First Sunday of Advent
"Be watchful! Be alert! You do not know when the time will come."
--Mark 13: 33
"God is likely to come into our presence at just about any moment, and we do well to be watchful for such moments. God in each person we live and work with. God in each stranger we pass on the street. God in the earth and the cosmos we so often take for granted. God in a crowded theater and in the privacy of your own home. Be watchful, be ready. Cultivate eyes ready to see God in any and all places, any and all circumstances...Overwhelming grace when you least expect it."
--Mitch Finley
Thus begins Advent, the season on watching, of expectation, the season of contemplation.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Infused Faith
"Contemplation is the highest expression of man's intellectual and spiritual life. It is that life itself, fully awake, fully active, fully aware that it is alive. It is spiritual wonder. It is spontaneous awe at the sacredness of life, of being...It is a vivid realization of the fact that life and being in us proceed from an invisible, transcendent and infinitely abundant Source."
--Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation
I recently picked up Merton's New Seeds again to study it thoughtfully. It was one of the first Merton books I read, probably just under 20 years ago. I remember reading it breathlessly then, rapidly, with awe and wonder. It moves me just the same now that I am more mature and weathered in my own faith and understanding, but I resist the urge to plunge through it this time, opting instead to meditate with it one sentence, one paragraph at a time.
Merton begins with an extended reflection on what contemplation is. The definition is extremely important, because as an adjective (as in "contemplative spirituality"), the word describes a particular, unique state of being that is, according to Merton, the summit of all spiritual life, the essence of faith itself lived this side of the grave. According to Merton, contemplation is not an intellectual or emotional experience, though it holds intellect and emotion within itself. In fact, contemplation embraces the totality of human experience, while transcending any particular form of intuition or experience.
Contemplation is awareness of God, and it is something that I speculate all people have experienced, though they might not have had the vocabulary to name it as such. Understanding Merton's meaning of the word, I can say I have been blessed to experience contemplation myself, probably on a regular basis. I emphasize that I am "blessed" with this experience because one of the things Merton emphasizes, along with many other saints, is that contemplation is a grace. It is not something we earn or achieve. It is something that comes to us, though it is not simply available to a chosen few, but is the birthright and destiny of every soul.
Contemplation wraps itself around me in those fleeting moments of human experience when I intuitively feel my own, infinite connection to all other people, when I am suddenly stunned by the tragic beauty of life, the vast interconnection of all things. In those moments, I am keenly aware of my own human brokenness, along with the brokenness of all creation, but I am also aware of a loving Presence, a sense of underlying wholeness and completeness that heals my individual woundedness and the wounds of the entire universe. I experience a kind of unconditional love that embraces all beings and being itself.
The experience is not an emotion, per se, though it is usually accompanied by a host of emotions and thoughts, especially gratitude and humility and compassion. And it usually passes pretty quickly. It is a foretaste of the fulfillment we are destined for in eternity, and it is a consolation offered to all people. It is exquisite, undeserved, and partial enough to leave us filled with a yearning for more. It is God's self embracing us, promising completeness beyond our wildest imagination. When we experience it, we experience infused faith, a confidence of heart that is beyond intellectual assent or emotional response.
While contemplation is not something we can achieve, as the essence of spiritual experience itself, it is worthy of study and observation, and as I understand it, it can sometimes be the fruit of a life well lived. I pray today that my meditations on this book bring more abundant life to myself and others.
--Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation
I recently picked up Merton's New Seeds again to study it thoughtfully. It was one of the first Merton books I read, probably just under 20 years ago. I remember reading it breathlessly then, rapidly, with awe and wonder. It moves me just the same now that I am more mature and weathered in my own faith and understanding, but I resist the urge to plunge through it this time, opting instead to meditate with it one sentence, one paragraph at a time.
Merton begins with an extended reflection on what contemplation is. The definition is extremely important, because as an adjective (as in "contemplative spirituality"), the word describes a particular, unique state of being that is, according to Merton, the summit of all spiritual life, the essence of faith itself lived this side of the grave. According to Merton, contemplation is not an intellectual or emotional experience, though it holds intellect and emotion within itself. In fact, contemplation embraces the totality of human experience, while transcending any particular form of intuition or experience.
Contemplation is awareness of God, and it is something that I speculate all people have experienced, though they might not have had the vocabulary to name it as such. Understanding Merton's meaning of the word, I can say I have been blessed to experience contemplation myself, probably on a regular basis. I emphasize that I am "blessed" with this experience because one of the things Merton emphasizes, along with many other saints, is that contemplation is a grace. It is not something we earn or achieve. It is something that comes to us, though it is not simply available to a chosen few, but is the birthright and destiny of every soul.
Contemplation wraps itself around me in those fleeting moments of human experience when I intuitively feel my own, infinite connection to all other people, when I am suddenly stunned by the tragic beauty of life, the vast interconnection of all things. In those moments, I am keenly aware of my own human brokenness, along with the brokenness of all creation, but I am also aware of a loving Presence, a sense of underlying wholeness and completeness that heals my individual woundedness and the wounds of the entire universe. I experience a kind of unconditional love that embraces all beings and being itself.
The experience is not an emotion, per se, though it is usually accompanied by a host of emotions and thoughts, especially gratitude and humility and compassion. And it usually passes pretty quickly. It is a foretaste of the fulfillment we are destined for in eternity, and it is a consolation offered to all people. It is exquisite, undeserved, and partial enough to leave us filled with a yearning for more. It is God's self embracing us, promising completeness beyond our wildest imagination. When we experience it, we experience infused faith, a confidence of heart that is beyond intellectual assent or emotional response.
While contemplation is not something we can achieve, as the essence of spiritual experience itself, it is worthy of study and observation, and as I understand it, it can sometimes be the fruit of a life well lived. I pray today that my meditations on this book bring more abundant life to myself and others.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Mystery of Who We Are
"The angel showed me the river of life-giving water, sparkling like crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the street. On either side of the river grew the tree of life...Nothing accursed will be found anymore."
--Rev. 22:1-3
We buried my wife's aunt on the day after Thanksgiving. Like any good funeral, it was a day of both hope and sadness. After the Mass, we processed to the cemetery, a short walk down a country road from the church. The November sky was overcast and the wind was blustery, forcing us to huddle as we walked. I gazed down the road ahead at the long procession of loved ones, lead by the pall bearers gently carrying the departed.
We walked in silence, and I was suddenly struck by the image of all of us walking, not to our aunt's grave, but to our own. The feeling echoed a moment during communion a few minutes before, when I followed brother-in-law and nephews up the aisle to receive the Body of Christ, and I was acutely aware of the mortality of us all, that some day we would bury each other, one by one, until it was my turn, and then my nephews would follow, and every single one of us will pass from this body.
As I watched our collective procession to the grave, a great ocean of emotion stirred within me: sadness, for myself and for everyone else, a sense of loss and grief, but also a great sense of hope. Just as we were walking to the grave together, we had walked to communion together, a family united by God's grace and love. We are one in our brokeness, in our woundedness, and especially in our mortality. But we are also one in God's redemption, one in our love for each other, one in our faith and hope that we are intimately and inextricably connected far beyond the connections of family and social ties. We are the Body of Christ.
Being the Body of Christ does not spare us from the sadness of pain and loss, the surrender of what we want for ourselves. Jesus' own life gives abundant example of this. So we are, without question, walking to the grave together, and the suffering and grief that attends that passage. But we are most surely walking beyond that point--together--into a wholeness, a completeness, a glory and joy far beyond our meager imaginations. That is the mystery of life, the mystery of death, the mystery of Eucharist itself.
--Rev. 22:1-3
We buried my wife's aunt on the day after Thanksgiving. Like any good funeral, it was a day of both hope and sadness. After the Mass, we processed to the cemetery, a short walk down a country road from the church. The November sky was overcast and the wind was blustery, forcing us to huddle as we walked. I gazed down the road ahead at the long procession of loved ones, lead by the pall bearers gently carrying the departed.
We walked in silence, and I was suddenly struck by the image of all of us walking, not to our aunt's grave, but to our own. The feeling echoed a moment during communion a few minutes before, when I followed brother-in-law and nephews up the aisle to receive the Body of Christ, and I was acutely aware of the mortality of us all, that some day we would bury each other, one by one, until it was my turn, and then my nephews would follow, and every single one of us will pass from this body.
As I watched our collective procession to the grave, a great ocean of emotion stirred within me: sadness, for myself and for everyone else, a sense of loss and grief, but also a great sense of hope. Just as we were walking to the grave together, we had walked to communion together, a family united by God's grace and love. We are one in our brokeness, in our woundedness, and especially in our mortality. But we are also one in God's redemption, one in our love for each other, one in our faith and hope that we are intimately and inextricably connected far beyond the connections of family and social ties. We are the Body of Christ.
Being the Body of Christ does not spare us from the sadness of pain and loss, the surrender of what we want for ourselves. Jesus' own life gives abundant example of this. So we are, without question, walking to the grave together, and the suffering and grief that attends that passage. But we are most surely walking beyond that point--together--into a wholeness, a completeness, a glory and joy far beyond our meager imaginations. That is the mystery of life, the mystery of death, the mystery of Eucharist itself.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Harvest
Feast of St. Catherine of Alexandria
"Another angel came out of the temple, crying out in a loud voice to the one sitting on the cloud, 'Use your sickle and reap the harvest, for the time to reap has come, because the earth's harvest is fully ripe.'"
--Revelation 14:15
Today's scripture readings are full of apocalyptic imagery. These kinds of passages usually leave me feeling uneasy and skeptical, wondering more about the human authors' agendas in writing such world-shattering visions than on possible legitimate spiritual messages. Lately, however, I have responded to this kind of scripture with interest and awe, and can see the hand of the Spirit reaching out to us through even these difficult readings. I don't know why my heart has changed in this way. Perhaps I am longing for a harvest of some sort.
Yesterday I shared a conversation with a friend who lost her young brother to a car accident recently, followed moments later by the news that a beloved aunt in my wife's family had passed after a short but brutal illness.
The message in scripture seems to be that God did not intend the pain and suffering of this temporal world and that He is rapidly bringing it to fulfillment. These tragedies are not the final word on the human experience. In due time, and by ways far too mysterious for our meager minds, God is restoring us to a wholeness and completeness that was His original intent and our ultimate destiny.
"Another angel came out of the temple, crying out in a loud voice to the one sitting on the cloud, 'Use your sickle and reap the harvest, for the time to reap has come, because the earth's harvest is fully ripe.'"
--Revelation 14:15
Today's scripture readings are full of apocalyptic imagery. These kinds of passages usually leave me feeling uneasy and skeptical, wondering more about the human authors' agendas in writing such world-shattering visions than on possible legitimate spiritual messages. Lately, however, I have responded to this kind of scripture with interest and awe, and can see the hand of the Spirit reaching out to us through even these difficult readings. I don't know why my heart has changed in this way. Perhaps I am longing for a harvest of some sort.
Yesterday I shared a conversation with a friend who lost her young brother to a car accident recently, followed moments later by the news that a beloved aunt in my wife's family had passed after a short but brutal illness.
The message in scripture seems to be that God did not intend the pain and suffering of this temporal world and that He is rapidly bringing it to fulfillment. These tragedies are not the final word on the human experience. In due time, and by ways far too mysterious for our meager minds, God is restoring us to a wholeness and completeness that was His original intent and our ultimate destiny.
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