachers, friends, foster parents, doctors, social workers, religious leaders and lay ministers (including, maybe especially, divineoffice.org)into my life. I thank God for all the quiet trees and mountain brooks, the music, the poetry and the visual arts that I believe God uses to resonate our souls from a broken state into something wholesome. I thank God for giving us the capacity, as human beings, to become stronger by sharing our vulnerabilities.
holy orders
I am just an ordinary rock, but there is new life growing from my broken spaces. Can a flower grow from broken rocks? Because the joy that is filling up all the broken spaces is a joy that cries to be expressed the way flower longs to open up to the sun. A rose blushes and exudes fragrance, an Elm tree lifts her arms and cradles the breeze; what is it, God, that You want to express through me? Is it vanity that makes me want to show my true colors, that makes me want to "give utterance to that which is inside me?"
I spoke with Father James, telling him about this longing to become more fully what God intended me to be, that I've been looking into different religoius orders because I am afraid to follow my own whims. I need a gardener, someone who will look at the spots on my leaves and know that I need a different kind of nutrient and feed it to me. Or if he sees a crazy offshoot that needs to be pruned he will prune it. And he will know how much water and what kind of light I need. I need a superior, someone who will give me Holy Orders. Right now, sickness dictates how I live my life. Some days I hurt so much that I can barely move, some days I am more able to be out and about, to be of service to people. But I can't commit to anything because I never know if I'll be able to follow through. I am so inconsistent. I want my life to be directed by higher orders than illness; illness is not the Superior I trust. Or is it? Is the illness itself pruning and shaping me into what God wants me to be? I pray for submission to His will whatever it may be.
I spoke with Father James, telling him about this longing to become more fully what God intended me to be, that I've been looking into different religoius orders because I am afraid to follow my own whims. I need a gardener, someone who will look at the spots on my leaves and know that I need a different kind of nutrient and feed it to me. Or if he sees a crazy offshoot that needs to be pruned he will prune it. And he will know how much water and what kind of light I need. I need a superior, someone who will give me Holy Orders. Right now, sickness dictates how I live my life. Some days I hurt so much that I can barely move, some days I am more able to be out and about, to be of service to people. But I can't commit to anything because I never know if I'll be able to follow through. I am so inconsistent. I want my life to be directed by higher orders than illness; illness is not the Superior I trust. Or is it? Is the illness itself pruning and shaping me into what God wants me to be? I pray for submission to His will whatever it may be.
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