Mercy Now

"The purpose of Lent is not only expiation, but above all a preparation to rejoice in God's love.  And this preparation consists in receiving the gift of His mercy--a gift we receive insofar as we open our hearts to it, casting out what cannot remain in the same room as mercy."

--Thomas Merton, Seasons of Celebration

This passage from Merton calls to mind a fantastic song, "Mercy Now," by Mary Gauthier.  It's a beautiful prayer for grace and mercy on us all for the big messes we make in our lives, in our families, in our workplaces, and in the world.  The song is also a call for us to have mercy on each other, and on ourselves.

Perhaps the hardest of all is mercy for ourselves.  I find in myself the need for mercy, often in the strangest places.   In a couple of days I'm going to leave for an overseas trip that will last a month.  It's an opportunity of a lifetime, at very little personal expense to myself, an experience that I am sure will grow me personally and professionally.  

And yet, there is a deep resistance within me.  Part of it is being away from my wife, part of it is letting go of many things at work and fretting about how much will be waiting for me when I return, part of it is fear of dealing non-stop with new, unfamiliar people (which I don't mind, but for an introvert, that's work), sleeping in strange beds, eating strange food, having a new routine, having less time to read, pray, write, and just be by myself.

I will be gone most of Lent.  Earlier in the week I was thinking about the Lenten implications of all these disruptions to my routine, and I started to think about my trip as a kind of Lenten journey in itself.  Lent takes us out of our comfort zones, and that's certainly what I'm about to do.  It will lay bare some of my basic fears of not being in control, and paradoxically my fears about both being overwhelmed by contact with others and my fears about being alone (the separation from my wife is weighing heavily on me, though I am sure we'll have nearly daily contact).  

Its not that I'm ungrateful for the opportunity, and I'm not consumed by these fears, but it goes to show how even in the midst of great excitement and new beginnings, there is much within ourselves that needs mercy.  For Lent, I'm going to give up a little bit of control, give myself a break, and try to have a good time in spite of all my hang ups and fears.  I'll blog here as I'm able.  Pray for my journey, and I'll be back soon.

Season of Healing

"We must remember the original meaning of Lent, as the ver sacrum, the Church's "holy spring" in which the catechumens were prepared for their baptism, and public penitents were made ready by penance for their restoration to the sacramental life in common with the rest of the Church. Lent is not a season of punishment so much as one of healing."

-Thomas Merton, Seasons of Celebration

I am just now beginning to feel normal after a four-day bout with a nasty virus that left me unable to eat, unable to go to work, barely able to write or read (only in short bursts--there are certain pleasures I insist on no matter what). I could not just rest quietly, either. I was forced to confront that absolute lack of control we have over even our own bodies when we are ill.

This illness was a small burden compared to those others face, I am sure, but after a few days I began to view it as a kind of pre-Lenten desert experience. It purged and cleansed me physically, and, if I had caught on to the idea sooner, might also have had some purgative spiritual effects as well. Maybe its not too late.

Today I'll start trying to eat again, but I do so with great mindfulness of what I am ingesting and how much. It's not just paranoia over making myself sick. I also have noticed how mindlessly I fill myself with all manner of sugar, caffeine, alcohol, fast food. Not that any of those are inherently bad. What's perhaps worse than the up-down effect it has on my body is how I just consume like a machine with little regard for the effect, or more importantly, the experience of the food, its taste, the company I am with, the pleasure of eating.

I return to work today as well. In just two days away, I have had to surrender control of many things, and I gained a little perspective. Just like eating food again, I approach work today with a little trepidation. Part of it is fear of being reconsumed into the whirlwind of busyness, manipulation, and other fakeness that characterizes so much of work. The other part, though, is a genuine desire to appreciate my work and its effects, to be grateful for the contribution I am making, and especially to more skillfully deal with my co-workers--probably the source of greatest frustration for me. My brief "desert experience" reveals clearly that I cannot transform my workplace, and especially my colleagues. I can't even transform myself. But I can begin to open myself up to being transformed. And that requires quiet, contemplation, listening, self-reflection--skills I've dabbled with during my four day "retreat."

I think that this is how Lent is supposed to work as a season of healing. I had the "grace" to be unwillingly sent on such a journey, but with Lent we get to intentionally create a kind of mini-desert experience for ourselves. By stepping back, withdrawing momentarily from our habitual patterns, our unskillfulness is revealed in all its messy glory. We experience some degree of shame, but also a desire for repentance, and God's unwavering openess to our return. Above all, the desert cleanses our perceptions, helps us see what was there all along, and opens us for real healing.

Saying "yes" to the present moment

"I do believe, help my unbelief!"
--Mark 9:24

Perhaps there is no statement in Scripture uttered by anyone other than God that is truer than this one. It is certainly the most beautifully human statement I can recall.

To acknowledge at once both our desire to believe and the limitations of our belief, the limitations of our desire to believe, in fact. And belief, of course, is far more than simple intellectual assent to some formula or doctrine. Belief, in this sense, is faith, the ultimate letting-go into the basic benevolence of the universe, a saying "yes" to whatever is unfolding in this present moment.

I've been trying to recover from a nasty virus the last three days. At various times I have prayed for healing and seethed with resentment that my body has betrayed me, especially during this all-important final week before my month-long travels. It did not occur to me, at least until just now, that the purest act of faith in this situation might have been to simply say "yes" to my illness, to accept and embrace the reality of my finite, mortal body in this complex, interdependent universe in this particular moment in time.

Doing so would not mean that I ceased to take care of myself or do the things needed to get better quickly. But it would mean that all the self-absorbed, existential resistance I put up to the present moment might give way to clarity, equanimity, and openness. Probably a much better condition for healing.

We believe, and we disbelieve, and somewhere in the dance between God meets us.

Solitude and Solidarity

"People brought to him a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. He took the blind man by the hand and led him out of the village."
-Mark 8:23

The Carmelites produce a wonderful little quarterly journal called Spiritual Life. The Fall 2008 issue includes an article from Susan Muto titled, "Flee to be Free: The Call of the Desert." Pdf version of the article here.

Dr. Muto writes that humans have a deep inner long for solitude, just as we also have a deep, innate desire and need for community:

The quest for solitude, to be alone with the Alone, is not confined to a monastic elite: it manifests itself in all people seeking to find the meaning of life; it is as natural an instinct as that for solidarity or the reaching out of oneself to find communion with like-minded others.

The story from today's Gospel reveals both dimensions. The blind man is brought to Jesus for healing by others, but Jesus calls him away into solitude to actually restore his sight.

Many who are called to a more contemplative life experience a similar paradox. We are called to silence and solitude, but we also crave the contact of others who understand this impulse, who can affirm and support this instinct. This is great charism of lay contemplative communities. It takes others to learn to be alone, and only by being alone can we really learn to be present for others.

Good Problems

"Do you not yet understand or comprehend?
Are your hearts hardened?
Do you have eyes and not see, ears and not hear?
And do you not remember,
when I broke the five loaves for the five thousand,
how many wicker baskets full of fragments you picked up?"
They answered him, "Twelve."
He said to them, "Do you still not understand?"
--Mark 8:14-21

Oops.

Yes, I do understand, but I forget.

I grumble and worry about problems at work, forgetting that there are millions who do not have a job.

I fret about the challenges of relationships, of finding the time to visit with friends and family and meet my many perceived social obligations, forgetting that there are those utterly alone.

I feel anxious about an upcoming trip overseas, forgetting that there are those who cannot move on their own, let alone who have the opportunity of a lifetime such as mine.

I am troubled over the many responsibilities I have because of owning a home, cars, and a myriad of consumer goods, forgetting that there are those who are homeless, penniless, who have nothing.

I feel unworthy and broken because of my short-sightedness and self-centeredness, forgetting that I am loved and redeemed and healed anyway, no matter how many times I forget.

Thank you for forgiving my forgetfulness, Lord. Thank you for these problems. Amen.

Sabbath

"So God rested on the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work he had done in creation."

--Genesis 2:3

God didn't need to rest, I am sure. So what is the Sabbath all about? After each work of God's creation, He reflected on it, and declared it "good." God took the time to step back from this holy work, to consider it, ponder it, and revel in its beauty and goodness. God did that.

Maybe God does need to rest, what do I know? I doubt it still. But what God does definitely need--or perhaps what God simply likes to do--is appreciate the wonder of the creative process, of being itself. God is an artist who is not simply content to create, but takes joy and even awe in the act of creating, and in the breathtaking nature of what is created, of what is.

We humans observe Sabbath for multiple reasons. Certainly we do in fact need rest, just as the earth needs to rest from our labors upon it, and the tools of our labor need rest, maintenance, restoration. The creative process of living is dependent on regular periods of rejuvenation.

But, just as we are made in God's image, perhaps we need Sabbath to also revel in the wonders of creation, both God's and our own. To ponder, contemplate, and allow ourselves moments of joy and awe. To look upon what we and God have accomplished, and to know that it is "good."

The pace and connectedness of modern life make it so that an actual Sabbath day is rare for most of us. For contemplatives, though, Sabbath is more than a day, it is an attitude toward life, a continual turning inward, to a place of rest, reflection, restoration, and revelation, allowing ourselves to be amazed at what we and God have wrought.

Praying for Healing

"They scurried about the surrounding country and began to bring in the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was."
--Mark 6:55

As I meditated on this passage today, the internal Judger within me immediately felt disdain for these people: "They were only seeking Jesus out to get what they wanted from him! I'll bet most of these folks took their healing and then high-tailed it back home, never to give him another thought."

Folks often say that what we judge in others the most is what we actually disdain in ourselves.

How many times have I prayed for my own self-serving needs, and how little has my heart been changed? How quickly have I forgotten the grace I received? And how generously God answered my prayers anyway, just as He did these people? We are not so different, any of us. And God loves us anyway, and wants our joy, and happiness, and healing.

The Country Beyond Words

"Teach me to go to the country beyond words and names. Teach me to pray on this side of the frontier...

I need to be led by you. I need my heart to be moved by you. I need my soul to be made clean by your prayer. I need my will to be made strong by you. I need the world to be saved and changed by you. I need you for all those who suffer, who are in prison, in danger, in sorrow. I need you for all the crazy people. I need your healing hand to work always in my life. I need you to make me, as you made your Son, a healer, a comforter, a savior. I need you to name the dead. I need you to help the dying cross their particular rivers. I need you for myself whether I live or die. I need to be your monk and your son. It is necessary. Amen."
--Thomas Merton

The last week or so--really, for weeks now, I have pretty much failed to live out the Cistercian values of silence, solitude, even prayer really. I have been away from home, visiting family, working late, engaged in all manner of activity, both internal and external. I have a big trip coming up in a few weeks, and I'm anxious about that too, and the result has been distraction, exhaustion, frustration.

I sat down to really pray this morning for the first time in days, and my words just came out a kind of wordless croak.

And that seemed perfectly okay with God. So we sat there, together, in the silence. And I was just me, exactly where I am, and God was just God.