Beginnings

"In the beginning was the Word."
--John 1:1

Interesting that on this, the final day of the calendar year, the Gospel reminds us of the Beginning. Or maybe not. Isn't it a cliche to say that every ending marks a new beginning? Yes, a cliche, only because we don't fully embrace the truth and power of the fact that we are constantly being reborn, remade, renewed. Every moment is the beginning with this God of infinite, reckless, unconditional love.

I'm not making any New Year's resolutions this year. I'm barely even thinking about tomorrow, as this baby has me firmly rooted in the demands of the present moment. But even as I attend to this moment just now, I realize that everything I do is overflowing with an immense sense of hope and possibility--for her, yes, but also for me and for the world. Rather than resolve to do something this year, I just offer a New Year's prayer--to abide in this sense of wonder and hope and joy in every moment to come.

Abba God, sanctify us on this last dark evening of the year, and bring us all to new, abundant life in each and every moment. Amen.

Another kind of Divine Office

Feast of St. Thomas Becket

"From our first breath, love called us into existence.  Without care, a child does not survive.  Somehow, through the crowded years, we learned to listen.  To hold another's words quietly and seek to understand.  To take delight in the strange beauty of each person.  To act in hope even when no light glimmers.  To behold our own self with amazement.  To wash the feet of another."

--Jeanne Schuler

One week ago my wife and I brought home our daughter from the hospital.  We are still in a daze from the experience of labor and delivery, our initial anxiety that she was a few weeks earlier than her due date, early troubles nursing, and now the relentless schedule of feedings and diaper changes and tending to her needs.  Slowly, though, we are settling into a rhythm, and there is a parallel between the baby's schedule and the steady rhythm monastics keep by the Divine Office, or the Liturgy of the Hours, the routine of prayers, hymns, and psalms marked by monks since the time of Benedict or even earlier.

Every three hours, regardless of whatever we are doing or want to be doing, we turn our worshipful attention to this little girl.  Outwardly, it is the routine of life: feeding her, cleaning her, clothing her, and invariably pouring out words of love and comfort to her.  Inwardly, we bring whatever is in our own hearts--sometimes our fears and anxieties and worries, our frustrations and weariness--but always as she rests in my arms, those grumblings of the small self fade away.  As I stare into her big, dark eyes, infinite pools of perception and possibility, my heart breaks open, and I pour out gratitude and adoration and hope.  And we rest in each other's presence, united by an Indescribable Love.

In this routine, and in this relationship, is the perfect metaphor for our relationship with God, and the nurturing that takes place in prayer like the Divine Office.  When we pray, we often start out of obligation and routine, but when our hearts open to the relationship at the core of this experience, we are swept away by the beauty and awe of being infinitely loved.  We are even sometimes able to simply rest in God's presence, giving and receiving love in an endless circle.

The beauty of this metaphor is that it works both ways.  Sometimes we are the parent adoring the Divine Child (as in this Christmas season), but often we are the child, held and adored by the Divine Parent who loves us beyond all understanding.

Through this little girl, God is already teaching me so much.