Never alone

Allowing thoughts to dwell on our friendships is a natural part of belonging to a particular place at a particular time. It is a normal response to our experience of being part of a community of people whose lives are based within that same time and place. Even people who spend much of their time alone have a need for contact with others, however rarely it is felt as a need, and in many cases their solitude may be bearable only because they have the sustaining knowledge of long-lasting friendships.
René Voillaume, who, in 1933, led of a small group of seminarians from Paris to make their base at the edge of the Sahara, and who called themselves the Little Brothers of Solitude, wrote: 'Friendship is something so great and splendid that it is probably indispensable for human perfection. I find it hard to believe that a man without friends can be perfect; at any rate, I am sure he will be profoundly unhappy. Without a friend a man is imprisoned within himself.' (Brothers of Men.)
Unlike Charles de Foucauld, whose life and death in the Sahara was the inspiration for the group, René was accompanied by friends. His words may well have been born of the sense of loss found in merely imagining their absence in such an inhospitable place, and, beyond that, glimpsing for a moment the utter loneliness of such a life without any friend at all, anywhere.

If a man without a friend is indeed imprisoned within himself, it is because it is only with a true friend that he can share the truth about himself, the reality of his experience of this life, and his hopes and fears about what has yet to come. But however indispensable friends may be to some of us, the belief that we cannot survive without them is at the same time an admission of the weakness of our faith.
Solitude is not a prison, and should not be a source of fear; it is a freedom, and our movement towards perfection is enabled far more in that freedom than by human companionship and encouragement. The value of time spent alone is inseparable from the building of relationships within the community; everything communal is based on what men and women have already received as individuals, and the most valuable knowledge and presence we can bring to the communal table is fruit of our own discovery of who we really are. Our real self is what the community needs, and is what the world is waiting for.
However great the contribution of others may be in our journey toward self discovery, the discovery itself, and the realization of what we find and learn, takes place within the mind and heart of the person who rises into life in our time spent alone. We may mature and blossom within a community, bearing fruit in the presence of others, but the seed will have been germinated in isolation, and nurtured in our times of solitude. And once we have been brought to fruition among people, we may find ourselves longing to leave them behind again, until, refreshed and newly empowered, we are called back to take our place among them once more. Jesus’ own life repeatedly demonstrates this pattern to us.

It is our awareness, not of our long-lasting human friendships, but of the everlasting friendship of God through the companionship of Jesus and the presence of the Holy Spirit that sustains us in our solitude.
Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk who found himself increasingly called into time spent alone, instructs us – ‘Do not flee to solitude from community. Find God first in the community, then he will lead you to solitude.’ (Thoughts in Solitude.)
The shape of my journey is not accurately described by those words, but something within me recognizes them as being applicable to my own experience. Much of the first forty years of my life were spent in a form of solitude. I am who I am, and have not only learned a great deal about who I am, but have learned to value the person I have found within. An awareness of the presence of God and of our value in His eyes, cannot help but lead to our valuing ourselves, and in that one altered way of seeing the worth of our lives lies the key to our transformation from loneliness to fruitful solitude.

It is loneliness, not solitude, that is the prison. Many of us have experienced solitude as a form of heaven, and far too many know loneliness as a form of hell, especially when in the midst of crowds who neither see nor hear them. Heavenly solitude is filled with awareness of the presence of God, and needs no other. Hellish loneliness may be filled with the presence of people but is completely devoid of any consciousness of God’s presence: awareness of His and Her love, comfort, forgiveness, strength, friendship, companionship, acceptance, guidance – whatever we most desperately need – eludes us. God is no closer in the one than in the other: the Spirit of God is abroad throughout the world, present to every one of us. It is not the Presence which varies, and nor does it avoid or exclude anyone; the difference – and what a profound difference it is – is between one person’s awareness and another’s lack of it.

Our needs may point us towards a potential reliance on God; that potential may lead us to faith in His existence; and faith will open doors as yet unseen, yielding the awareness that ‘Bidden or not bidden, God is present.’ (Desiderius Erasmus).

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Called to care

We make many assumptions about other people's lives and their living of them, based on our own apparently similar experiences; but our experiences are not the same. Even a shared experience will be lived differently by those who share it, not only as it happens, but also in recollection and in its effects. The individuality of the essential truth within any experience, as well as the equally individual psychological, emotional, and physical experiences deriving from it, places our personal reality – whether accurately perceived or not – even further from the grasp and understanding of others than is the outer reality of the experience itself.

I recently came across a quotation I had written out years ago in one of my books of such things. For some years I have kept a written record of passages that registered with me in some way when reading; the underlying reason being that the experience of reading them touched me in some way that spoke of their potential for further thought. I have no doubt that other readers, if similarly inclined, would produce entirely different collections of quotes from the same books. We would, as it were, each find different fruit in the experience of the same tree. Everything discovered would be part of the tree, and we could each point to the words we had found, though our registering and interpreting of them may not speak to others as it does to ourselves.
If we spent time dwelling on this “food for thought” we would no doubt discard some items, perhaps many, but from others we may manage to tease out the meaningful heart of what had touched us in those words, and then, perhaps, we would be able to convey the fruit of our thinking to others. The fruit we had found would have fed us, and, bit by bit, such feeding, along with all the other small touches we experience, would bring about the beginnings of an overflowing: a gentle and unstoppable pouring, through our own giftedness, of God’s love into the world. This is all part of the individuality of the essential truth within any experience. We must hope to make sense of what seems to speak to us, not only for ourselves but for the potential benefit of those whose paths we cross. In my own way, this is what I attempt to do here: to unravel the threads of my ongoing soliloquy that I may better understand my own inner self, and through that better understanding, find and offer something that may in its turn speak to another.

The author of the recently reread quotation had apparently gathered bits and pieces which touched him in a particular way: in a way very similar to my own recording of whatever words spoke to me. He had eventually used them to form the basis of a book which brought them into a form which could be passed on to others. The gathering and keeping; the sorting and re-writing; the wish to pass on the heart and soul of something felt to be of importance; this all seems so familiar to me.
And the subject matter, drawing me as it does with its echoes of highlands and islands –primarily of Scotland, but by association within my memory and longing, also of Ireland – only serves to strengthen the feeling that the indefinable up-welling of emotion accompanying my thoughts of such places is something very real, very important in my life, and worth passing on to others.
The author’s harvesting of words also says something similar about my faith and my journey, the reassurance coming from a realization that there are others who experience the same feelings that are so important to me. It is simply through awareness of the existence of such persons that I find I am not alone in my solitude, nor lost in the losing of myself to the power of love and life. The author is one of these others, and he has not allowed fear, self-doubt, or timidity, to keep him from achieving his aim.
At the end of his introduction, he writes: -
'What I have done in this book is a very simple thing. I have taken the little ships of tradition and custom and legend and history, and I have towed them into port. For years, forlornly and apart, they have floated among my note-books, or drifted past the treacherous shoals of memory. Now they have come to the anchorage of the printed word.' (Alistair Maclean. Hebridean Altars.)
He also writes, 'Whoever brings a gentle mind to what is written here, may He bless, who loves us all, and, as they read, may each catch a vision of The One Face.'

The considerable and constant pull exerted on my mind and heart by these places is a form of meaningful friendship. Regardless of the length of time between my visits, we are inseparable; and though there is an ongoing relationship, it is of course one-sided, and could never be regarded as anything but an unrequited love. And yet, the land itself continues to call me in its own indefinable way, as though local and individual histories from such times as the Highland Clearances, and the Irish Famines, are still reaching out to those who are able to hear their whispers. It seems that the comparatively small part of my blood belonging to these lands, insists that I acknowledge its capacity for fighting well above its weight. Part of the ‘fight’ to which I am called by these ancestral links is the remembrance of those long gone, whose fearful voices still cry out with a longing not to be forgotten - a longing within themselves that someone, somewhere, should always remember them, and a longing cry that can never be forgotten by the one who experiences it.
In some way I am linked to them; they know me as their friend.

In a sermon on The Incarnation, Ronald Knox said, 'It would be a poor doctor who should never call again when his patient had passed the crisis; it is a poor friend who loses interest before he ceases to be of use.' (The Pastoral Sermons.)
Surely, it is a poor friend who loses interest whether or not he is of use. Friendship is not a using of one person by another; it is an uninhibited two way sharing of strengths and weaknesses, which is not barred from any particular aspect or corner of people's lives. It is complete, and it is ever-present, with or without the physical presence of the friend. It is being companions; spending time together, or surviving long absences through having previously spent time in each other’s company; it is sharing the highs and lows, the wonders and the ordinariness of life. A real friend is felt as a companion even when not present, as the reality of the relationship brings a trust, and a knowledge of the permanence of the other's care.
It is in the knowledge that there is someone who will always care, that strength and peace may be found.
In our human friendships, in our remembering of those who have journeyed before us, and even in a consciousness of past desperations and needs in the landscapes to which we are drawn, we each have the ability to bring a constant caring to those who may have no other friend to bring it to them.
However little we really understand each other’s experiences and the emotions aroused by them, there are common threads that run through them all. Above and beneath all degrees of sickness and health, poverty and wealth, exhaustion and strength, ignominy and honour, is the common theme of our humanity. In so many men and women, recognition of the evils and injustices in our world is buried so deep that they are unable even to know that we are all equal, as members of the human race, and in the eyes of God. And, above and beneath that truth, and even less known, is the Spirit of God constantly breathing into the lives of every one of us.

The strength and peace we bring is not our own; the caring is not entirely our own.
What we bring is the compassion of Jesus, and the wonder that is the Holy Spirit.
In spending time with others, we bring them to a meeting: the meeting of Christ in us with Christ in them; and in all such meetings, let us hope that we ‘may each catch a vision of The One Face.'
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A new day

‘To you I pray, Lord.
At daybreak you hear my voice;
at daybreak I lay my case before you
and fix my eyes on you.’
(Psalm 5:3)
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The new day dawns; misty, with a gradually increasing hint of blue in the draining greyness of the sky. No breath of wind: no wind, no breeze, no breath. Not a single leaf stirs.
The gap between trees, where the slope of North Hill props up the southern end of the sky, is a uniform pale grey; the hills have yet to be born into my day.
A brightening: mist bleaching from grey to white; unfocussed shafts of light as the sun begins taking command of the scene, and draws the autumnal quilt from this corner of the Earth – the green acre in which my family has made a home.
And now, in that wedge of distance, from within the thinning mist, a diagonal line appears; and in the darkening of the space beneath, a reassurance that the world is as it had been the previous day: the rebirth of granite hills into my certainties.

At the centre of my view, amid the first gentle stirrings of leaves on the nearest Ash tree as the Spirit of God moves through the garden, a deeper waving of a high Beech branch seems to beckon me: ‘come, up, out, and into the world’. A Collared Dove has alighted at the branch’s tip, and as its perch settles into stillness once more, the Dove’s swaying body rejoins the unwavering steadiness of its head.
It remains for a while, appearing to return my gaze through the window, until, setting the branch into a repeat of its gentle beckoning, it flies toward me, up and over the house.
God’s touch continues to shimmer among the leaves, and the Spirit stirs once more within me.

Not only the few minutes it has seemed: the clock shows evidence of another time, another place, another life.
Not just a brief appreciation of a beautiful morning: an hour and a half has come, settled, and flown into the awakening day.
The book I had been about to open still lies untouched beside me, and I am returned, awake, from time spent in the peace and the presence of God. – I know what I shall write today.

‘My heart is ready, God,
I will sing and make music;
come, my glory!
Awake, lyre and harp,
I will awake the Dawn!’
(Psalm 108:1-2)
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One to one (5)

'Whoever fears the Lord makes true friends,
for as a person is, so is his friend too.’
(Ecclesiasticus 6:17)

Physical presence is of the utmost importance in a meaningful friendship. In a crisis, a real friend’s presence is the most effective support of all; it outweighs any words that may be said. That presence may include small but significant touches of love such as making a drink, draping a shawl around shoulders, answering the door ...; it may even involve a leaving of one’s needy friend for a period once one’s presence has been felt, perhaps to travel a great distance for them, to meet with someone, or to bring someone back; to deliver or collect something of vital importance to them; a literal going of the extra mile for them. The task may be of such importance for them that, paradoxically, such an absence would be experienced by them as a continuation of one’s presence.
Love may be proved by our actions, by deeds, but there are times when we are called to quell all thoughts of doing things: to prove the depth and dependability of our friendship by simply being there; feeling, loving, watching and waiting. Waiting until the time to listen; listening until the time to speak.

‘They sat there on the ground beside him for seven days and seven nights. To Job they spoke never a word, for they saw how much he was suffering. In the end it was Job who broke the silence...’ (Job 2:13–3:1)

Just as a friend’s physical presence may be experienced as continuing when they have left to undertake some vital deed, so, in a similar way, a much needed friend’s presence may be experienced as having already begun as soon as news is received that they are on their way. In both cases, the presence essential to the creation and deepening of the already mature and meaningful relationship is in the past. The chain holding the friendship together was forged in earlier times spent face to face, and its final links closed by mutual experience and a shared hope.

I have witnessed both types of such meaningful and supportive absences.
The first, a dying lady’s relief and contentment resulting from the arrival of one particular person, who, though out of the house more than in it, and far more than actually at the lady’s bedside, was present to her throughout the night and day, even when absent for several hours. She had known, without any doubt, that once her friend had come to her, any absences were to achieve the essential outcomes required for her own wellbeing and peace of mind. She had complete faith in her friend. And it did not occur to the friend that she could have done things in any other way: at the time, she felt that she existed only to be there and to do the things that had to be done.
The second, involved another dying lady and a member of my own family. As a mother in the middle of Christmas celebrations with her young children and husband, with no wish to be anywhere else and knowing that this was where she was meant to be, she received news that a much loved aunt and friend, Mai, in the west of Ireland was dying and asking for her constantly: -

“Where is she?”... “Is she coming?” ... “Is she here yet?” ... “Is that you ...?” She was becoming increasingly distressed because the one person she needed was not there.
After agonizing over the situation and the seemingly impossible decision she was called upon to make, the young mother travelled from Worcestershire to Ireland to be with Mai. On arrival, she found she was too late – at least, that was how it felt.

As soon as Mai had heard the news that the one person who mattered was on her way, she relaxed, rested, and was content. She died shortly before the longed for arrival. To Mai, hearing what amounted to “I’m coming”, had been an immediate knowledge that she was already there.
Mai’s distress appeared to have been due to her increasing difficulty in maintaining her ability to live: maintaining her refusal to die before the arrival of the one person whose presence would make all things well.

In thinking of these two friendships, and those two deaths, something speaks to me of the continuation of friendship and love, not only during absences through life, but into and beyond the longest absence of all: the one that follows a death and which continues until we are returned to each other’s company through our own passing.
I cannot help but hear again those words from Julian of Norwich’s ‘Revelations of Divine Love’: “… all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
The anticipated arrival, as well as the actual presence of a friend, can speak those words to us. Once we have overcome our grief, the absence of a friend through death can also breathe with an awareness of their continued presence. The above words were spoken to Julian by Jesus, and, through hearing or otherwise experiencing them through a meaningful friendship, we too are being reassured by Him. He is present with us as our Friend, speaking to us through a relationship that is truly meaningful because He is present within it.

The two words, ‘friendship’ and ‘meaningful’, mean different things to different people. For some, almost every person they meet more than once is regarded as a friend, and they may bathe in the knowledge that they have hundreds of “friends” on Facebook or some similar social networking internet site. With the mindset of some others, those same people would regard almost every one of those “friends” merely as acquaintances, and their few friends may not include any they would regard as being particularly close. Whoever we are, and whatever our interpretation of those words, it is only when a friendship includes the integrity of mind, body and spirit, that it becomes both humanly and spiritually meaningful, and develops its own invitations. It places us at the heart of an invitation to unite with and in the presence of Jesus, and it invites the Holy Spirit to come deeper into our friendship and into the rest of our lives.
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One to one (4)

In today’s world it is difficult to believe that worthwhile meetings can only occur when people are physically present to each other. The telephone seems to provide ample evidence to the contrary. It has existed long enough for us to almost forget that there was a time when it was not even dreamed of. It had to be invented before we were able to speak to people as though they were in the same room with us, when they were many miles away, even on the other side of the world. We take it for granted that we can remain “in touch” with others when they are far beyond, not only touching distance, but the natural range of seeing and hearing.
The mobile phone allows us to reach and be reached almost anywhere, and we no longer need the telephone at all when we have access to a computer; and with the lines becoming more blurred all the time, I am no longer sure that a separate computer is needed when we have one of today’s ‘mobiles’. With Skype, for example, we can speak to anyone, anytime, almost anywhere in the world, and for as long as we may wish, without concerns about time and cost restricting the natural flow of words, feeling and emotion. And seeing the person to whom we are speaking removes the most obvious difference between this way of communicating and real physical contact. When cameras allow us to see each other while we converse, we are better able to assess and understand the feelings behind the words we hear, and it is more difficult to hide our own true feelings behind the words we use.
We could say that such live video communication does bring people face to face in all but living physical reality, and it is much easier to regard this as providing a means of meaningful contact, than it is to ask ourselves what more there could be. It is a question of degree. How real does our contact have to be before we regard it as being meaningful?

To meet face to face, to stand facing; to be opposite to. This is one of the meanings of the word ‘confront’, though it generally hints at something less relaxed, with elements of disagreement and friction – to face in defiance or hostility; to present a bold front to, to stand against, to oppose – and it leads into confrontation, with the possibility of third party involvement: the bringing of persons face to face for accusation and defence, for questioning and for discovering the truth.

Our usual thoughts on one-to-one relationships naturally fall into the areas of friendship, of family ties, of pleasure or displeasure in the interactions at work or with our neighbours; affection, concern, jealousy, frustration, annoyance and anger towards parents, children, siblings, or lovers. And, in one form or another, for one reason or another, fear is always in the mix somewhere.
In the context of our spiritual lives, the thoughts tend to focus on our fear of becoming better known; our reluctance to face the embarrassment of admitting that we are less than the person whose image we strive to portray and maintain. Our temptations, our unholy thoughts, our un-diminishing weakness in particular areas of life, and our failures and mistakes, are all carried with some degree of disregard and lightness in our daily lives, but weigh heavily in our conscience when we think to be more honest about ourselves.
A greater degree of closeness in a spiritual friendship moves our focus beyond these troubles to an appreciation of what a true friend can be. It allows us to discover the beginnings of an understanding of what the word ‘meaningful’ can mean in our relationships, and it draws us closer to a way of seeing ourselves and others in a more forgiving, reconciling, and supportive way: a way that more easily attunes us to the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives and in the lives of others, and makes Jesus’ way of seeing us and our world so much easier to understand and to follow.

Our relationships are not meant to provide company and no more; they should not consist of agreement and praise in all things, nor should they be nothing more than mutual confessions of failure and perceived inadequacy; they should not make us life-members of a club for serial-penitents and those who have grown comfortable with their routine of recurring faults. They should bring us into the light, and once we are there they should make that light undeniable for us.
There is good and bad in each of us, and while the bad can so easily go unnoticed in a life without any thought of who we are and why we are here, a spiritual life brings us to a recognition of at least some of our poor qualities. This is necessary, and it is good, but it can so easily become the focus on which we constantly dwell rather than a stepping stone into reality. Jesus calls us to that recognition, but in order that we may change and move beyond it, into a discovery of the gifts with which we have been blessed; a discovery of our potential for good in this world, and a realization of the person into whom we can be transformed.

A truly meaningful friendship needs the complete presence of one person to another. Whatever the apparent relationship – master and servant, companions, lovers – friendship is what makes it work in a positive and meaningful way. It needs not only the honesty, trust, acceptance and support, but the touch, the silences, the creation of space: the intimacy and the safety that come only when people are true friends and in each other’s company. We hear this expressed in many ways: – “I know she’s my mum, but she’s my best friend as well.” - “My very best friend has always been my brother.” - “I don’t see him often, but I feel so safe when I do. I can talk to him about anything and he always says the right thing. If that is friendship, then I only have one real friend.”
It is our presence to one another that leads us beyond our regrets and failings to the quest for fulfilment and the joy that it engenders. We may see clearly the good in our friends that they cannot see for themselves, just as we may be blind to what they see so clearly in us.

‘You have to start seeing yourself as your truthful friends see you. ... You look up to everyone in whom you see goodness, beauty and love because you do not see any of these qualities in yourself. As a result, you begin leaning on others without realizing that you have everything you need to stand on your own feet. You cannot force things, however. You cannot make yourself see what others see. ... You have to trust that God will give you the people to keep showing you the truth of who you are.’
(Henri Nouwen. ‘The Inner Voice of Love’.)

I find that a beautiful definition of a real friend:– Someone who keeps showing you the truth of who you are.
There is no more complete way of showing another the truth about themselves than being with them. For a person who is blind, all I have said about seeing people face to face via video conversations has little meaning; they do not see them when they really are in the same room. But when they are there before them, their heightened awareness via the other senses makes them every bit as present as they would be for me. The same applies to any person who, for whatever reason, is unable to experience the world in the way that we mistakenly regard as the only possible way.
Presence is essential. And who, more than anyone else, can show us the truth about who we are? Who is our closest and most reliable friend? It is Jesus: the person who was present as a friend to the adulteress about to be stoned to death. He led her beyond her regret and the mistakes she had made, and showed her the truth of who she was. He was also present to the men who encircled her, and He showed them also the truth about who they were. That they failed to recognize Him as their friend too was part of the story of the Incarnation: part of why Christ came to them, to us, to all mankind.

He is the one who joins us whenever we meet face to face in His name.
It is His presence that makes our own presence to each other so much more than anything I can suggest among these pages.

‘For where two or three meet in my name, I am there among them.’
(Matthew 18:20)
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One to one (3)

There is one feeling in particular that holds us back; taking many forms and being at the root of other apparently un-associated feelings, attitudes, actions and inactivity. More than anything else, it is fear that makes us withhold the truth and shy away from others who may dare to reveal it for us; it is fear that leads us away to hide from aspects of reality, and once hidden, it is fear that keeps us from altering our way of seeing those things from which we hide.

I am brought back, once again, to the truth expressed in that same passage from John Henry Newman’s sermon, ‘Christian Sympathy’. ‘...we dare not trust each other with the secret of our hearts. We have each the same secret, and we keep it to ourselves, and we fear that, as a cause of estrangement, which really would be a bond of union.’
In the same text, we are reminded that ‘... the one has within him in tendency, what the other has brought out into actual existence ... They understand each other far more than might at first have been supposed. ...They have common ground; ...they have one and the same circle of temptations, and one and the same confession. ... we fear that others should know what we are really ...’

I am unable to read through those words without being taken back to the situation recorded in chapter eight of John’s gospel: the woman about to be stoned for committing adultery. (verses 3-11)
“Let the one among you who is guiltless be the first to throw a stone at her.” says Jesus to the men gathered round her. ‘They went away one by one, beginning with the eldest, until the last one had gone and Jesus was left alone with the woman.’
Here was a time when, in spite of the Old Testament Law which told them to stone a woman in such circumstances, the men present – Sadducees and Pharisees – appeared to act according to the teachings of Jesus. In response to His words, they found themselves unable to avoid weighing their own inclinations and weaknesses, and perhaps their own transgressions, against the discovered act of the woman before them. (But where was the man?). They appeared to acknowledge that ‘the one has within him in tendency, what the other has brought out into actual existence’, and walked away rather than pass final judgement. The eldest leaving first, points to both time’s persistence in its attempts to make us succumb to our weaknesses, and to its granting of wisdom through the experience of constant or repeated temptation, and through the making of our mistakes.

Temptation and transgression both contribute to an awareness that, deep down, each of us differs little from another.

This interpretation may be inaccurate of course. The men may have drifted away due to the failure of their attempt to trap Jesus into saying something usable as evidence against Him; but here was a demonstration of the New Covenant in contrast with the rigid interpretation of comparatively black and white laws of the Old: Jesus telling those present, and us, in a way that clearly brought the message home in the individual consciences of His hearers: -

“You have heard how it was said, You shall not commit adultery. But I say this to you,
if a man looks at a woman lustfully, he has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
(Matthew 5:27-28)

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This new way of approaching and understanding mankind – understanding ourselves, and of understanding God’s commandments and His requirement of us, coupled with our Lord’s instruction to forgive and thus to heal, opened up a whole new world: a potential for both unity and ‘sympathy’ within Christ’s Church. It is within this world that our facing each other has the power to heal. It is not possible to face each other for the first time without altering our relationship; without moving the relationship on in some way.
The Law, as laid out in the Old Testament, was not designed to hurt, but the interpretation of it, and the following of it, frequently left little room for understanding, mercy and forgiveness. In contrast with this, the whole ministry of Jesus was a coming face to face with mankind as a healing force. Our following of Him is expressed in our will to meet, to listen, to console, to forgive, to provide and to heal: in short, to love one another.
Those who have heard and understood Christ’s message, and have begun to act upon it, may find this comparatively easy with people from whom they are distant, but remarkably difficult with those they know well: their friends and family members. How is it that we can have a close and long-running friendship with someone and still find it so hard to ‘trust each other with the secret of our hearts’ ?
Everything points to the likelihood that daring to fully open our hearts and our consciences to each other would allow our long-maintained protective layers, and our pretence, to fall away. Beneath, would we not find that we are indispensable companions for each other’s journey, and, one by one, and two by two, that we are all made in such a way that we should all be sharing our journey together?

Could it be that this mutual honesty and openness is an essential without which we are unlikely ever to be empowered?

Are we unable to progress to the next stage with our imagined group of fellow travellers because our fear keeps us out of sight? – Because we do not allow our light to shine?
Love casts out all fear. Let us take the risk.
On the other side of our decision to face someone and to speak our truths to them, is a further awakening, and an enabling that will lead us closer to the certainties for which we long. Acting upon such a decision may be the key to our empowerment: the missing part of our surrender of self to our Lord’s will. I certainly sense this to be at least a part of the key to my own.

Without being empowered by the Spirit of God we shall remain unable to fulfil our potential; we shall remain less than the persons God has made us to be.

Let us crave a new dawn in our lives: an awakening from our sleep; an enabling that will empower us for all that God may ask of us. It begins and ends with us. The whole of creation has to do with us. And ‘us’ begins with you and me, our neighbours and our friends, each of us making that vital decision to meet face to face, heart to heart, and one to one.
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One to one (2)

‘Do not desert an old friend;
the new one will not be his match.’
(Ecclesiasticus 9:10)

Even when well away from the seemingly unstoppable surge of life in the modern world, not just out of the city centre, not just beyond suburbia, not even when we are tucked cosily into the countryside: on holiday, travelling through, on a day trip, or strolling briefly away from the roads, we can be held in the grasp of much that we thought had been left behind. The television, the internet, DVDs, computer games, mobile phones: the many trappings of today’s world that no longer simply follow us wherever we go but are found to have preceded us into almost every corner of the world. If these products of man’s ingenuity were unavailable it would still take us a considerable amount of time to slow down, to shed our supposed reliance on them, and to begin benefiting from the reduced intensity of constant mental activity associated with them, much of which is subliminal. But when they remain as an active and constantly influential presence in our lives, our slowing down takes far longer, and we are unlikely ever to truly switch off from the activity they perpetuate and which drains us of the ability to actually stop, to truly listen and to really see.

It is not only the world around us that we continue to miss: the sights and sounds, the reality, the experience; it is the people in our lives. We may relax more into the presence of family or friends, but the opportunity for finding out more about who we are – who our companions are and who we ourselves are – is missed, because we fail to recognize that such a chance exists. How can we see opportunity where we fail to identify the underlying need? How shall we look each other in the eye and dare to discover who we are if we are afraid to come face to face with each other and with ourselves.
Access to the internet and the habitual presence of mobile phones – even in their simplest forms –allows us and encourages us to believe that we are more in touch with other people, especially friends, than ever before.

Texting took the ‘mobile’ beyond being a telephone, and the same small piece of hardware is now apparently capable of being most things, not only to most modern men and women, but to children down to (and beyond) whatever age their parents now regard as being appropriate for their possession. Involvement in social networks on the internet, especially by the young, has spread so rapidly that it is as though a dam has burst, releasing some previously unimagined need that has ever been locked into the makeup of mankind. To many people, the entire field of instant communication is a wonderful answer to their unspoken, and previously unimagined prayers. It has gone from non-existence to indispensable without any real journey between the two, and the ‘need’, once created and fed, has become an addiction wrapped in an irresistible and illogical desire. The must get, must have, must do, must see, must hear, must show, must tell mentality has been vastly expanded by such groups as Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, and Last.fm which focuses on the perpetual hunger for the mutual enjoyment of music.
That was about the limit of my knowledge of such sites until I looked on Wikipedia! It names more than 150 sites in its list of major active social networking websites (It has another list for defunct sites), and states that ‘the list is not exhaustive, and is limited to some notable, well-known sites.’

With 250 million registered users, one of the ways in which Facebook describes its function is, “Giving people the power to share and make the world more open and connected.” I have no quarrel with that as an aim, an objective, or as a description of Facebook. If everybody became and remained connected they would become more open with each other, and it works the other way round too; these two aspects of relationship rely equally on each other for their continuation. If living in this world was that simple, and if the power ‘given’ to people by these websites was fully utilized, we could all begin looking for real signs of world peace, of justice, tolerance and understanding, and of a global redistribution of resources and commitment. But as soon as either the connectedness or the openness begins to fade – and it will – the other will start to crumble; a degenerative spiral will be set in motion that will be very difficult to stop.
My seemingly pessimistic outlook on the fruit of so much involvement in these networks is based on the superficial nature of the openness. The connections, however meaningful and however strong they may appear, can only remain if there are other forms of real contact between the parties: some form of human relationship away from the internet with its inherent distancing and distraction. Without it the thin skin drawn over the lives of participants in these networks – the only layer in which they and others may share any level of connectedness – will not take the strain.
The connections have no genuine face-to-face quality; there is no meeting eye to eye; and there is no sharing of what is really going on inside hearts and minds. The busyness of the activity involved in taking part in such networking creates the feeling that we are in touch, informed, being honest, and in relationships. It covers over the simple knowledge that everything shared here is of a superficial nature. And it is our feelings that will always ensure this will be the case; the feeling that we are already truly sharing (and therefore need do nothing more), and an underlying reluctance to listen to any whispers within ourselves that suggest otherwise. We dare not attempt to make it real, as reality demands that we become fully present to others: that we meet them face to face. Technology and modern communications will not do that for us; we must do it for ourselves.

A bringing together of Anglicans and Catholics in the 1920s (the Malines Conversations) was the subject of the Archbishop’s ‘Testament’, from which the following often quoted words are taken; but their truth goes far beyond that particular context. They speak well of the requirements for every form of real togetherness, right down to the central and vital heart-to-heart meeting of two separate, but truly open, individual human beings.

“In order to unite with one another, we must love one another;
in order to love one another, we must know one another;
in order to know one another, we must go and meet one another.”
(Cardinal Mercier)

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One to one (1)

‘Iron is sharpened by iron, one person is sharpened by contact with another.’
(Proverbs 27:17)

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Ronald Knox quoted the above verse in a sermon entitled 'Jesus my Friend', and went on to say, 'your friendship with so-and-so inevitably knocks you into a particular shape, just as one piece of iron knocks another into a particular shape if you hit them against one another. Inevitably, not as the result of any deliberate attempt on the part of either to influence the other, but simply as the result of daily contact. And of course, speaking of human friendships ... either affects the other equally; it's not like sharpening a pencil, which leaves the knife just as it was.’ (The Pastoral Sermons.)
Referring to that same two-sided effect, Carl Jung said: - ‘The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed.’ (Modern Man in Search of a Soul)

Such words from people with well known names and acknowledged reputations can so easily be taken as facts applicable to every person and every situation. We make no conscious decision to regard them in this way, but we are easily led by the words of others, and when the words come from a highly thought of name like Carl Jung, who are we to doubt? If something is well put, and sounds reasonable, we skip beyond the careful consideration that it may deserve to an unconscious acceptance of what we have heard or read as fact. We absorb the ideas of others without any real analysis of what we are accepting and believing. Nothing we hear or read should be thought of as being beyond dispute, and this is no less applicable when what we absorb is apparently supported by words from scripture. The above quotes from Ronald Knox and Carl Jung are examples of this, being supported, as it seems, by the verse taken from the Bible. We take such things ‘as gospel’: we regard them as ‘the gospel truth’; and we allow the scriptural connection to blur our understanding of what scripture is, what the Bible is, and what the gospel is. We may still understand what truth is, but we relinquish our ability to comprehend what is, and what is not, the truth.

Many of us are susceptible to this weakness; I always have been, and often wondered whether I really did have any firm views of my own – on anything. In recent years (thank God) I have found that I do, and my slow realization of the fact has brought a welcome belief that these are well considered views based on my own assessment of what is real and what is true. It takes an appreciable increase in confidence to entertain even the idea of questioning the statements of others, regardless of the sometimes loudly proclaimed declarations of their views.
The ability of people to influence others by the powerful, well chosen, eloquent or persuasive use of words must never be forgotten. We must always be aware of the ease with which we can be swayed by those who speak out or write, clearly, confidently and apparently with knowledge and experience of their subject. We cannot be reminded too frequently of this.

How are we affected by our contact with each other? Are we affected equally? If so, is that always the case?

Ronald Knox said it clearly enough: ‘speaking of human friendships ... either affects the other equally’; and the implication is that this is the norm. I am able to read, consider and doubt his words as superficial and misleading through my own accumulated awareness of the reality of life as a human being. My doubt then leads me to compare directly with my own experience and thus to reject his words completely. In fairness, he was contrasting our human friendships with our relationship with Jesus; Jesus is not altered at all by His friendship with us, but we are changed by our relationship with him.
I believe there are no grounds whatever for saying of our human friendships, that ‘either affects the other equally’. For both parties to be affected in any way, and to any extent, however divergent or otherwise the degrees of change, there needs to be – as Carl Jung said – a reaction: some form of chemistry between them. The context of his words is the relationship between the psychologist and patient, where, to quote again from the same passage, ‘the personalities of the doctor and patient have often more to do with the outcome of the treatment than what the doctor says or thinks’.

Our friendships can take a wide variety of forms. They can be similar to Jung’s doctor/patient relationship in that one person can be a supportive guide for the other, occasionally, frequently or permanently. The support may always be going in the same direction, or may alternate between the two: sometimes we are supportive, at other times we need the support. A friendship can be based on two people both being ‘doctors’ at the same time, just as they can both be ‘patients’; and the whole area of confiding in another and giving and receiving support is only one facet of the broad canvas that is friendship. But friendship is not the only contact we have with others; all contact has the potential to change us in some way.

Iron can be sharpened, dulled, or simply battered, bent and dented by iron. In like manner, one person can be sharpened, refined, inspired, dulled, battered or otherwise abused by contact with another. The possibilities are endless, but we can neither receive nor give anything of value without turning to each other and daring to look each other in the eye. We are sharpened by contact with each other only when our honed edges point towards each other: when we meet face to face, whether as doctor and patient, as master and servant, as equals, as enemies, or as friends.
It is in our first meeting that we take the risks. It is in facing each other that we either hurt or heal.

A perfect touch

One of the wonderful things about being human is our capacity for being drawn to a person – even someone we do not know – through an undeniable awareness of powerful emotion: the strength of feeling generated within them.
Such feelings encompass the whole range of our life experience from the blissful and joyous to the most debilitating sense of utter desolation. It is a capacity that both derives from our being human, and contributes to the advancement of humanity towards God’s intended fulfilment. It is also a manifestation of the many-sided giftedness with which we are all blessed; a necessary aspect of the binding together of individuals into a real community. And it goes beyond our usual and habitual understanding of community to where we hear the echoes of Jesus’ prayer that all of us “may be so perfected in unity that the world will recognize” that it was the Father who sent Him. (John 17:23)
Jesus prayed, “May they all be one ...” (17:21) Such simple words: such a powerful message; and prayed, not only for those who lived and breathed with Him two thousand years ago, but for all Christians who have followed after, including ourselves: we who, in the present day, can so easily show ourselves to have not been “so perfected in unity”.

One of the natural traits we all share as human beings is the ease with which we place reliance on our feelings. In much that life brings us, we instinctively base decisions and judgments on our reactions, our bias, our preference and our prejudice. Every day, clear evidence that this is not the best way presents itself in friction and disagreement between individuals, and in news of conflict, injustice and abuse that speaks loud of the scale of wrongdoing across the world. In one way or another, all such wrongs are the fruit of wrong thinking: wrong thoughts and consequently wrong action based on the feelings – or lack of feelings – of people with the power to influence the lives of those around them. Those people may be numbered in millions, and their extreme distress apparently goes unnoticed by those who are its root cause. They do not feel anything about it, and therefore pay no heed to what is so obvious. Of course there are other factors involved, such as pride and greed, but these generate their own sets of feelings and are therefore anchored in the same root cause. All these conflicts, from the smallest argument, show how far we can stray from an awareness of our capacity for being drawn together, for empathy, for reaching out to others in response to feelings within ourselves: feelings brought about by the emotions and strength of feeling in others.
Here we have two completely opposite ways, not only of thinking and feeling, but of being. The one resulting from an ability to sense the feelings of others, the other from an inability to do so. The former is truly human; the latter is inhuman.

Our sense of inadequacy in the face of another person’s desperate need is a natural consequence of the truth contained in Proverbs 14:10: ‘the heart knows its own grief best, nor can a stranger share its joy.’ But for each of us, it is awareness of God’s presence that can and does still make a difference. Even as a stranger, if we can begin to raise that awareness within someone whose plight is blinding them to all forms of consolation, we shall have helped to show them the way. We shall have brought them closer to being able to reach out to Him with the words, “Out of the depths I cry to you O Lord.” (Psalms 130:1).
For me, those depths are not only the place where we feel crushed, deserted and helpless; they are the inner heart of our desolation: the hard to find, and sometimes even harder to believe in place where peace builds its home; the cracked vessel which God repairs through our dejection, our emptiness, and through our regained trust in His presence, leaving the vessel stronger, wider and deeper than before.

Our faith invites us to walk alongside each other, carrying the message that strives for recognition within us into the everyday routine of our days, as well as into the perceived burdens and turmoil of the people around us. It is through this quiet but constant inclination that we are set upon the path towards ‘perfection in unity’. It is faith which tells us to act, not like a stranger, but as a friend: to match our steps with those of others for just a few paces along the way. Our paths have crossed, but God so often causes such meetings to occur at a staggered crossroads: one at which we briefly share the same path before separately journeying on. For us to regard this merely as coincidence would be to deny the power for good that would direct us in all things. Wherever that power leads, we must hope to always have the strength to follow.

Learning to respond to such situations without allowing doubts to steer me away has been a slow process, but the more frequently I do it, the more clear it becomes that this is what is asked of each of us; the touch, the word, the attentive ear, the supportive hand held out- whether accepted or rejected; making it known to those in need that we have noticed, that we are aware and are feeling some of their pain, and quite simply that we are there.
The act of truly being with someone, even for only a few moments, is a hint of ‘perfection in unity’ and a blessing to both parties.
It is a touch of the perfection for which Jesus prayed for us. It is a perfect touch.
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Great and small

“All the points in which men differ, health and strength, high or low estate, happiness or misery, vanish before this common lot, mortality.” (John Henry Newman. Parochial and Plain Sermons,)

Why do we think of ourselves and others as being equally, more, or less able, intelligent, gifted, significant or worthy than anyone else? Other than within an academic or sporting context or when ensuring that a person is sufficiently and relevantly qualified for a specific form of employment, we have little or no reason to think about such things and no cause to consider anything in that way. Newman’s quoted words are from a sermon entitled ‘The Greatness and littleness of Human Life’. Our lives are both great and little, but not in the ways we habitually think, and not in the sense that one person is great while another is not. Thinking in those terms will have faded to nothing for some of us within a few years of leaving school or university, leaving us with the knowledge that nearly all such comparisons, while not being meaningless, are devoid of significant meaning for us in our daily lives. For many, however, such means of dividing individuals are perceived as essential to the advancement of themselves and thus to an imagined improvement of mankind.
All that really does matter is knowing that we have the intelligence and other attributes needed to be the persons we are supposed to be: the mental capacity and the ability to appreciate and think about who we are, where we are going, and our place within our local community and as part of the global family that is mankind.

Using the words, ‘mental capacity’, immediately takes my mind into my world of work, where the Mental Capacity Act 2005 Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards came into force on 1st April 2009. These safeguards are to protect the rights of people who are not able to make their own decisions, particularly where, in their own best interests, there is a perceived need to restrict the extent of their liberty. That liberty, which can include but does not necessarily mean the freedom to come and go whenever they choose, is something we all take for granted. For some, however, that freedom does not exist, and the deprivation may encompass anything that is not in the best interests of the individual, or that may be the cause of unacceptable outcomes or risks for others.

Over the years I have come to know many people with ‘learning disabilities’, some of them very well, and it is only through knowing them that I have become fully aware that this coverall expression refers to something which only has meaning when considered in relation to something else: something with which it can logically be compared. It is purely relative, and in that way is much the same as our usual understanding of ‘intelligence’ or ‘cleverness’. Compared with some people, I could be assessed as having learning disabilities and, in the right context, you or anyone else could describe me in that way without giving any offence – occasionally I have done so myself as a way of highlighting points relating to aspects of my work – but, in general we do not differentiate between ourselves in that way.
For those, however, who are, for mental capacity reasons, unable to live independent lives and who always need some degree of support, the world has been, and to a lesser extent still is, a very different place. The medical profession, and in particular the field of psychiatric assessment, based the classification of such people on a system which gave us words we still hear being used both lightly and offensively in everyday conversation: words which once described particular individuals and groups of people – those assessed and then forever regarded as being within the range of that classification, as follows:

MORON. An adult whose mental development corresponds to that of a normal average child between the ages of 8 and 12.
IMBECILE. An adult person whose intelligence is equal to that of the average normal child between the ages of 3 and 7 years, or between 25 and 50 per cent of that of the average normal adult; person of weak intellect.
IDIOT. A person so deficient in mind as to be permanently incapable of rational conduct and having a mental development not exceeding that of an average normal child of two years old; utter fool.
These definitions are taken from a 1963 edition of the Oxford Dictionary, and recognition of changes that began taking place in the following years can be found in the fact that they are not to be found in my 1979 OED.
This terminology was part of a fixed system that left little room for anything other than a basic categorization based on comparisons and preset criteria. The recognition and valuing of each life as being that of an individual and unique human being was not part of the system.

It is only through getting to know someone that we are able to find, recognize and appreciate the person before us.

We cannot get to know others without communicating with them, and we cannot do that without spending time with them.

Among those with whom I have spent a great deal of time have been people who were both mentally and physically incapable, not just of living independently or of living a meaningful life with input from others, but, without continual care and support, of living at all. Such people are usually classified today as having ‘profound and multiple learning disabilities’, which condition is not infrequently accompanied by severely disabling physical problems. Becoming aware of the person hidden within even the most incapable and apparently unresponsive mind and body has been a real blessing for me. It has been a privilege to be given the opportunity to spend time with them, a pleasure to get to know them, and an honour to have gained their trust and their friendship.

The lifelong vulnerability of such people is emphasised in the minds of those who get to know them by an awareness that they are, in effect, acting as life support machines. But for anyone prepared to search for ways to make a real connection with a person with these extreme needs, the relationship can bear fruit that is as meaningful and life-changing as any experienced in friendships with the most able-bodied and ‘intelligent’ persons.
Two observations from Paula D’Arcy in her book, ‘Where The Wind Begins’, are relevant to this:

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‘... who we are changes the life around us. If we choose to be loving, involved, withdrawn, cold, critical, judgmental – we shape the world in some way.’ ..- ..‘... we were all changed by the shared moments, and carried away a bit of the other. That’s how love is.’

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Looking back (5)

‘Once the hand is laid on the plough, no one who looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.’
(Luke 9:62) .

In the verses of Luke’s gospel preceding these words, a willingness to follow Jesus and to help in the spreading of His message is shown to be only part of His call to us. When Jesus says “Follow me”, He asks us to commit to Him at once, having no regard for the interruption of other concerns and relationships. We all have something that would keep us back from the fullness of that response: something resulting in a form of ‘Just let me finish this first’. The above words of Jesus were spoken in response to the, “first let me go and say good-bye to my people at home”, of one apparently willing follower.
It is a matter of priorities. Looking back to whatever may divert us from this priority is a sure sign of a lack of real commitment, but looking back to the cause of an inner heaviness which makes our committed following feel like an assault course, may be necessary to enable us to grasp the plough more firmly. And that firm grasp is essential if the plough is to turn the soil and not skid lightly over the surface of the stony and sun-baked ground. As soon as our hand is laid on the plough we are expected to hold firm; even the strongest team of oxen, the best tackle, and the sharpest and heaviest of ploughshares will not plough the furrows without the strength and the focussed commitment of the one who walks behind: the one whose hands control the team and the blade.

If that which we seek to follow is Truth and Light, and if our awareness and comprehension of it barely touches the surface of its fullness, then we must expect to be blinded, at the very least momentarily, by attempting to look directly at the source of the light. In seeking to follow we constantly turn towards that light, struggling to find and recognize some form in the brilliance before us. Thus, inevitably, we are blinded. But this is the route we are called to take; this is what faith is all about. Do we really imagine that we can clearly see, interpret, and correctly comprehend that which does not merely generate the light but is that Light?
Whenever we look directly ahead, the light is far too bright for us to see that which we hope to approach, but so long as we continue on our path toward the light’s source we are advancing toward the fulfilment of our deepest desire, and gradually distancing ourselves from the more easily recognized and more immediately satiable desires of the world in which we find ourselves.

In looking back we see our past in the full light of that which blazes ahead of us, and our sight recovers from the blinding. We may recognize this, and speak of it, as seeing our past in the light of experience and more recently acquired wisdom, but the danger is that in the process we remain unaware that we have turned away from our goal. The greatest perceptible illumination is when looking back. We have all wished we could have had the benefits brought by hindsight before we had made some decision, or acted, or spoken, but thoughtful reflection on past events can bring a deeper and more significant understanding of our lives and of our relationship with others.

While the greatest illumination is found when looking back, the greatest clarity in our living of each day is found in looking sideways. In this way we can see the nature of our desires and distractions more clearly as they are defined by the contrast of light and shade: the shadows cast by the light of truth falling upon them enable us to see their true form more easily, even at a distance. In this way we can see those things we refuse to carry with us but which return time and again to drain our faith, our hope and our self-belief of all vitality: the hurts and troubles, the faults and failures, the lies, deceptions, malice and pride; all that we block out or pretend not to notice; all that gives rise to conflict within ourselves and a constantly tormented conscience; all that contributes to the inner heaviness we must try to dispel. These all travel a parallel path, not pulling us off course but always there, enticing us to bring them closer: tempting us to pick them up and carry them once more. Their presence keeps us from walking as we should, though we do not lose our sense of direction by looking towards them or dwelling on them as they always travel in the same direction as ourselves. They are still with us in this way for one reason only: because we keep them there. We have not left them behind.

If we walk towards the light we are walking right, but the struggles we try to hold at bay remain as part of us, and, as such, keep pace with us as we walk, travelling parallel to our own route. Their continued presence gives them an unrelenting power in our lives, and it is this power that makes our progress so difficult. We stumble, as it were, through the heather, the tussocks and mossy humps, slipping into peat hags and constantly struggling to move ahead. We tire easily, we twist ankles and wrench our knees, our backs ache and our hands are scratched and sore from trying to stay upright on such un-trodden ground. For that is exactly what it is.
Our various faults and hang-ups from the past do not shadow us as we walk along our path; rather, we have been driven to take a course parallel to our intended path in an attempt to avoid the baggage we have been unable to shed completely. We still face towards the light but we have to fight every step of the way. Our baggage is on the path we should be treading; un-shouldered but still fixed in our minds as unavoidable and unforgettable. We have stepped off the path in a futile attempt to escape from it.

The path we should be on, however narrow, steep, or precariously perched across peaks and ridges, is a clearly defined path, and however much it may appear to be cluttered and overgrown because of our own inner stumbling-blocks, it will be an easier journey if we rejoin it instead of battling through the undergrowth to the side of it. We have to return to our memories of past failures, claim them as our own, and then, rather than attempt to leave them behind by our own strength, hand them over to God Himself that He may completely separate us from them.

Always, the call is to keep our sight and our every inclination directed towards the light, however little we may comprehend that which lies before us. Every turning away from the light is a form of turning back, but there are times when we cannot unburden ourselves completely without turning round to sever the links with aspects of our past.

‘Every day we decide whether or not to risk searching for the person God created, and the dream with which that person was imbued. Our monsters are whoever or whatever attempts to dissuade us from this course. ... They are the faces and circumstances which say that the dream will never be. – And whether or not to trust and pursue the dream is the soul’s dilemma.’ (Paula D’Arcy. Where The Wind Begins.)

Looking back (4)

However odd the idea may seem, re-reading some of the passages produced here since starting to record my thoughts in this way, has told me much that I did not really know even when writing those words. Much about myself, that is: about my own thinking, beliefs, hopes and fears, my potential (where it does exist) and my lack of it (where it does not), my ongoing journey, my sense of direction, and about the gifts I have received. It has also helped to clarify some of the things which hold me back and which perpetuate my recurring sense of marking time; not of being isolated, lost or stranded, as I have no sense of being left behind, but drifting along with the rest of the world without any certainty as to where I am meant to be within it, and pausing whenever I find those things for which, I believe, all the world should pause. It is the failure of the rest of the world to pause with me which generates the illusion of marking time. And it is my reasons for pausing, and the thoughts arising from those reasons, which provide most of the words that eventually find a home among these pages.

When the words that stand as the title for this blog –‘Soliloquy at The Very Edge’ – first settled into place, I knew that I would be talking to myself in the sense that I would be pondering and weighing my thoughts as I sought to make some sort of sense on the page, but I had not anticipated talking to myself in a way that would make me both student of the teacher, and that same teacher of myself as the student. That this has occurred has provided me with further food for thought, and, while writing this, yet another unanticipated moment when I must pause to consider the implications of that fact.

‘Soliloquy’. It had never struck me before that it is a beautiful word; a word that I should have been ranking with one of my already mentioned favourite words – ‘perplexity’. I have always appreciated it; it has always lodged in my mind as something applicable to me: something with which I am comfortable and from which I am unlikely ever to separate myself, but suddenly there is a new way of interpreting or understanding the idea of talking to oneself. It is not simply giving some form of utterance to one’s thoughts, but teaching oneself. At this moment I am not writing because of something that has already happened, however recent; this is taking shape within me as I write and is driving me toward the suggestion that my reason for being here is not quite as I have thought until now.
Soliloquy is not only a form of talking specifically to oneself, but of speaking without addressing any one else. Inevitably, much of what I have written, while being born of words uttered within myself, has been directed to you the reader; it has been spoken to no particular or specified person but has nevertheless been spoken directly to you, whoever you may be. Without an intention to speak to you in some way I would never have begun to write here at all, but the thoughts into which I now find myself led suggest that perhaps that is not the main aim of the prompting that brought me here.
Could it be that it is the real Teacher within me, the Holy Spirit of God, who, being unable to get through to me in more direct ways, prompts my willingness to go through a more laborious unravelling of thoughts and words? Does the Spirit lead me through this process, not so much that my thoughts may aid or support others, but rather that the process may clarify for me the identity of their source – differentiating between The Spirit and my own wayward ideas – thus more effectively enabling me to recognize His leading, and more meaningfully to reach out to those same others in the future?

Once again I have been drawn completely away from whatever I had been thinking to write about in this post, but failure to go with the leading, wherever it may take me, would undermine all that I have tried to do here. I had set out to continue with the theme of 'looking back', and have been shown that such a theme can indeed have beneficial effects in our future. Anything lacking such effects is mere futility.
Perhaps the important message I need to convey is that looking back, to the right things and in the right way, can enlighten each of us in our search for the path into our future by revealing aspects of our past as having been parts of that same path. It is not the words I write here that have any worth; it is the places to which they may prompt you to go, and which will speak to you as an individual and unique child of God.

‘Do you hear?

Long ago I prepared this,

from days of old I actually planned it,

now I carry it out:’

(Isaiah 37:26)

It seems that ‘looking back’, as a theme, will now run to five posts. I had not anticipated that, but then that is a large part of our world-bound problem; we think we can plot our course into the future when we should be casting ourselves completely on the guidance of the Spirit, sent by God through the reality of Jesus Christ for precisely that purpose. I can have no idea what the Spirit may say to you or where He might lead you, but may He speak loud and clear to you, and may you hear, understand, and respond to His presence in your life.
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Looking back (3)

‘But wretched are they, with their hopes set on dead things,
... useless stone, carved by some hand long ago.’
(Wisdom 13:10)

Years ago, on a quiet summer evening I walked along the beach in the west of Ireland where I was to experience what would begin making sense of what had been happening to me; something about which I have already written.
I had already walked to the far end of the strand, and had spent a while pondering my behaviour with regard to a stone which I had once picked up there, had made my own, and had then given away. That stone turned into something more than it should have been. It always remained the stone that it was, but in my mind it became a special stone: a stone among stones. Of course I did not worship it or pray to it; I placed no hope in it, and I still saw it only as a stone, but I became attached to it, and the attachment came about as a result of my having worked on it.
I had ground it flat, cut a cross in it, and put notches around the edge for the stations of the cross. It was done quickly and roughly; in no way was it a work of art. Perhaps in one sense it was, but it was not fashioned in a way that resulted in pride, or even a particular pleasure with the result. It was not made to be shown to others, and, in fact, was not made for any reason other than that the natural shape of the stone lent itself to it. The idea came, and I acted on it. But once I had seen it in its new form I thought I could wear it around my neck, and having drilled though it for that purpose, that is what I did for a while when in Ireland. One of the old people there said I should have the priest bless it when he next came to the village, but that thought reminded me that it was in fact nothing but a stone. And why would I want a priest to bless it, if not to assist me in turning it into something else? Into what? Something with which to become familiar and comfortable? To grow fond of? Because it had been blessed, something to be relied on and to be prayed with? Into what, if not an idol?

Because it only existed in that form through the work of my own hands, I could not accept that the stone could become anything more than it was, and yet, that same stone still meant enough to me to become a gift given when I felt that a very real thank you was needed. With hindsight, I think I worked on it and wore it as a way of expressing the fact that something had changed: that I had somehow allowed Jesus to make His home in me, and, though unable to break out of my natural reserve, I needed to make that fact known to the world around me. It was for this same reason that I had an icthus, fish symbol on my car for the next few years.
It seemed as though the stone, even when I first picked it up, was meant to become that gift; to become a symbol, the changes and movements of which would mark out the path for the removal of the stones within me. It became significant because of what was going on within me at that time, and giving it away was my way of trying to tell the person I most needed to tell: the person whose friendship had given rise to my awareness that it would be much harder to let go of friendship once found, than it would be to throw the stone back into the sea.

Almost as soon as I had parted with it I missed it dreadfully. (Looking back at it now, the whole episode seems more like a form of madness than anything else.) That sense of need – which had not existed at all before – resulted in my making myself a similar but much smaller stone from another piece gathered from the same spot; the same dark green marble, ground flat, cut with a cross and twelve notches round the rim. I carried this everywhere with me for weeks, holding it in my hand in my pocket or inside my glove when the winter days were particularly cold, somehow finding it an aid to prayer and a link with the person to whom I had given the first stone. I felt so utterly low and empty at that time that I continually needed that person's support, and I always felt that it was there even though we rarely met or spoke at all.
Some months later, while in the Abbey Church at Douai, I decided to finally break away from this substitute stone I had been carrying. In doing so I knew that I would also be leaving behind its connection with the first stone with all the associated confusions, as well as my reliance on that one particular friend and my felt need for continued support.
I had been praying at the side altar where the Blessed Sacrament was kept, (a place in which I had never rested before), and when I left I placed the stone on the altar. I worried a little that its presence there might offend whoever found it, but I also hoped that maybe that person would keep it, and one day learn how and why it had come to be there. As soon as I had done this I became aware of just how worthless a gift the first stone had been. It was a nothing upon which my mind had placed some sort of non-existent value, and for that reason, and because I was becoming increasingly embarrassed by the fact that I had given it, I began to want its return. I asked for it once but was told, with a smile, that I could not have it back. I have never seen it again.

I wanted it returned, not for myself to keep, but to take it to the place from whence it came: to throw it back to the sea at the far end of that beach. Realising at last that this too was placing a foolish significance on the stone, I asked a mutual friend to try to obtain it, and to take it to West Cork with her when she went, there to throw it into the sea for me. A long way from the place where it had been found, but it was Ireland, and at least it would have been dealt with. That did not happen either.
And all this had been forgotten until I first began writing about my visits to that beach.

I still pick up stones, and I may shape others in the future, but their simple reality will not be confused; they will remain what they are, just as all the useless things with which we surround ourselves remain forever useless.

They will be merely ‘useless stone, carved by some hand long ago.’
This was a time since when the words of Ecclesiastes 3:5 have never been the same.

'A time for throwing stones away, a time for gathering them;'
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Looking back (2)

‘Central to study is the acquisition of a memory. Yet this is not so that we may know many facts. We study the past so as to discover the seeds of an unimaginable future.' (Timothy Radcliffe OP. Sing a New Song.)

It is not only the bad occurrences that need experiencing only once to create their lifelong effects; our lives can be, and should be, changed utterly by the influence of God’s presence in receptive hearts, all forms of which are aspects of His making His home within us. Through His look, His touch, His word, His light, His strength, His protection, His direction, His forgiveness; through the fulfilment of every need we may have, He calls us to become wholly His. When His provision includes specific forms of human support, the experience is made more than a purely personal spiritual milestone by being firmly anchored in the physical realities of our lives. It leaves us with the knowledge – however incompletely we may interpret it – that whatever has happened within us is not meant to wholly separate us from the world in which we live, but has a bearing on our willingness to contribute to the conforming of mankind to God’s will, and on our ability to influence the workings of our world in some way.

I do not look back as frequently as once I did, and I no longer make any conscious decision to do so, but parts of my experience over a relatively short period, while having receded from their prominent position in my mind, still live as meaningful turning points in my life. They will not release me from the grip in which they first held me in spite of all peripheral attachments and emotions having been laid to rest years ago. Their continued prominence in my life, coupled with the ever increasing certainty that all that has resulted from blessings received at that time did, and still does, move me forward in the direction God wills for me, has not only made the marker into a milestone, but has turned the milestone into something even more significant. It has almost become a monument: one of the rocks upon which I have been rebuilt. Using the idea of a monument – even the mere use of the word – at once brings to mind the unwanted suggestion of misplaced significance, and even hints at a form of idolatry, but there is nothing to be doubted in what I experienced, in what I recall, and in the power still emanating from the memories of that time. Even the thoughts involved in my writing about it now are somehow part of my present rather than of my past; I have not called them up by looking back and searching for them. They have brought themselves forward with the passage of time, maintaining their undiluted presence within my day-to-day life and continually merging more completely with the awareness of God’s presence in my life, which began with those now rather distant events.
The milestone had been something I could locate and return to whenever I wished; something in the past; it became a monument when it was no longer necessary to look back and reflect to link it to the present day, but became part of the present, clearly visible without having to even glance back in time. Dwelling on such ever-present and maturing realities will not immobilize and confine us, nor leave us indifferent and unconcerned if we judge their source aright. They will teach us, enable us, and play a confirming role in our quest for freedom.

The freedom we seek includes being freed from the grip of all unreal, unwanted and unholy memories and their associated distractions and attachments: from all that can be discerned as not having come from God. Quite unlike the memories some people have of their ‘worst of times’, but also not of God, are some of those peripheral happenings which become entwined with an awareness of the central Truth and Power of Goodness in our lives, and then embedded in the remembered feeling of the experience. These can be unrecognizable and inseparable from the underlying truth during their manifestation, and even after some considerable time, when their lack of worth has been recognized, they can remain as part of the experience from which we are just not willing to break away. In time, and with perseverance, our recognition becomes acknowledgement of their true place in the mosaic of memories, and our ability to refine our assessment and memory of events grows in keeping with our increasing spiritual maturity.

After my own spiritual awakening, it was a long time before I could fully separate the fruit of my experience from the superficial and superfluous blanket with which I had unwittingly cloaked it. I have been reminded of the stages in that process by a recent visit to Douai Abbey.
It is some time since I last called in there; the place where I spent my last five years of schooling, and the monastery from which had come the Benedictine monks who had served as my parish priests for so long; (though the last in that Benedictine provision was a much loved member of the Downside community).
The opportunity arose when driving home alone from London, and now that Stanbrook has moved out of easy reach to Yorkshire, the thought that Douai may provide me with a focussed space for prayer and the quiet pondering of questions, brought me to the Abbey doors once more. There was also the chance that I may have seen the monk who had been my parish priest during that immensely important stage of my journey, and whose words had set the whole process in motion.

The small amount of looking back I did while there was a quiet flicking through pages that formed much of that worthless blanket under which I had half-hidden the wonderful reality of what had happened to me, and the whole train of thought was begun when I wondered what may have happened to something I had left there years ago. Had someone found it? If so, was it one of the monks? - a lay parishoner who may have been cleaning the church? – a visitor? And having found it, had they retained it or had they thrown it away? What happened to it does not matter; the important thing is that it is gone from my life, but I felt that if the finder had kept it, or had at least wondered where it had come from and why it was there, I would like him or her to hear the story behind it.
But, in thinking that, as in my writing about it now, I also wonder whether I am once more making both the object and the story behind it significant in ways that will draw me away from the truth and the grace received at that time. The one way to negate these potential distractions must be to lay them open for all to see. It would be so easy for some people to simply ask about it, but I continue to hold back in so many ways. What I can do however, is briefly tell the story here. Something may come of it, though it will not matter one way or the other, as the distraction will probably fade into oblivion with the telling.

And that, after all, is where it belongs.
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Looking back (1)

‘No need to remember past events,
no need to think about what was done before.
Look, I am doing something new,
now it emerges; can you not see it?’
(Isaiah 43:18-19)

Depending on the particular focus of our attention, dwelling on the past will do one of three things; it will teach us and help to liberate us, immobilize and confine us, or place us in a indeterminate state where our attention tips the balance neither one way nor the other. Just as the Israelites had found it much easier to think back to their crossing of the sea and the destruction of the pursuing Egyptian army than to appreciate what God was doing for them in the present, we can wallow in memories of past events in our own lives rather than being open to the reality and the demands of today. We all have markers we have set beside our path when something significant has occurred, and some of these may well have become major milestones for us: Whether they are life changing moments or long running situations, we may feel unable to lay them aside. Good or bad, they may have become anchored within us as seemingly undeniable parts of the persons we have since become. We could say that they have made a home in us.
It is one thing when such unforgettable fixed points seem to guide us and encourage us to go forward in ways which bring increasing levels of peace and integrity, but quite another when they trap us in the continuing grasp of past pains, fears, failures, or abuses. We only need to endure a single experience of being abused (in any way), of being falsely accused, of being hated, of being deserted, of having our dreams shattered, of being publicly shamed, or of falling deeply into sinful behaviour for which we are unable to forgive ourselves, to realize that God is not the only visitor with an ability to find a home within our hearts and minds.
Our memories of such things can take up an inordinate amount of time and energy by their continual presence and by their tendency to block all attempts to leave them behind. They do not readily share our inner space with the living and transforming presence of Goodness; the two do not occupy separate niches while allowing each other to go their own way; each seeks to fill us completely. The one would hold us in the grip of memories and their subsequent debilitating and immobilizing effects, thus preventing us from opening ourselves to the changes God wants to work in us; the other would heal, strengthen and enable us through the gift of freedom: through freeing us from the heavy burdens we have been carrying for so long.

“Come to me, all you who labour and are overburdened, and I will give you rest. Shoulder my yoke and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Yes, my yoke is easy and my burden light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

So said Jesus. The old covenant was built on ‘the Law’ and the Jews were overburdened by the many details it contained and by the observances needed to fulfil its requirements. Jesus had come to change all that. Following Him is easy, and once we have truly committed ourselves to Him, we will find our own burdens – whatever form they may have taken – slipping from our shoulders until they are eventually laid aside.

But these memories, taking up so much of our time and mental energy, and forming part of the structure upon which we have built our self-image and our assessment of our own worth, may not be of hardships, regrets and loss; they may indeed be of the very worst, but may also include what we regard as the very best of experiences. Even those which have since proved themselves to have been grace-filled times – steering us, or moving us, or lifting us in whatever way it may have been – can be held onto as a powerful memory rather than being left behind through the living of the gifts received in those moments. It is the gift which is powerful, and it is the living of the gift (our making appropriate use of it) which brings that power to bear in our own lives and in the lives of others.
Memories can have a powerful hold over us but in themselves they have no power at all. We are incapable of overriding their influence by our own efforts, but freedom will come when we no longer stand before them alone: when we have allowed our Liberator to make His home in us.

“We ought ... with a wise discretion, to analyse the thoughts which arise in our hearts, tracking out their origin and cause and author in the first instance, that we may be able to consider how we ought to yield ourselves to them ...” (John Cassian. Conferences 1:20)

‘... it matters that we know that the power of defeat is in our own hearts, and that our disbelieving self, not circumstances, is the enemy. ... it matters that we give power to our dreams, arms and legs to our love, wings to our wonder, so that they will become the significant part of us.’ (Paula D’Arcy. Where The Wind Begins.)
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