Come there with me for a while; walk that strand with me if you can, and think on the unexpected ways the Spirit may have of reaching into your own life and of stirring the awareness that already exists within you.
Deep pocketed hands, and chin tucked beneath an upturned collar while keeping only a half-view ahead beyond the edge of a sheltering hood. Cold, grey and lifeless hours. Squalls of rain lashing by every few minutes, blending with salt lifted from the foaming seas. The sort of day that leads to the question, ‘Am I really enjoying this or do I only think I am ?’
I had the whole world to myself and walked on, in a sense, scarcely knowing that even I was there, when I suddenly became aware of somebody else. There, perhaps quarter of a mile away, was a figure walking towards me. Feelings of annoyance at once began to build within me. Why did he have to be here now? Why couldn't he at least be taking a different line along the sand instead of heading straight towards me?
I was not naturally inclined to give this stranger the benefit of the doubt, and as the distance between us decreased, I was filled with apprehension; he might be the wrong sort of person altogether for the place, and for my mood; worst of all he might be a 'talker'.
In my eyes he was the intruder, and if only he had stayed away... Another hour, another day; maybe we both would have had total solitude.
I knew that he must also have seen me, and that felt like a further intrusion. I did not want anyone else even knowing of my presence, and here there was nowhere to hide, and no way of remaining unseen as in a busy street or even in a crowded church. Shutting out my awareness of his existence progressed from difficult to impossible until, having approached to within a few yards of each other, our eyes met.
My usual reaction would have been to look away and not glance back. I had not expected to be looking at him at all by that stage, having already set my eyes firmly on the sand a few feet ahead of me, but for some reason I had looked up, and finding his eyes already on me, surprised myself by continuing to look at his face. As we closed to only a few feet I looked hard into his eyes, and though he gazed back, his look did not seem to question my presence in any way; he seemed to barely register that I was there. No words were spoken, and we both walked on, passing within touching distance, and leaving each other to the safety of the solitudes we had exchanged.
Almost at once I became aware that my feelings towards him had changed. The apprehension and annoyance had been replaced by curiosity and a rather disconcerting mixture of admiration and envy. I would rather have been the only person there, but, for what was probably the first time, I had become fully aware of the possibility that there may be other people who thought and felt as I did. I had just passed somebody who, like myself, was clearly brought to life by the feel and sound of the wind and waves, and by being alone with time to simply be himself. I had seen it in his eyes. But there was more. The envy was there because it had been obvious that he had something else which I had not. A peace and contentment seemed to glow on his face, and his eyes betrayed a love and an understanding of which I knew I was incapable.
Somehow he seemed vaguely familiar too, but only once he had gone - a common enough feeling - perhaps I had seen him somewhere before. I turned and watched him for a while, receding into the grey middle-distance beyond which was nothing in the failing light.
I tried to continue my walk for a while but stopping had made me realise just how cold I was. I gave in, and finally admitted to myself that I was no longer enjoying this. The longing to be there had gone; the inner calling had been answered and I had done whatever it was I had come there to do.
I glanced over my shoulder with a "Come on Jesus!", and turning round, re-trod what I took to be my own footsteps for a few yards before hurrying back towards warmth and the rest of the world.
The memory of that meeting slipped away as such things do. It had been important at the time, but was of no consequence beyond that day. That is, until a quiet summer evening maybe two years later, when I had already walked to the far end of that same strand.
Daylight has long given way to dusk, and while stopping to think of family and friends, even the dusk has gently slipped away. With eyes accustomed to the increasing darkness, and with no trace of light pollution here, light still lingers on, not so much in the west as in a thin wash everywhere. There is not a breath of wind, and I think I would normally have missed it, but this night the whole world seemed so utterly, utterly peaceful. The ocean is calm, with its sleepy swell breaking in whispered sighs upon the sand. A slow, rhythmical come-and-go of sound.
I strolled slowly along the water-line in the opposite direction from that previously described. The sand, sea, horizon, sky - all ran into each other. Where each was could still be near-seen, yet I could not make out where one joined the other. The only clear line was inland, where the mountains stood as jet against the merely coal-black sky.
As I walked I thought of other times I had been there, and then remembered that day when I had thought I was alone but found a stranger approaching me from this end of the beach.
I paused for a moment, and turned to look behind me. What on earth was I doing? I told myself to walk on, and I did.
I had not been looking for my friend and companion Jesus; I had already lost him, and had not yet discovered where or why he had gone. His absence had left me with a feeling of emptiness through which coursed a constant awareness that He had been with me. Why did He go? I asked that question constantly. Why had He been there with me? I was numbed in a way that made me unable to even formulate that question, let alone ask it of myself.
Just for a moment I had thought ... No. My imagination again.
I continued to walk, gradually becoming less happy with the quiet and the feelings of isolation, until suddenly, I felt that presence again. This time it was inescapable. I knew he was there once more: the stranger I had passed. I stopped and turned to face him, peering into the darkness. Nothing. Nobody.
Although I could not see, I knew he was not there. But he was there somewhere, very close; everything in me conspired to make me know it. And then, with heart pounding in my chest, and skin creeping with an unknown fear, I realised it was not behind me but coming towards me. I froze in an overwhelming sense of inevitability as the presence reached me. A shadow seemed to pass me by: an echo from the past; I longed to be away from there and as I quickly started off again, this unknown brother of fear clung to me.
A dread of seeing anything at all welded my eyelids shut until it began to subside.
Some days afterwards it was made clear for me, though I still failed to understand the full meaning of what had occurred.
On that cold winter's day, I had met myself as I was to be, having been turned around in some way, and altogether more at peace. Then, two years later, on a summer's night, having unknowingly become that apparent stranger, I had sensed the passing of the man who had previously walked that shore.
Today that beach is a quietly happy place to visit. It is now harder to find oneself alone there and it seems altogether very ordinary.
I have a large print of a photograph taken there hanging in my home; it shows my four children as silhouettes walking along the sand at sunset, journeying into life and all that it may hold for them. It is just another visual image, - but for me, it reminds of so much more.
May God grant you your sense of place, and the ability to hear Him when He calls.
.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
Friday, 22 August 2008
In passing (1)
Thoughts of sandy beaches have taken me back to the time when I was being emptied and refilled, perhaps (hindsight again) in preparation for eventually being filled to the brim.
An important part of my own journey was played out on a beach, and if the greater part of what I write here is drawn from words uttered within myself, then I should overcome the reluctance I sometimes feel to, as it were, utter those words aloud. Having recalled those now rather distant days, perhaps it is right that I should share more of my own journey with you.
My life was transformed by an ongoing experience of the presence of Jesus, and later, by His apparent absence which led me into a previously unimagined and impossible level of faith without any dependence on feelings of being in His company. This absence of further experiences has continued for many years, but I have the irreplaceable memory of His companionship to lift my spirit whenever life tires or troubles me. I no longer have any real sense of His being right here beside me: no feeling, no sensation, no actual experience to infuse or overwhelm me, nor to delay or distract me, but the undying echo of my previous experience has anchored a deep awareness of His presence within me. I know that in my efforts to follow Him He is always walking with me.
My experience had three parts, two of which are clearly remembered as living factual events. I have never been as certain about how the third occurred.
Walking with Jesus was real. Losing him was real. Meeting a particular stranger was real to me, but I later doubted its reality: I feared that I may have imagined it, until I understood what had happened.
For some time I had been increasingly drawn to one particular place in Ireland, and at some point in the narrowing down of my awareness to that one spot, I had gained a friend. Jesus had become an almost tangible presence. It happened so quietly that I do not recall any stages in the process. There had been a time when I had not been aware of his presence, and then, when I was, I could not remember when it had begun: it seemed so normal a part of my life.
He walked with me wherever I went, but it was when I sought the peace that I could find only when alone in the west of Ireland that I really felt his presence; and the place where he came closest was on that same beach.
I would talk aloud to him at times; not saying much, but rather as one would to someone who shared the love of solitude and who was close enough in friendship to be allowed to share one's secret experiences of peace. I had never shared such things with anybody: they were not for sharing; they were mine. But Jesus was there, and his presence enhanced the solitude and the peace rather than detracting from it. He brought it into a new dimension.
He was always in the same position, slightly behind me and to my left. I would glance over my shoulder when speaking to him, and at times would find it impossible not to smile, or even laugh aloud through the pleasure of his company. He was so real at times that I would stop and turn with the expectation of seeing him beside me. I never did see him, and, (and this surprised me when I first realised it), I never heard him utter a single word. I also have the clear but contradictory memory that, although I never saw him, whenever I looked at him he was always looking straight into my eyes; he never took his eyes off me.
My quietest and most peaceful moments were when alone with him on that beach.
My saddest day was when I found that I had lost him.
Just as I am unable to remember when Jesus first arrived at my shoulder, so am I unable to fix the time when I first missed him. I sense that it was probably during a particular period of emptiness and confusion, as that helps me to make sense of why I sank deep, when everything else in my world was wonderful. All I know is that suddenly the feeling of being accompanied was gone; he was no longer there.
The sense of loss was immense, and the sorrow continued for a long time. Until that glorious day when I realised that I had not lost him at all; - he had moved in! That day too is lost in terms of ‘when’, but the day lives on as the experience of light and joy. Jesus the man - the real living friend - had gone from beside me, but now, with the Holy Spirit, he dwelt within me. That was where he had wanted to be. That was why he had been walking so close for so long. He had been waiting for me to let him in.
I had enjoyed his company without ever giving a thought to why he was there, and had failed to see that both his presence and his apparent disappearance were part of what was happening to me. I had felt the two experiences as part of my love for the place, and it was only as yet more time went by that I learned I had to put two previously unconnected realities together (unconnected in my own mind that is): the longed for experiences of Ireland, and the changes going on in my life at home.
My trinity of experience in that place was completed by a further meeting that occurred when Jesus still walked with me.
It is a place I love and which draws me into thoughts and dreams. It is a place (as all places are) in which to pray, and, for me, one of the places where I was first confronted with sorrow and injustice tied up in the memory of places: anguish and despair that leaches from the land itself long after events have receded into history. An unlikely sounding lesson it may be, but one that drew to the surface my need to find a means of expression for emotions that would not let me rest, as though finding a voice for those who could no longer speak, and through that voice enabling some of their restless sorrows to be stilled.
A place to be alone, and when the shore was deserted I felt almost like an intruder, so lonely did the place feel; - as on that day ...
An important part of my own journey was played out on a beach, and if the greater part of what I write here is drawn from words uttered within myself, then I should overcome the reluctance I sometimes feel to, as it were, utter those words aloud. Having recalled those now rather distant days, perhaps it is right that I should share more of my own journey with you.
My life was transformed by an ongoing experience of the presence of Jesus, and later, by His apparent absence which led me into a previously unimagined and impossible level of faith without any dependence on feelings of being in His company. This absence of further experiences has continued for many years, but I have the irreplaceable memory of His companionship to lift my spirit whenever life tires or troubles me. I no longer have any real sense of His being right here beside me: no feeling, no sensation, no actual experience to infuse or overwhelm me, nor to delay or distract me, but the undying echo of my previous experience has anchored a deep awareness of His presence within me. I know that in my efforts to follow Him He is always walking with me.
My experience had three parts, two of which are clearly remembered as living factual events. I have never been as certain about how the third occurred.
Walking with Jesus was real. Losing him was real. Meeting a particular stranger was real to me, but I later doubted its reality: I feared that I may have imagined it, until I understood what had happened.
For some time I had been increasingly drawn to one particular place in Ireland, and at some point in the narrowing down of my awareness to that one spot, I had gained a friend. Jesus had become an almost tangible presence. It happened so quietly that I do not recall any stages in the process. There had been a time when I had not been aware of his presence, and then, when I was, I could not remember when it had begun: it seemed so normal a part of my life.
He walked with me wherever I went, but it was when I sought the peace that I could find only when alone in the west of Ireland that I really felt his presence; and the place where he came closest was on that same beach.
I would talk aloud to him at times; not saying much, but rather as one would to someone who shared the love of solitude and who was close enough in friendship to be allowed to share one's secret experiences of peace. I had never shared such things with anybody: they were not for sharing; they were mine. But Jesus was there, and his presence enhanced the solitude and the peace rather than detracting from it. He brought it into a new dimension.
He was always in the same position, slightly behind me and to my left. I would glance over my shoulder when speaking to him, and at times would find it impossible not to smile, or even laugh aloud through the pleasure of his company. He was so real at times that I would stop and turn with the expectation of seeing him beside me. I never did see him, and, (and this surprised me when I first realised it), I never heard him utter a single word. I also have the clear but contradictory memory that, although I never saw him, whenever I looked at him he was always looking straight into my eyes; he never took his eyes off me.
My quietest and most peaceful moments were when alone with him on that beach.
My saddest day was when I found that I had lost him.
Just as I am unable to remember when Jesus first arrived at my shoulder, so am I unable to fix the time when I first missed him. I sense that it was probably during a particular period of emptiness and confusion, as that helps me to make sense of why I sank deep, when everything else in my world was wonderful. All I know is that suddenly the feeling of being accompanied was gone; he was no longer there.
The sense of loss was immense, and the sorrow continued for a long time. Until that glorious day when I realised that I had not lost him at all; - he had moved in! That day too is lost in terms of ‘when’, but the day lives on as the experience of light and joy. Jesus the man - the real living friend - had gone from beside me, but now, with the Holy Spirit, he dwelt within me. That was where he had wanted to be. That was why he had been walking so close for so long. He had been waiting for me to let him in.
I had enjoyed his company without ever giving a thought to why he was there, and had failed to see that both his presence and his apparent disappearance were part of what was happening to me. I had felt the two experiences as part of my love for the place, and it was only as yet more time went by that I learned I had to put two previously unconnected realities together (unconnected in my own mind that is): the longed for experiences of Ireland, and the changes going on in my life at home.
My trinity of experience in that place was completed by a further meeting that occurred when Jesus still walked with me.
It is a place I love and which draws me into thoughts and dreams. It is a place (as all places are) in which to pray, and, for me, one of the places where I was first confronted with sorrow and injustice tied up in the memory of places: anguish and despair that leaches from the land itself long after events have receded into history. An unlikely sounding lesson it may be, but one that drew to the surface my need to find a means of expression for emotions that would not let me rest, as though finding a voice for those who could no longer speak, and through that voice enabling some of their restless sorrows to be stilled.
A place to be alone, and when the shore was deserted I felt almost like an intruder, so lonely did the place feel; - as on that day ...
.
Monday, 18 August 2008
Accompanied
Perhaps the best known expression of being carried by Christ is in the well known words of ‘Footprints in the Sand’.
A dreamer walks along a beach with Jesus while life scenes flash before them. For most of the time there are two sets of footprints in the sand, but during the scenes of difficult times there is only one set of prints; the dreamer takes these to be her or his own, and asks the Lord why He had not remained when the need had been greatest.
It is frequently only in looking back that we find the understanding of simple truth in so much of life’s experience. Every stage of our walk towards and with Christ is made in His company - ‘... I am with you always; yes, to the end of time.’ (Matthew 28:20) - though we easily fail to maintain our belief in His presence when the going gets tough. When we do not sense His presence, and fail to recognize any other evidence to suggest that He is with us, we feel ourselves to be orphaned and alone; a feeling that is itself a teacher, but from which we can learn nothing unless it persists. Not being aware of the Lord’s presence can so easily leave us with no conscious thought of His existence: in our hearts and minds He no longer exists until something jolts a form of recognition and recollection into our consciousness once more.
As with the dreamer’s vision of a single set of footprints, hindsight alone does not always convey the whole truth. It may clarify the memory of the experience itself and reveal evidence we had failed to see at the time; it may provide an understanding or interpretation of which we were previously incapable, but without the acknowledged and accepted presence of He who is our Saviour - not only of man and womankind as a whole, but of each of us as individuals - we are unable to see that which would otherwise be revealed to us in the constant light of truth as conveyed by the Holy Spirit. We remain unaware of His carrying of us until we first appreciate that in our worst of times we had not been alone. He was then, is now, and ever shall be, with us every step of the way.
Our journeying began before we started to search for Him; it preceded our first yearnings for Him and stirred in our earliest wondering about Him. Our first step towards Him was taken with our very first thought of Him.
It is in the experience of His presence that we recognize, with hindsight, that we have been found; the shepherd would ‘call together his friends and neighbours saying to them, “Rejoice with me, I have found my sheep that was lost.” (Luke 15:6); that we have been named; ‘The Lord then came and stood by, calling as He had done before, "Samuel! Samuel!" Samuel answered, "Speak, Lord; for your servant is listening." (1 Samuel 3:10); and that we have been raised to a new and meaningful life with Him.
We move closer to Christ through the stages of this process, but once He has lifted us our sense of direction is altered; it is no longer attuned solely to bringing us closer to Him, but more closely to His will for our lives. He carries us in the direction He has planned for us, pointing to the needs, the conflicts, the injustices or the abuses for which we are part of both His immediate and ultimate solutions. From now on our following is the close relationship He wishes every one of us to have with Him. If we remain faithful to Him we are inseparable and we are perfectly placed to follow His guidance and to be empowered for sending wherever and for whatever purpose He wills.
The dreamer, and in reality the person who first penned the words of ‘Footprints’, must have reached this point in their walk with our Lord to be able to convey the deep emotional and spiritual impact of their realization of His presence. The popularity and spread of the story is down to one simple fact: the message it conveys is truth. It gives access to a fundamental truth for which everyone is searching, and which we all yearn to experience for ourselves.
.
A dreamer walks along a beach with Jesus while life scenes flash before them. For most of the time there are two sets of footprints in the sand, but during the scenes of difficult times there is only one set of prints; the dreamer takes these to be her or his own, and asks the Lord why He had not remained when the need had been greatest.
It is frequently only in looking back that we find the understanding of simple truth in so much of life’s experience. Every stage of our walk towards and with Christ is made in His company - ‘... I am with you always; yes, to the end of time.’ (Matthew 28:20) - though we easily fail to maintain our belief in His presence when the going gets tough. When we do not sense His presence, and fail to recognize any other evidence to suggest that He is with us, we feel ourselves to be orphaned and alone; a feeling that is itself a teacher, but from which we can learn nothing unless it persists. Not being aware of the Lord’s presence can so easily leave us with no conscious thought of His existence: in our hearts and minds He no longer exists until something jolts a form of recognition and recollection into our consciousness once more.
As with the dreamer’s vision of a single set of footprints, hindsight alone does not always convey the whole truth. It may clarify the memory of the experience itself and reveal evidence we had failed to see at the time; it may provide an understanding or interpretation of which we were previously incapable, but without the acknowledged and accepted presence of He who is our Saviour - not only of man and womankind as a whole, but of each of us as individuals - we are unable to see that which would otherwise be revealed to us in the constant light of truth as conveyed by the Holy Spirit. We remain unaware of His carrying of us until we first appreciate that in our worst of times we had not been alone. He was then, is now, and ever shall be, with us every step of the way.
Our journeying began before we started to search for Him; it preceded our first yearnings for Him and stirred in our earliest wondering about Him. Our first step towards Him was taken with our very first thought of Him.
It is in the experience of His presence that we recognize, with hindsight, that we have been found; the shepherd would ‘call together his friends and neighbours saying to them, “Rejoice with me, I have found my sheep that was lost.” (Luke 15:6); that we have been named; ‘The Lord then came and stood by, calling as He had done before, "Samuel! Samuel!" Samuel answered, "Speak, Lord; for your servant is listening." (1 Samuel 3:10); and that we have been raised to a new and meaningful life with Him.
We move closer to Christ through the stages of this process, but once He has lifted us our sense of direction is altered; it is no longer attuned solely to bringing us closer to Him, but more closely to His will for our lives. He carries us in the direction He has planned for us, pointing to the needs, the conflicts, the injustices or the abuses for which we are part of both His immediate and ultimate solutions. From now on our following is the close relationship He wishes every one of us to have with Him. If we remain faithful to Him we are inseparable and we are perfectly placed to follow His guidance and to be empowered for sending wherever and for whatever purpose He wills.
The dreamer, and in reality the person who first penned the words of ‘Footprints’, must have reached this point in their walk with our Lord to be able to convey the deep emotional and spiritual impact of their realization of His presence. The popularity and spread of the story is down to one simple fact: the message it conveys is truth. It gives access to a fundamental truth for which everyone is searching, and which we all yearn to experience for ourselves.
.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
Life-blood
In every generation the future life of Christ’s Church depends on the faith of young people.
For those no longer regarded as being in that age group, and who are baptised Christians, it is logical to insist that if that statement is accepted as true, it is for the most part dependent on those among them who are themselves already members of the Church, and of these it relies heavily on the ones whose faith has been confirmed in their own experience and, where formal confirmation exists, have also received the Sacrament of Confirmation. These two forms of confirmation meet in the heart and spirit like hands clasped in prayer, with the resulting warmth nurturing the seed sown in baptism and germinated in an awakened spiritual consciousness; this rousing itself being the fruit of baptism.
In such conditions the sprouting seed cannot fail to grow, and depending on the ground we prepare for it, has the potential to mature, to blossom and to bear fruit. The Church is continually thriving or dying in the faith, the belief and doubt, and the consciousness of her members, particularly those who are no longer children but remain in the loosely named group we call ‘young people’: the youth of today and preceding generations: the teenagers who, in large numbers, are slipping away from a visible presence in our churches and church communities. Their absence is paralleled by their being one of the least mentioned and least visible age groups in scripture. (The other being the elderly, in whom the living and dying of the Church is also apparent; they are always present in numbers but they leave when they die. Who are the faithful old people in fifty or sixty years time if not the absent youth of today?)
But to restrict our thinking only to those young people who are already members of a church community, or who are at least known as the children of existing church members, is to fail utterly in our attempts to see the Church as Christ Himself would have us see it. The Church is not those who meet in the places we think of as ‘church’; it is not the buildings, and it is not one group of believers as opposed to another. It is not those who sit in church pews every Sunday and nor is it those who attend more lively forms of service and worship than is provided by traditional liturgy. (Many young people are to be found at some of these). It is all of these and more.
The Church encompasses all believers and reaches out to the far corners of society. Wherever there is someone who senses the existence and the presence of God, whether or not they realize or acknowledge that presence as what it is, there is the Church. It may be the very edge of its range and of its inclusiveness but the limit of its existence is not within that range but always just beyond it.
A whispered or anguished cry to an unknown God from somewhere in the wilderness at once extends the outer fringes of Christ’s Church to encompass the pain, the fear, the grief, the remorse, the need – whatever it may be – to include that one longing soul.
We do not recognize these outer areas as being part of the Church, and that is not so much because the limits we have subconsciously set for its definition are flawed, as because we think of evangelism, spreading the gospel, preaching the good news of what Jesus has done for man and womankind, as being something dedicated to areas beyond the fringes of the Church. This is the root of the traditional churches’ felt need to take all they have to those distant areas (distant in terms of understanding while being in our very midst) when they should be listening to the ever present guidance of the Holy Spirit and taking the core of their belief without the accustomed historical trappings and liturgical rigidity – the basic truth of the gospel – to those who are lost in their searching for its undeniable simplicity, truth and peace.
Where it has been allowed to flourish, it is in the simple and realistic innocence of youth that the Church finds hope for its future; it is in materialism and a bland experience of life that most of our young people build an indifference that is the ebbing away of the Church’s life-blood. This has, for a long time, been cause of much concern, bewilderment and hand-wringing, none of which will ever achieve anything without a mature understanding of what the Church really is, why Jesus founded it, and why being a part of it should be a truly meaningful experience.
Without being able to stand effectively in the midst of the world’s indifference, the Church cannot hope to manifest and express the love, the peace and the power at its disposal to counter the easy drift from disinterest to defilement.
Awareness itself can be perverted by the same gradual conditioning process that can smother our conscience, leading us through hesitation to lingering, and onwards through repetition to acceptance and an eventual unquestioned wallowing in our own wrongdoing. A simple thought, an inappropriate pause, a dwelling upon, familiarization, habitual use, misuse, abuse; the path is most clearly defined by hindsight, but however well mapped out for others by those looking back, the truth conveyed seems superficial and inviting further investigation and understanding. Nothing, it seems, can prevent us searching for truth - good and bad - through our own experience: in our turn, we each find ourselves reaching for the apple on that one tree.
Do I dream of walking in Eden? Or, does Eden live on in me?
This should tell all mature Christians something of immense importance regarding the individual nature of God’s grace, God’s calling and God’s touch. It should also tell all of us, mature or not, Christian or not, something important about our powers of understanding and awareness, about maturity, and about our journeying. Each one of us is held in the grip of something, good or bad. Addictions hold us: they become part of us, altering our way of seeing the world and the ways other people see us. An unhappy childhood holds us because we are unable to let go of it: it will not release us. Grief can clasp us tightly within itself, and so too can guilt. Equally, we can be held safe and secure by good memories, kind people, strong people, by unity, community, solitude, silence, ... The lists are endless, but faith, a confirmed faith in all its maturity, takes us beyond these things. St Paul’s having “learned the secret of being content in whatever state of life I am”, is the fruit of his being in the grip of something, being ‘addicted’ to something, belonging to something.
He belonged completely to Christ.
What do I belong to? What do you belong to?
Have we placed ourselves into God’s hands?
Have we asked the Holy Spirit to fill us and enable us to become the persons we are meant to be?
Do we belong to Christ?
He has called us – we have been named by Him. He has reached out to us – we have been touched by Him.
He has drawn us to Himself –we have been grasped by Him. He has claimed us – we have been held fast by Him.
He has enfolded us – we have been embraced by Him. He has raised us – we have been lifted by Him.
Having lifted us, He has taken our whole being to Himself. He has not taken only those parts we think may be good enough for Him to work on, or maybe even perfect, He has shouldered our weakness and our mistakes, our every fear and our disbelief.
We are now among The Carried.
He is with us every step of the way.
.
For those no longer regarded as being in that age group, and who are baptised Christians, it is logical to insist that if that statement is accepted as true, it is for the most part dependent on those among them who are themselves already members of the Church, and of these it relies heavily on the ones whose faith has been confirmed in their own experience and, where formal confirmation exists, have also received the Sacrament of Confirmation. These two forms of confirmation meet in the heart and spirit like hands clasped in prayer, with the resulting warmth nurturing the seed sown in baptism and germinated in an awakened spiritual consciousness; this rousing itself being the fruit of baptism.
In such conditions the sprouting seed cannot fail to grow, and depending on the ground we prepare for it, has the potential to mature, to blossom and to bear fruit. The Church is continually thriving or dying in the faith, the belief and doubt, and the consciousness of her members, particularly those who are no longer children but remain in the loosely named group we call ‘young people’: the youth of today and preceding generations: the teenagers who, in large numbers, are slipping away from a visible presence in our churches and church communities. Their absence is paralleled by their being one of the least mentioned and least visible age groups in scripture. (The other being the elderly, in whom the living and dying of the Church is also apparent; they are always present in numbers but they leave when they die. Who are the faithful old people in fifty or sixty years time if not the absent youth of today?)
But to restrict our thinking only to those young people who are already members of a church community, or who are at least known as the children of existing church members, is to fail utterly in our attempts to see the Church as Christ Himself would have us see it. The Church is not those who meet in the places we think of as ‘church’; it is not the buildings, and it is not one group of believers as opposed to another. It is not those who sit in church pews every Sunday and nor is it those who attend more lively forms of service and worship than is provided by traditional liturgy. (Many young people are to be found at some of these). It is all of these and more.
The Church encompasses all believers and reaches out to the far corners of society. Wherever there is someone who senses the existence and the presence of God, whether or not they realize or acknowledge that presence as what it is, there is the Church. It may be the very edge of its range and of its inclusiveness but the limit of its existence is not within that range but always just beyond it.
A whispered or anguished cry to an unknown God from somewhere in the wilderness at once extends the outer fringes of Christ’s Church to encompass the pain, the fear, the grief, the remorse, the need – whatever it may be – to include that one longing soul.
We do not recognize these outer areas as being part of the Church, and that is not so much because the limits we have subconsciously set for its definition are flawed, as because we think of evangelism, spreading the gospel, preaching the good news of what Jesus has done for man and womankind, as being something dedicated to areas beyond the fringes of the Church. This is the root of the traditional churches’ felt need to take all they have to those distant areas (distant in terms of understanding while being in our very midst) when they should be listening to the ever present guidance of the Holy Spirit and taking the core of their belief without the accustomed historical trappings and liturgical rigidity – the basic truth of the gospel – to those who are lost in their searching for its undeniable simplicity, truth and peace.
Where it has been allowed to flourish, it is in the simple and realistic innocence of youth that the Church finds hope for its future; it is in materialism and a bland experience of life that most of our young people build an indifference that is the ebbing away of the Church’s life-blood. This has, for a long time, been cause of much concern, bewilderment and hand-wringing, none of which will ever achieve anything without a mature understanding of what the Church really is, why Jesus founded it, and why being a part of it should be a truly meaningful experience.
Without being able to stand effectively in the midst of the world’s indifference, the Church cannot hope to manifest and express the love, the peace and the power at its disposal to counter the easy drift from disinterest to defilement.
Awareness itself can be perverted by the same gradual conditioning process that can smother our conscience, leading us through hesitation to lingering, and onwards through repetition to acceptance and an eventual unquestioned wallowing in our own wrongdoing. A simple thought, an inappropriate pause, a dwelling upon, familiarization, habitual use, misuse, abuse; the path is most clearly defined by hindsight, but however well mapped out for others by those looking back, the truth conveyed seems superficial and inviting further investigation and understanding. Nothing, it seems, can prevent us searching for truth - good and bad - through our own experience: in our turn, we each find ourselves reaching for the apple on that one tree.
Do I dream of walking in Eden? Or, does Eden live on in me?
This should tell all mature Christians something of immense importance regarding the individual nature of God’s grace, God’s calling and God’s touch. It should also tell all of us, mature or not, Christian or not, something important about our powers of understanding and awareness, about maturity, and about our journeying. Each one of us is held in the grip of something, good or bad. Addictions hold us: they become part of us, altering our way of seeing the world and the ways other people see us. An unhappy childhood holds us because we are unable to let go of it: it will not release us. Grief can clasp us tightly within itself, and so too can guilt. Equally, we can be held safe and secure by good memories, kind people, strong people, by unity, community, solitude, silence, ... The lists are endless, but faith, a confirmed faith in all its maturity, takes us beyond these things. St Paul’s having “learned the secret of being content in whatever state of life I am”, is the fruit of his being in the grip of something, being ‘addicted’ to something, belonging to something.
He belonged completely to Christ.
What do I belong to? What do you belong to?
Have we placed ourselves into God’s hands?
Have we asked the Holy Spirit to fill us and enable us to become the persons we are meant to be?
Do we belong to Christ?
He has called us – we have been named by Him. He has reached out to us – we have been touched by Him.
He has drawn us to Himself –we have been grasped by Him. He has claimed us – we have been held fast by Him.
He has enfolded us – we have been embraced by Him. He has raised us – we have been lifted by Him.
Having lifted us, He has taken our whole being to Himself. He has not taken only those parts we think may be good enough for Him to work on, or maybe even perfect, He has shouldered our weakness and our mistakes, our every fear and our disbelief.
We are now among The Carried.
He is with us every step of the way.
.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
The Catholic in me (4)
For those who are members of churches where baptism is conferred in infancy, Confirmation is a declaration that promises made on their behalf when they were baptised are now understood and willingly reaffirmed by themselves. It also signifies both their desire for and their acceptance of full recognition and participation in the Christian community.
In effect, it is a public announcement of one’s faith: standing up and saying to the community, ‘I am a Christian; and now that I am old enough to understand what that means, I make my own the promises made for me at my baptism, and I pray that the Holy Spirit will fill me, empower me and enable me to live my life as one of Christ’s true disciples.’
Being mature enough to do this and to understand the significance of what one is saying is essential for this to have any real meaning.
The sacrament itself is always filled with power and meaning: The Holy Spirit will burn and urge within, but without a similar and pre-existing fire in one’s will and a readiness to respond to the prompting of the Spirit, spiritual life can so easily fade into the shadows. That is not where we are meant to be, and Confirmation should enable us to more readily bring ourselves and our faith far from those shadows and into the light.
I know that within today’s broad sweep of Christianity, my own experience has confirmed me as a Catholic, but I do not actually experience my confirmation in that limited and differentiating way. I sense and feel that I am confirmed only as a Christian, as what Jesus called His followers to be. The Catholic Church, of which I am a part, is, for me, the closest representation there is of the Church founded by Jesus: Christ’s Church: The Christian Church. The link with the Apostles and the first calls to spread the gospel is least stretched and fragmented in her unbroken presence on Earth. All other denominations have arisen out of separation from that presence and from the inevitable and continuing fragmentation this has spawned.
Because of that fragmentation, there are times when it is necessary for a Catholic in today’s world to be specific about the Church into which she or he has been baptised and confirmed. For anyone outside the Catholic Church, professing to be a Christian does not lack the specifics of unbroken allegiance to Christ’s founding instructions as it does for one within it. It is in this way that, while feeling confirmed in general as a Christian, I am definitely and specifically baptised and confirmed as a Catholic.
My own sometimes unsettled feelings about Confirmation are born of a permanent discomfort over the timing of the sacrament in young people’s lives. When is someone old enough to understand? And what do we mean when we use that word ‘understand’?
The Annual Parish Meeting I attended some time ago included discussion around the need for inclusion of our young people in the life of the parish, and I suggested that those confirmed over the last few years might be asked what they themselves wanted or needed from the parish.
My suggestion was prompted by the notable numbers of young people preparing for the Sacrament of Confirmation, but as well as being a serious proposal in the context of the discussion, it was made to see if anyone other than myself had doubts as to the validity of any encouragement we might derive from those numbers. There were no expressions of such encouragement or doubt.
The numbers appear to be very encouraging but this is due to the fact that Confirmation, and preparation for it, is linked to the schools; the children reach a certain age, a certain class, and their school year leads them into Confirmation. This can do little for the Church other than enable communities to relax more deeply into complacency. A false picture is created, giving rise to time and energy being wasted on asking the wrong questions. I believe one of the right questions is whether the present arrangements for Confirmation really create the best chance of resulting in a confirmed faith at all.
It seems that Confirmation is regarded more as something to be done to our children while they are still a captive audience than something towards which they should be gently encouraged without any undue sense of urgency or external pressure.
Every increase in our understanding places us where we could not have previously been, and this continues throughout our lives. Where is the point at which we comprehend our faith sufficiently to declare it and work for Christ’s Church in mature and meaningful ways? For each one of us it is where and when we recognize it, and following any laid down pattern or timetable fails to take this into account. The greatest risk is that going through the accepted motions will leave individuals thinking they have finally completed the necessary stages regardless of where they actually are in their journey of faith.
The following statements from the Catechism of the Catholic Church conjure a worrying mix of premature and enforced obligation laced with inappropriate expectations based on a person having reached a developmental stage that may merely bring recognition of the difference between right and wrong.
1285 '...by the sacrament of Confirmation, [the baptized] are ... more strictly obliged to spread and defend the faith by word and deed.'
1306 '... Since Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist form a unity, it follows that "the faithful are obliged to receive this sacrament at the appropriate time,"
1307 'The Latin tradition gives "the age of discretion" as the reference point for receiving Confirmation.'
Each one of us has to travel beyond that point into the deeper understanding of our own sinfulness and potential before we can begin to grasp what Jesus has done for us, and eventually stand up to declare that truly, ‘I am a Christian’.
The following add-on, or coverall, (also from the Catechism), does not carry any weight other than perhaps to quieten voices that may question as I have now done. An underlying reluctance to accept utterances from all others proud enough to think they speak as the voice of Christ’s Church is not to be dispelled by anything that creates hints of unwarranted guilt or self-doubt.
1308 'Although Confirmation is sometimes called the "sacrament of Christian maturity," we must not confuse adult faith with the adult age of natural growth, nor forget that the baptismal grace is a grace of free, unmerited election and does not need "ratification" to become effective. ... Age of body does not determine age of soul. Even in childhood man can attain spiritual maturity: ...'
Maturity is built upon previous degrees of maturity in the same way that understanding becomes more perfect by building upon itself.
Both provide confirmation of what has gone before.
Confirmation, and the proclamation it demands, is for when the time is right.
In effect, it is a public announcement of one’s faith: standing up and saying to the community, ‘I am a Christian; and now that I am old enough to understand what that means, I make my own the promises made for me at my baptism, and I pray that the Holy Spirit will fill me, empower me and enable me to live my life as one of Christ’s true disciples.’
Being mature enough to do this and to understand the significance of what one is saying is essential for this to have any real meaning.
The sacrament itself is always filled with power and meaning: The Holy Spirit will burn and urge within, but without a similar and pre-existing fire in one’s will and a readiness to respond to the prompting of the Spirit, spiritual life can so easily fade into the shadows. That is not where we are meant to be, and Confirmation should enable us to more readily bring ourselves and our faith far from those shadows and into the light.
I know that within today’s broad sweep of Christianity, my own experience has confirmed me as a Catholic, but I do not actually experience my confirmation in that limited and differentiating way. I sense and feel that I am confirmed only as a Christian, as what Jesus called His followers to be. The Catholic Church, of which I am a part, is, for me, the closest representation there is of the Church founded by Jesus: Christ’s Church: The Christian Church. The link with the Apostles and the first calls to spread the gospel is least stretched and fragmented in her unbroken presence on Earth. All other denominations have arisen out of separation from that presence and from the inevitable and continuing fragmentation this has spawned.
Because of that fragmentation, there are times when it is necessary for a Catholic in today’s world to be specific about the Church into which she or he has been baptised and confirmed. For anyone outside the Catholic Church, professing to be a Christian does not lack the specifics of unbroken allegiance to Christ’s founding instructions as it does for one within it. It is in this way that, while feeling confirmed in general as a Christian, I am definitely and specifically baptised and confirmed as a Catholic.
My own sometimes unsettled feelings about Confirmation are born of a permanent discomfort over the timing of the sacrament in young people’s lives. When is someone old enough to understand? And what do we mean when we use that word ‘understand’?
The Annual Parish Meeting I attended some time ago included discussion around the need for inclusion of our young people in the life of the parish, and I suggested that those confirmed over the last few years might be asked what they themselves wanted or needed from the parish.
My suggestion was prompted by the notable numbers of young people preparing for the Sacrament of Confirmation, but as well as being a serious proposal in the context of the discussion, it was made to see if anyone other than myself had doubts as to the validity of any encouragement we might derive from those numbers. There were no expressions of such encouragement or doubt.
The numbers appear to be very encouraging but this is due to the fact that Confirmation, and preparation for it, is linked to the schools; the children reach a certain age, a certain class, and their school year leads them into Confirmation. This can do little for the Church other than enable communities to relax more deeply into complacency. A false picture is created, giving rise to time and energy being wasted on asking the wrong questions. I believe one of the right questions is whether the present arrangements for Confirmation really create the best chance of resulting in a confirmed faith at all.
It seems that Confirmation is regarded more as something to be done to our children while they are still a captive audience than something towards which they should be gently encouraged without any undue sense of urgency or external pressure.
Every increase in our understanding places us where we could not have previously been, and this continues throughout our lives. Where is the point at which we comprehend our faith sufficiently to declare it and work for Christ’s Church in mature and meaningful ways? For each one of us it is where and when we recognize it, and following any laid down pattern or timetable fails to take this into account. The greatest risk is that going through the accepted motions will leave individuals thinking they have finally completed the necessary stages regardless of where they actually are in their journey of faith.
The following statements from the Catechism of the Catholic Church conjure a worrying mix of premature and enforced obligation laced with inappropriate expectations based on a person having reached a developmental stage that may merely bring recognition of the difference between right and wrong.
1285 '...by the sacrament of Confirmation, [the baptized] are ... more strictly obliged to spread and defend the faith by word and deed.'
1306 '... Since Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist form a unity, it follows that "the faithful are obliged to receive this sacrament at the appropriate time,"
1307 'The Latin tradition gives "the age of discretion" as the reference point for receiving Confirmation.'
Each one of us has to travel beyond that point into the deeper understanding of our own sinfulness and potential before we can begin to grasp what Jesus has done for us, and eventually stand up to declare that truly, ‘I am a Christian’.
The following add-on, or coverall, (also from the Catechism), does not carry any weight other than perhaps to quieten voices that may question as I have now done. An underlying reluctance to accept utterances from all others proud enough to think they speak as the voice of Christ’s Church is not to be dispelled by anything that creates hints of unwarranted guilt or self-doubt.
1308 'Although Confirmation is sometimes called the "sacrament of Christian maturity," we must not confuse adult faith with the adult age of natural growth, nor forget that the baptismal grace is a grace of free, unmerited election and does not need "ratification" to become effective. ... Age of body does not determine age of soul. Even in childhood man can attain spiritual maturity: ...'
Maturity is built upon previous degrees of maturity in the same way that understanding becomes more perfect by building upon itself.
Both provide confirmation of what has gone before.
Confirmation, and the proclamation it demands, is for when the time is right.
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Loosely bound
I still have difficulty trying to grasp the shape of what it is that I believe.
I attempt to sketch the outline in the hope that in so doing I may more clearly search within that form, but while my faith and my trust irresistibly deepen, what seems to be an increased clarity of understanding builds only upon, and reinforces the fact that I cannot comprehend that which I seek and follow and love. And yet, within my nebulous confusion, the constant awareness of a presence which is itself Peace, Truth and Life, both Giver and Sustainer of my existence, creates the calm and contentment in which I can smile back at perplexity: a much loved word, and the womb in which confusion coalesces from unfocussed nebula into the diamond hard seeds of truth.
My experience has confirmed me as a Christian, and today, though still without any hint of certainty, I know more surely than previously where I belong in Christ’s Church; uncertainty about what I should be doing within it and for it generates no feeling of contradiction within me.
A recurring idea or train of thought, a persistent disagreement, dissatisfaction or doubt, must point to some consistency of belief or failure to believe, and I take such apparent constants in my thoughts, emotions and reactions as start-points for trying to fill some of the gaps in my self knowledge. There are times, however, when I make a point of not following this through as I am fearful that the process will convince me that I do not agree with the teaching of the Church. At such times my refusal to acknowledge my instinctive beliefs is itself witness against me. I suspect there are many people who, whether admitting to it or not, share this failure to accept without question all teachings and traditions of the Church to which, nonetheless, they feel themselves unflinchingly bound.
For those outside the Church there is no doubt, no pricking or troubling of conscience, no reluctance to admit, no fear of division, separation or rejection, and the resultant clarity of thought allows anyone who may have half-looked at the Christian churches to see their own disagreements and non-acceptance in straightforward black and white. The result of this, combined with any belief that the Church is irrelevant in today’s world, offers no real answers for the questions in people’s minds, and is comprised of people who call themselves Christians but who are no different and no better than anyone else, is that they find no reason to approach: no reason to find out if their pre-conceived ideas are right or not. They find no confirmation one way or the other.
But there is another side to this non-acceptance and this inner witness to non-compliance.
Does the Church really need only those who keep their heads down, accepting everything without question, keeping the outside of things looking intact, wholesome, innocent and pious, maintaining the inherited and projected image regardless of all changes in society as though arrogantly believing that they possess the entire truth, and that society will eventually have to turn back to the Church? Most certainly it does not. It does need people who, while having due regard for the appearance of things, value the reality of the society in which we live, and the realities of peoples’ lives, hopes and fears. It needs thinking people of real faith who will question and learn, and in their turn answer and teach: people who will share their certainties and their doubts within the tighter bonds of Christian community. It is in this unity, within the Body of Christ’s Church, that we receive our real confirmation and both receive and give the affirmation we all need.
A sense of belonging is at the heart of the experience of being a Christian. The initial understanding of that fact – being part of a supportive group of similarly minded individuals, on a global scale, and down through parish and otherwise local communities, to small intimate groups of close spiritual friends – is valuable and valid, but the belonging goes further than that. Being a Christian places us amid not only the living global community of Christians, but numbers us and names us in the litany of every human being who has ever lived their claim to be a Christian. The Body of Christ, His Church, is the community of all believers.
And at the opposite end of the numbers scale, it ends where in fact it truly begins: within ourselves. When we find ourselves alone, without any form of human support from within that community, we still belong to it, and we must hope to become aware of the truth behind our collective sense of belonging: that each one of us belongs to Christ; He has claimed us as His own, not ‘en masse’ as what we see and feel as the Church, but individually: He has claimed you, and He has claimed me. We each belong to Him.
In the apparent looseness of our bindings He holds us fast. What more profound gift can we receive?
I attempt to sketch the outline in the hope that in so doing I may more clearly search within that form, but while my faith and my trust irresistibly deepen, what seems to be an increased clarity of understanding builds only upon, and reinforces the fact that I cannot comprehend that which I seek and follow and love. And yet, within my nebulous confusion, the constant awareness of a presence which is itself Peace, Truth and Life, both Giver and Sustainer of my existence, creates the calm and contentment in which I can smile back at perplexity: a much loved word, and the womb in which confusion coalesces from unfocussed nebula into the diamond hard seeds of truth.
My experience has confirmed me as a Christian, and today, though still without any hint of certainty, I know more surely than previously where I belong in Christ’s Church; uncertainty about what I should be doing within it and for it generates no feeling of contradiction within me.
A recurring idea or train of thought, a persistent disagreement, dissatisfaction or doubt, must point to some consistency of belief or failure to believe, and I take such apparent constants in my thoughts, emotions and reactions as start-points for trying to fill some of the gaps in my self knowledge. There are times, however, when I make a point of not following this through as I am fearful that the process will convince me that I do not agree with the teaching of the Church. At such times my refusal to acknowledge my instinctive beliefs is itself witness against me. I suspect there are many people who, whether admitting to it or not, share this failure to accept without question all teachings and traditions of the Church to which, nonetheless, they feel themselves unflinchingly bound.
For those outside the Church there is no doubt, no pricking or troubling of conscience, no reluctance to admit, no fear of division, separation or rejection, and the resultant clarity of thought allows anyone who may have half-looked at the Christian churches to see their own disagreements and non-acceptance in straightforward black and white. The result of this, combined with any belief that the Church is irrelevant in today’s world, offers no real answers for the questions in people’s minds, and is comprised of people who call themselves Christians but who are no different and no better than anyone else, is that they find no reason to approach: no reason to find out if their pre-conceived ideas are right or not. They find no confirmation one way or the other.
But there is another side to this non-acceptance and this inner witness to non-compliance.
Does the Church really need only those who keep their heads down, accepting everything without question, keeping the outside of things looking intact, wholesome, innocent and pious, maintaining the inherited and projected image regardless of all changes in society as though arrogantly believing that they possess the entire truth, and that society will eventually have to turn back to the Church? Most certainly it does not. It does need people who, while having due regard for the appearance of things, value the reality of the society in which we live, and the realities of peoples’ lives, hopes and fears. It needs thinking people of real faith who will question and learn, and in their turn answer and teach: people who will share their certainties and their doubts within the tighter bonds of Christian community. It is in this unity, within the Body of Christ’s Church, that we receive our real confirmation and both receive and give the affirmation we all need.
A sense of belonging is at the heart of the experience of being a Christian. The initial understanding of that fact – being part of a supportive group of similarly minded individuals, on a global scale, and down through parish and otherwise local communities, to small intimate groups of close spiritual friends – is valuable and valid, but the belonging goes further than that. Being a Christian places us amid not only the living global community of Christians, but numbers us and names us in the litany of every human being who has ever lived their claim to be a Christian. The Body of Christ, His Church, is the community of all believers.
And at the opposite end of the numbers scale, it ends where in fact it truly begins: within ourselves. When we find ourselves alone, without any form of human support from within that community, we still belong to it, and we must hope to become aware of the truth behind our collective sense of belonging: that each one of us belongs to Christ; He has claimed us as His own, not ‘en masse’ as what we see and feel as the Church, but individually: He has claimed you, and He has claimed me. We each belong to Him.
In the apparent looseness of our bindings He holds us fast. What more profound gift can we receive?
.
Friday, 18 July 2008
A reason to belong
Spiritual self-sufficiency is acquired through experience.
It matters not what form that experience may take, as any, from the most beautiful to the most horrific, the most exceptional to the most ordinary and apparently insignificant, has its place in the moulding process which accompanies our spiritual journeying. Without this process our journey would become a repetitive circle of routine or an unaccompanied and futile wandering far from the path prepared for us; in effect it would be no journey at all. Our steps would fade into a blurred greyness to compliment or replace the familiar gloom of uninspired daily living or the hollow echoes of a habitual church attendance devoid of any real spiritual life.
In F. F. Bruce’s words, being ‘self-sufficient in (one’s) religious life, or at least ... self-sufficient when circumstances require’, is not possible without the capacity for being content in any situation. The total ‘dependence on the Christ who lives within’ that powered and empowered St Paul is conceived in faith and born of the experience which grows from that faith. In Paul’s own case it was an experience that brought about the initial change: sudden, overwhelming, transforming; the change irreversible. It brought the knowledge of who Jesus was: belief in Him but not the total dependence on Him. That grew as the heart of the moulding process that followed the opening of Paul's eyes to the truth; his experience of God’s ongoing work in and through him led him to that dependence, not as any form of sacrifice or challenge or obligation - though it was to involve all three - but as the most ‘natural’ and complete relationship in the world.
It is our openness to the Holy Spirit that will draw us towards and into the experiences that will transform us into our own self-sufficient and content selves. It is the ability to leave all else behind without any lessening of peace, and hope, and faith, which can lift us from the greyness of mediocrity; we remain within our normal spheres of work and social interaction, and church or other religious contact, but if we acquire or develop this ability we have already separated ourselves from the majority of people. We have yielded to the call to become more deeply spiritual men and women, and in that compliance our journey comes to life with an increasing awareness of who we are meant to be. Our self-sufficiency, our being content, far from leading to isolation or a selfish distancing of ourselves from the world around us, grounds us more firmly in the community. This, whether we enter a church building or not, plants us undeniably in Christ’s Church: we are confirmed as Christians, both in our consciences and in our consciousness. It plants us, but to receive the food and water required for growth and for eventual fruitfulness, we need to bring our Christianity (whether recognised as being such or not) to a place of acknowledgement, for the community in which we are now more firmly grounded, and also for ourselves. Our inner conviction should lead us to a need for confirmation from others: confirmation that we belong to and are part of the community of Christians which is Christ’s Church.
The welcoming in and confirmation are formalized through Baptism, the Eucharist and Confirmation, either as distinct stages or together, depending on whether a person be young child or adult. These rites are three facets of the same involvement and call to unity which expresses and satisfies our mutual needs for affirmation and belonging. We are baptised as Jesus was baptised by John the Baptist, but also with the gifts of the Holy Spirit; we share in the bread and wine as Jesus shared with His Apostles at the Last Supper; we are Confirmed as an awakening of our gifts and of our Spirit led witness to a maturing faith. We should long for the Holy Spirit to be manifested in our lives in ways that empower us just as the believers in the gathered community were empowered at Pentecost. This, above all, is why we should each find our way of truly becoming a living part of Christ’s Church; there is no genuine Christian life outside it.
We cannot be Christians and remain forever beyond reach, aloof and alone.
.
It matters not what form that experience may take, as any, from the most beautiful to the most horrific, the most exceptional to the most ordinary and apparently insignificant, has its place in the moulding process which accompanies our spiritual journeying. Without this process our journey would become a repetitive circle of routine or an unaccompanied and futile wandering far from the path prepared for us; in effect it would be no journey at all. Our steps would fade into a blurred greyness to compliment or replace the familiar gloom of uninspired daily living or the hollow echoes of a habitual church attendance devoid of any real spiritual life.
In F. F. Bruce’s words, being ‘self-sufficient in (one’s) religious life, or at least ... self-sufficient when circumstances require’, is not possible without the capacity for being content in any situation. The total ‘dependence on the Christ who lives within’ that powered and empowered St Paul is conceived in faith and born of the experience which grows from that faith. In Paul’s own case it was an experience that brought about the initial change: sudden, overwhelming, transforming; the change irreversible. It brought the knowledge of who Jesus was: belief in Him but not the total dependence on Him. That grew as the heart of the moulding process that followed the opening of Paul's eyes to the truth; his experience of God’s ongoing work in and through him led him to that dependence, not as any form of sacrifice or challenge or obligation - though it was to involve all three - but as the most ‘natural’ and complete relationship in the world.
It is our openness to the Holy Spirit that will draw us towards and into the experiences that will transform us into our own self-sufficient and content selves. It is the ability to leave all else behind without any lessening of peace, and hope, and faith, which can lift us from the greyness of mediocrity; we remain within our normal spheres of work and social interaction, and church or other religious contact, but if we acquire or develop this ability we have already separated ourselves from the majority of people. We have yielded to the call to become more deeply spiritual men and women, and in that compliance our journey comes to life with an increasing awareness of who we are meant to be. Our self-sufficiency, our being content, far from leading to isolation or a selfish distancing of ourselves from the world around us, grounds us more firmly in the community. This, whether we enter a church building or not, plants us undeniably in Christ’s Church: we are confirmed as Christians, both in our consciences and in our consciousness. It plants us, but to receive the food and water required for growth and for eventual fruitfulness, we need to bring our Christianity (whether recognised as being such or not) to a place of acknowledgement, for the community in which we are now more firmly grounded, and also for ourselves. Our inner conviction should lead us to a need for confirmation from others: confirmation that we belong to and are part of the community of Christians which is Christ’s Church.
The welcoming in and confirmation are formalized through Baptism, the Eucharist and Confirmation, either as distinct stages or together, depending on whether a person be young child or adult. These rites are three facets of the same involvement and call to unity which expresses and satisfies our mutual needs for affirmation and belonging. We are baptised as Jesus was baptised by John the Baptist, but also with the gifts of the Holy Spirit; we share in the bread and wine as Jesus shared with His Apostles at the Last Supper; we are Confirmed as an awakening of our gifts and of our Spirit led witness to a maturing faith. We should long for the Holy Spirit to be manifested in our lives in ways that empower us just as the believers in the gathered community were empowered at Pentecost. This, above all, is why we should each find our way of truly becoming a living part of Christ’s Church; there is no genuine Christian life outside it.
We cannot be Christians and remain forever beyond reach, aloof and alone.
.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
The little things
It is the little things that disturb our peace, hold us back, and lead us to undervalue our own presence in the world. It is the distractions and annoyances, rather than our own mistakes, which more readily distance us from a calm and on-going awareness of our spiritual life: an awareness that, once found, we long to be able to maintain, to deepen, and to increasingly inhabit.
The unavoidable; the inconvenient; the unexpected; the obtrusive; the importunate; all interruptions and demands upon our attention and our time have a tendency to dismantle the hard-won peace we have been building within our hearts and minds. And when we have to endure a succession of such things, overlapping, and with some of them seemingly impossible to resolve, the distraction and annoyance are easily transformed into frustration and a disconcerting readiness to conjure and dwell upon a range of un-Christian thoughts and attitudes toward the world around us and the people we meet.
The exchanges between devils in C. S. Lewis’s book, The Screwtape Letters, include the passing on of this truth from the experienced senior devil to his junior: “… you will have noticed that nothing throws him into a passion so easily as to find a tract of time which he reckoned on having at his own disposal unexpectedly taken from him. It is the unexpected visitor (when he looked forward to a quiet evening), or the friend’s talkative wife (turning up when he looked forward to a tête-à-tête with the friend), that throw him out of gear.”
Our mistakes, and even any major falls we have during our journey, may bring our inner life to its knees and may generate turmoil and considerable anguish, but this is precisely because we are maintaining our spiritual awareness. Our fall deepens that awareness, and our feelings and thoughts cannot be separated from it. The anguish itself has the paradoxical capacity to lead us to a further deepening, not only of awareness, but of confidence in our worth in the mind of God.
The minor irritations do not carry that potential, but they have the power to keep us from realizing our own. It is the little things that keep from our consciousness that we each have a part to play in God’s plan, and thus ensure that we do not think to believe and act accordingly.
When our faith begins to take on real meaning for us – however this may come about – our awareness is increasingly filled with some aspect of it, and, no matter how frequently it is pushed aside by interruptions and other distractions, it returns of its own accord. Our hope, and our aim, should be to reach the point where it barely leaves us at all, whatever the demands upon our attention and concentration. It is this undisturbed self-awareness and consciousness of the presence of God: the following of Christ within, and reliance on His Holy Spirit’s guidance in all things, that forms the bedrock of a life lived in peace and truth.
F. F. Bruce, referring to mysticism in relation to St Paul’s life, wrote, ‘... it is probably true that the mystic, as commonly conceived, tends to be self-sufficient in his religious life, or at least can well be self-sufficient when circumstances require. He may be gregarious and friendly; he may attach high importance to life in society, but he does not depend on it for his religious sustenance. Paul insisted on the common life in the body of Christ, in which the members were interrelated and interdependent, each making a personal contribution to the good of the others and of the whole; yet, when necessity so dictated, he could maintain his spiritual existence apart from external aids, human or material. “I have learned the secret of being content (autarkēs)”, he says, “in whatever state of life I am” (Philippians 4:11). Yet this autarkeia is not Stoic self-sufficiency: it is so complete a dependence on the Christ who lives within him that all else is, by comparison, expendable ...’ (Paul: Apostle of the Free Spirit. F. F. Bruce.)
This brings St John of the Cross to mind, with his reference to, “…a commonly quoted spiritual adage which says: ‘Gustato spiritu, desipit omnis caro.’
The unavoidable; the inconvenient; the unexpected; the obtrusive; the importunate; all interruptions and demands upon our attention and our time have a tendency to dismantle the hard-won peace we have been building within our hearts and minds. And when we have to endure a succession of such things, overlapping, and with some of them seemingly impossible to resolve, the distraction and annoyance are easily transformed into frustration and a disconcerting readiness to conjure and dwell upon a range of un-Christian thoughts and attitudes toward the world around us and the people we meet.
The exchanges between devils in C. S. Lewis’s book, The Screwtape Letters, include the passing on of this truth from the experienced senior devil to his junior: “… you will have noticed that nothing throws him into a passion so easily as to find a tract of time which he reckoned on having at his own disposal unexpectedly taken from him. It is the unexpected visitor (when he looked forward to a quiet evening), or the friend’s talkative wife (turning up when he looked forward to a tête-à-tête with the friend), that throw him out of gear.”
Our mistakes, and even any major falls we have during our journey, may bring our inner life to its knees and may generate turmoil and considerable anguish, but this is precisely because we are maintaining our spiritual awareness. Our fall deepens that awareness, and our feelings and thoughts cannot be separated from it. The anguish itself has the paradoxical capacity to lead us to a further deepening, not only of awareness, but of confidence in our worth in the mind of God.
The minor irritations do not carry that potential, but they have the power to keep us from realizing our own. It is the little things that keep from our consciousness that we each have a part to play in God’s plan, and thus ensure that we do not think to believe and act accordingly.
When our faith begins to take on real meaning for us – however this may come about – our awareness is increasingly filled with some aspect of it, and, no matter how frequently it is pushed aside by interruptions and other distractions, it returns of its own accord. Our hope, and our aim, should be to reach the point where it barely leaves us at all, whatever the demands upon our attention and concentration. It is this undisturbed self-awareness and consciousness of the presence of God: the following of Christ within, and reliance on His Holy Spirit’s guidance in all things, that forms the bedrock of a life lived in peace and truth.
F. F. Bruce, referring to mysticism in relation to St Paul’s life, wrote, ‘... it is probably true that the mystic, as commonly conceived, tends to be self-sufficient in his religious life, or at least can well be self-sufficient when circumstances require. He may be gregarious and friendly; he may attach high importance to life in society, but he does not depend on it for his religious sustenance. Paul insisted on the common life in the body of Christ, in which the members were interrelated and interdependent, each making a personal contribution to the good of the others and of the whole; yet, when necessity so dictated, he could maintain his spiritual existence apart from external aids, human or material. “I have learned the secret of being content (autarkēs)”, he says, “in whatever state of life I am” (Philippians 4:11). Yet this autarkeia is not Stoic self-sufficiency: it is so complete a dependence on the Christ who lives within him that all else is, by comparison, expendable ...’ (Paul: Apostle of the Free Spirit. F. F. Bruce.)
This brings St John of the Cross to mind, with his reference to, “…a commonly quoted spiritual adage which says: ‘Gustato spiritu, desipit omnis caro.’
… After the taste and sweetness of the spirit have been experienced, everything carnal is insipid.”
Ascent of Mount Carmel. (II:XVII)
Lord Jesus, we open ourselves to you;
we open ourselves to the undeniable touch of the Holy Spirit in our lives:
the touch by which we learn the tastelessness of all that beckons us into the world.
Live within us this day and every day,
making your presence inseparable from the living of our lives.
While strengthening and teaching us for your service,
enable us to learn the secret of being content in all things.
Friday, 20 June 2008
A threefold cord
Strand 1: - I recently called in again at the weekly ‘Coffee Shop’ at Hallow Church, and while walking round the eastern end of the church one of the gravestones provided me with my thought for the day.
I believe every day holds something for me, though it is not always clearly defined. Sometimes I have to reflect on the day to discover what it is, and I frequently fail in my attempts; this through my recurring inability to see beyond the immediate and the superficial, my own lack of awareness, and my spiritual immaturity, not because there has been no such occurrence, no seed, provided for me as food for thought, as some form of guidance, or as a pointer to the course I should take in an otherwise confusing situation. Just as frequently, however, it is immediately clear when something is registering in ways beyond the apparently obvious message. It is then an undeniable touch that lingers throughout my waking hours and echoes through the following days.
Opening a book to read about Francis of Assisi (24.05.08 post) was an overwhelming example of one of these moments, and while most do not carry that degree of impact, they all register as being worthy of note in ways that speak clearly to me of the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives: God’s presence as Teacher, Guide and Conveyor of Truth. Three days’ thoughts have combined recently leaving me no option but to ponder them more deeply.
Reading the few words on the gravestone was one of these quiet but instantly recognizable moments.
The stone was simply inscribed with the name and the years of birth and death of the person buried beneath it, but these were barely noticed. It was the remaining three words that grasped my attention: so brief, so simple, but saying it all; the first standing alone at the centre of the stone, the final two at the bottom. ‘PRIEST’ ‘DEO GRATIAS’
Strand 2: - Two days later I attended an Annual Parish Meeting at a church where there is a degree of discontent among some of the parishioners, and at which, among other things, the shortage of priests and the roles of the priest and the laity were discussed. I had not been to one of these meetings for four or five years, and my reason for attending this time was my awareness of the concerns of some long standing members of the parish who have since felt the need to contribute and worship elsewhere. I was interested to hear how much or how little would be said, what questions might be raised, and what responses might be given. I regret to say I did not return home happily reassured, and, after the numbers turning out for the last meetings at which I was present, the worrying reality of only twenty people attending this one did nothing to dispel concerns.
Among my thoughts was a low level but insistent repetition of those words, ‘Priest. Thanks be to God.’
Strand 3: - The following morning, during the radio 4 ‘Today’ programme, Rev. Dr Alan Billings, Director of the Centre for Ethics and Religion at Lancaster University, gave his contribution in the regular ‘Thought For The Day’ spot, and in so doing filled my day with further thoughts relating to those arising from that meeting.
He spoke, as follows, of the inauguration of ‘a sculpture on the roof of the new Broadcasting House in Portland Place as a memorial to all journalists and associated crews ... that have lost their lives reporting from places of conflict. ... The reasons for that are not only that the places they work in are inherently dangerous but also that modern struggles are fought out in the media, as well as the streets and battlefields, and journalists’ ‘inconvenient’ reporting is not always welcomed.
By inconvenient reporting I mean of course, truthful reporting.
What protagonists want is not truth but what suits them and builds support for their cause.
That’s as true for authoritarian regimes as democracies, for terrorist groups as governments: even churches have axes to grind.
Yet inconvenient reporting - truthful reporting – is vital for the health of every human community. We can see why from a comment of Jesus in the gospel according to St John. Jesus links freedom and truth: ‘The truth’ He says, ‘will make you free.’
What I think that means in the context of global politics is something like this: - Human beings are most free and flourish best in societies that treat people justly, and so we want to support just causes; but if we’re to pray faithfully and act effectively, we need to understand truthfully: we need to know how things are, what motivates people, what matters to them, we particularly need truthful accounts where our support, moral or material is asked for, because our sympathies are easily manipulated.
We need to know that those who fight in the name of freedom, including our own forces and allies, do so in ways that discriminate and are proportionate, and eschew cruelty, because otherwise seeds of resentment and so instability will be sown, even if victory is won.
For all of this we need fearless, truthful and so sometimes inconvenient reporting, and this exposes journalists to danger.
... freedom is built on truth, however inconvenient.’
Fearless, truthful and so sometimes inconvenient reporting, is vital for the health of every human community, but is not always welcomed. Truth is essential for a healthy and thriving community, and that applies to our parishes just as it does for any other group of people. We need to understand the reality of the situation behind the particular church of which we are a part: we need to know how things are; and ‘we particularly need truthful accounts where our support, moral or material is asked for, because our sympathies are easily manipulated.’ Those who give their time, energy or expertise, or funds, must know that they are not being misled nor their gifts misused.
We invariably begin with an assumption that all forms of support are used appropriately, but this attitude of quiet and unquestioning acceptance becomes very fragile when, for example, previously available facts are not published as a matter of course; when rumours of extravagance are whispered even beyond the reaches of the parish; when information no longer seems to be openly and honestly provided, when questioning is felt to be unwelcome and therefore discouraged, and when answers to those questions which are asked give only an outline of the facts. In short, when the sharing of information is done on a dubious form of restricted ‘need-to-know’ basis, and when those who have real concerns and dissatisfactions begin to go elsewhere rather than endure the debilitating effects of remaining, it is inevitable that the ‘seeds of resentment and instability will be sown’.
But the pull towards negativity which I find myself expressing here is not what these moments are about.
There is something here that needs to be addressed but the real problems, I am sure, are not as they would first seem; that is what I am called to pray about and to ponder further.
.
I believe every day holds something for me, though it is not always clearly defined. Sometimes I have to reflect on the day to discover what it is, and I frequently fail in my attempts; this through my recurring inability to see beyond the immediate and the superficial, my own lack of awareness, and my spiritual immaturity, not because there has been no such occurrence, no seed, provided for me as food for thought, as some form of guidance, or as a pointer to the course I should take in an otherwise confusing situation. Just as frequently, however, it is immediately clear when something is registering in ways beyond the apparently obvious message. It is then an undeniable touch that lingers throughout my waking hours and echoes through the following days.
Opening a book to read about Francis of Assisi (24.05.08 post) was an overwhelming example of one of these moments, and while most do not carry that degree of impact, they all register as being worthy of note in ways that speak clearly to me of the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives: God’s presence as Teacher, Guide and Conveyor of Truth. Three days’ thoughts have combined recently leaving me no option but to ponder them more deeply.
Reading the few words on the gravestone was one of these quiet but instantly recognizable moments.
The stone was simply inscribed with the name and the years of birth and death of the person buried beneath it, but these were barely noticed. It was the remaining three words that grasped my attention: so brief, so simple, but saying it all; the first standing alone at the centre of the stone, the final two at the bottom. ‘PRIEST’ ‘DEO GRATIAS’
Strand 2: - Two days later I attended an Annual Parish Meeting at a church where there is a degree of discontent among some of the parishioners, and at which, among other things, the shortage of priests and the roles of the priest and the laity were discussed. I had not been to one of these meetings for four or five years, and my reason for attending this time was my awareness of the concerns of some long standing members of the parish who have since felt the need to contribute and worship elsewhere. I was interested to hear how much or how little would be said, what questions might be raised, and what responses might be given. I regret to say I did not return home happily reassured, and, after the numbers turning out for the last meetings at which I was present, the worrying reality of only twenty people attending this one did nothing to dispel concerns.
Among my thoughts was a low level but insistent repetition of those words, ‘Priest. Thanks be to God.’
Strand 3: - The following morning, during the radio 4 ‘Today’ programme, Rev. Dr Alan Billings, Director of the Centre for Ethics and Religion at Lancaster University, gave his contribution in the regular ‘Thought For The Day’ spot, and in so doing filled my day with further thoughts relating to those arising from that meeting.
He spoke, as follows, of the inauguration of ‘a sculpture on the roof of the new Broadcasting House in Portland Place as a memorial to all journalists and associated crews ... that have lost their lives reporting from places of conflict. ... The reasons for that are not only that the places they work in are inherently dangerous but also that modern struggles are fought out in the media, as well as the streets and battlefields, and journalists’ ‘inconvenient’ reporting is not always welcomed.
By inconvenient reporting I mean of course, truthful reporting.
What protagonists want is not truth but what suits them and builds support for their cause.
That’s as true for authoritarian regimes as democracies, for terrorist groups as governments: even churches have axes to grind.
Yet inconvenient reporting - truthful reporting – is vital for the health of every human community. We can see why from a comment of Jesus in the gospel according to St John. Jesus links freedom and truth: ‘The truth’ He says, ‘will make you free.’
What I think that means in the context of global politics is something like this: - Human beings are most free and flourish best in societies that treat people justly, and so we want to support just causes; but if we’re to pray faithfully and act effectively, we need to understand truthfully: we need to know how things are, what motivates people, what matters to them, we particularly need truthful accounts where our support, moral or material is asked for, because our sympathies are easily manipulated.
We need to know that those who fight in the name of freedom, including our own forces and allies, do so in ways that discriminate and are proportionate, and eschew cruelty, because otherwise seeds of resentment and so instability will be sown, even if victory is won.
For all of this we need fearless, truthful and so sometimes inconvenient reporting, and this exposes journalists to danger.
... freedom is built on truth, however inconvenient.’
Fearless, truthful and so sometimes inconvenient reporting, is vital for the health of every human community, but is not always welcomed. Truth is essential for a healthy and thriving community, and that applies to our parishes just as it does for any other group of people. We need to understand the reality of the situation behind the particular church of which we are a part: we need to know how things are; and ‘we particularly need truthful accounts where our support, moral or material is asked for, because our sympathies are easily manipulated.’ Those who give their time, energy or expertise, or funds, must know that they are not being misled nor their gifts misused.
We invariably begin with an assumption that all forms of support are used appropriately, but this attitude of quiet and unquestioning acceptance becomes very fragile when, for example, previously available facts are not published as a matter of course; when rumours of extravagance are whispered even beyond the reaches of the parish; when information no longer seems to be openly and honestly provided, when questioning is felt to be unwelcome and therefore discouraged, and when answers to those questions which are asked give only an outline of the facts. In short, when the sharing of information is done on a dubious form of restricted ‘need-to-know’ basis, and when those who have real concerns and dissatisfactions begin to go elsewhere rather than endure the debilitating effects of remaining, it is inevitable that the ‘seeds of resentment and instability will be sown’.
But the pull towards negativity which I find myself expressing here is not what these moments are about.
There is something here that needs to be addressed but the real problems, I am sure, are not as they would first seem; that is what I am called to pray about and to ponder further.
.
‘... a threefold cord is not quickly broken.’
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Use and abuse
‘... it is to such as these that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs.’ (Matthew 19:14)
The documentary, ‘Jesus Camp’, was shown again a few weeks ago on British television. In it, Becky Fischer, a Pentecostal children’s minister who runs an annual summer camp for Evangelical children - or rather, for the children of Evangelical parents - says that “boys and girls can change the world”, and that “they are so open: they are so usable in Christianity”.
This is undoubtedly true, but the word ‘usable’ immediately suggests a dangerous road. Childhood is inherently vulnerable, but if children are seen as ‘usable’ their vulnerability is instantly increased. The thought itself is the beginning of abuse.
Children are not for ‘using’ in anything or for anything, except by God. It is He alone who may use their innocence and simplicity in the furtherance of His cause. Any person, parent included, who uses a child for their own ends, or even for ends they believe to be in accordance with God’s will for the child, for the community or for the wider Church, abuses the child. No form of physical or sexual abuse excludes emotional and psychological abuse, but even where there is no physical aspect to the ‘use’ of a child, the very fact that a child is being ‘used’ by someone is a complete abuse of childhood and of the underlying trust, wonder and beauty upon which it should be based. If God chooses to use a child for some purpose it is the unadulterated innocence, simplicity and truth of childhood that He uses. If we use a child, we tamper with and damage both the childhood and the child.
Becky Fischer goes on to say, ‘Our enemies are putting their efforts and their focus on the kids; they’re going into the schools. You go into Palestine, and I can take you to some websites that will absolutely shake you to your foundations, and show you photographs of where they’re taking their kids to camps like we take our kids to Bible Camps, and they’re putting hand-grenades in their hands, they’re teaching them how to put on bomb-belts, they’re teaching them how to use rifles, they’re teaching them how to use machine-guns. It’s no wonder, that with that kind of intense training and discipling, that those young people are ready to kill themselves for the cause of Islam. I want to see young people who are as committed to the cause of Jesus Christ as the young people are to the cause of Islam. I want to see them as radically laying down their lives for the Gospel as they are over in Pakistan, in Israel and Palestine: all those different places, - because ... we have the truth.’
This is nothing if not deeply worrying, and it all appears to stem from a misinterpretation of some of the world’s ongoing conflicts: a failure to separate extreme indoctrination (the perceived reality) from the reality of Islam, and a failure to recognize the only real enemy we all have.
An equally extreme way of pressurizing children, but without the physical weaponry, is not what Christ’s Church is about. It is not what Jesus would do: It is not what any of His followers are called to do: It is not Christian. His words were, ‘Suffer little children’ not ‘make little children suffer’; and suffer they do. Jesus, whose incarnation was for one definitive purpose, had His childhood and His youth without undue or abusive pressures. Those who were closely involved with His journey to maturity allowed God’s grace to work in Him, waiting and trusting, never making their own decisions about His calling and usefulness. Jesus had thirty years before starting His ministry: thirty years of meditation, contemplation, revelation: thirty years of learning and of self-realization. It was the learning, not the teaching of others, which brought Him to the point where God, His Father, could direct Him through His Mission.
The normalization of the abnormal continues its insidious spread through society, and as we gradually and unconsciously become more accustomed to its apparent acceptability, we place our judgement, our conscience, our capacity for indignation and righteous anger, at the very edge of our day-to-day awareness of the world around us. Aspects of God’s Kingdom are being undermined and fragmented all around us, and we utter not one word.
An equally extreme way of pressurizing children, but without the physical weaponry, is not what Christ’s Church is about. It is not what Jesus would do: It is not what any of His followers are called to do: It is not Christian. His words were, ‘Suffer little children’ not ‘make little children suffer’; and suffer they do. Jesus, whose incarnation was for one definitive purpose, had His childhood and His youth without undue or abusive pressures. Those who were closely involved with His journey to maturity allowed God’s grace to work in Him, waiting and trusting, never making their own decisions about His calling and usefulness. Jesus had thirty years before starting His ministry: thirty years of meditation, contemplation, revelation: thirty years of learning and of self-realization. It was the learning, not the teaching of others, which brought Him to the point where God, His Father, could direct Him through His Mission.
The normalization of the abnormal continues its insidious spread through society, and as we gradually and unconsciously become more accustomed to its apparent acceptability, we place our judgement, our conscience, our capacity for indignation and righteous anger, at the very edge of our day-to-day awareness of the world around us. Aspects of God’s Kingdom are being undermined and fragmented all around us, and we utter not one word.
‘... rather than the living who still have lives to live,
I congratulate the dead who have already met death;
happier than both of these are those who are yet unborn
and have not seen the evil things that are done under the sun.’
(Ecclesiastes 4:2,3)
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
Imperfection
An awareness of Saints’ ordinary human beginnings makes them attractive to people in simple human situations, especially those whose lives are lived in a continuous and unchanging world of subsistence or poverty, with little evidence to demonstrate that anyone outside their own communities or cultures gives them more than a passing thought, even less that anybody cares.
The attractiveness of shared experience brings people together and into communion with each other, and in a similar way, this natural gathering process brings them into communion with those who have gone before. A confraternity of present and past Christians is formed and this is the present and ongoing reality for us of the Communion of Saints.
Within this Communion we find ‘examples of holiness’ among the people with whom we associate; we are ‘awakened’ and ‘nourished’ by them as part of God’s gift to us through community, and, as stated in The Catechism, those same expressions of His love are clearly available to us through the exceptional examples of the Saints. They may have had no further need of purification when they died: they may have entered God’s presence in that moment, but perfection will have been bestowed during the transition rather than achieved while they still lived.
St John of The Cross is prominent among those who have provided guidance for people who long to approach God through a life of contemplative prayer. His writings deal with the attainment of union with God, and it is this that, through being frequently described as ‘perfection’, causes the confusion; it is a matter of degree and of context. It is the ultimate point of perfection in the human capacity for prayer, but not perfection itself. Only Jesus was perfect.
In his ‘Instructions and Precautions ...’ to those seeking to arrive at perfection, he wrote, ‘If any religious desires to attain in a short time to holy recollection, spiritual silence, detachment and poverty of spirit - where the peaceful rest of the spirit is enjoyed, and union with God attained ... he must strictly practise the following instructions. ... If he will do this ... he will advance rapidly to great perfection, acquire all virtue and attain unto holy peace.’
His use of the word ‘great’ does not add to the emphasis of perfection, but lessens it in keeping with his own awareness that he speaks of something - however lofty in this life – that is below the presently unattainable unity and perfection to which this life leads.
I have read that when St John was made a Doctor of the Church, the then Pope stated that his work should be regarded as a guide for anyone striving to live ‘a more perfect life’. ‘More perfect’ again points to coming close to the very best that we can do: not perfection, but a life as near to it as can be achieved; a perfect life, by its very nature must fall short of true perfection.
Within this Communion we find ‘examples of holiness’ among the people with whom we associate; we are ‘awakened’ and ‘nourished’ by them as part of God’s gift to us through community, and, as stated in The Catechism, those same expressions of His love are clearly available to us through the exceptional examples of the Saints. They may have had no further need of purification when they died: they may have entered God’s presence in that moment, but perfection will have been bestowed during the transition rather than achieved while they still lived.
St John of The Cross is prominent among those who have provided guidance for people who long to approach God through a life of contemplative prayer. His writings deal with the attainment of union with God, and it is this that, through being frequently described as ‘perfection’, causes the confusion; it is a matter of degree and of context. It is the ultimate point of perfection in the human capacity for prayer, but not perfection itself. Only Jesus was perfect.
In his ‘Instructions and Precautions ...’ to those seeking to arrive at perfection, he wrote, ‘If any religious desires to attain in a short time to holy recollection, spiritual silence, detachment and poverty of spirit - where the peaceful rest of the spirit is enjoyed, and union with God attained ... he must strictly practise the following instructions. ... If he will do this ... he will advance rapidly to great perfection, acquire all virtue and attain unto holy peace.’
His use of the word ‘great’ does not add to the emphasis of perfection, but lessens it in keeping with his own awareness that he speaks of something - however lofty in this life – that is below the presently unattainable unity and perfection to which this life leads.
I have read that when St John was made a Doctor of the Church, the then Pope stated that his work should be regarded as a guide for anyone striving to live ‘a more perfect life’. ‘More perfect’ again points to coming close to the very best that we can do: not perfection, but a life as near to it as can be achieved; a perfect life, by its very nature must fall short of true perfection.
In her book ‘Ecstasy’, Marghanita Laski made comparisons of the times taken to attain the unitive state, the perfection of human prayer: - ‘St. Paul and St. Catherine of Siena each took three years, Suso sixteen years, St. Teresa thirty years, while that flaming thing which was the soul of Jesus burned its way to full expression in forty days of solitary communion.’
For me this is meaningless. From the moment of His conception, though Jesus was a man, He was something no other human being could ever be. He was the perfection of humanity: He ‘... is not incapable of feeling our weaknesses with us, but has been put to the test in exactly the same way as ourselves, apart from sin.’ (Hebrews 4:15)
All others were and are sinners. ‘If we say, “We have no sin,” we are deceiving ourselves, and truth has no place in us.’ (1 John 1:8).
We have a maximum capacity for perfection somewhere below where Jesus was before He ever set foot in the desert.
This is why we should lay all else aside to follow Him. His disciples may look to the Saints and to Mary, His Mother, but they are examples of what can be achieved not the focus of the journey, and they constantly draw onwards, not towards themselves, but to a closer following of Christ. It is this alone that makes us Christians just as they were Christians through their own faith and following.
Mary’s instruction to the servants at the wedding feast at Cana, sums up her unending transference of all focus and devotion in the direction of her son. All who look to her must not linger, but must journey on in the direction she so clearly defines.
For me this is meaningless. From the moment of His conception, though Jesus was a man, He was something no other human being could ever be. He was the perfection of humanity: He ‘... is not incapable of feeling our weaknesses with us, but has been put to the test in exactly the same way as ourselves, apart from sin.’ (Hebrews 4:15)
All others were and are sinners. ‘If we say, “We have no sin,” we are deceiving ourselves, and truth has no place in us.’ (1 John 1:8).
We have a maximum capacity for perfection somewhere below where Jesus was before He ever set foot in the desert.
This is why we should lay all else aside to follow Him. His disciples may look to the Saints and to Mary, His Mother, but they are examples of what can be achieved not the focus of the journey, and they constantly draw onwards, not towards themselves, but to a closer following of Christ. It is this alone that makes us Christians just as they were Christians through their own faith and following.
Mary’s instruction to the servants at the wedding feast at Cana, sums up her unending transference of all focus and devotion in the direction of her son. All who look to her must not linger, but must journey on in the direction she so clearly defines.
‘Do whatever he tells you.’
(John 2:5)
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Something close
It is the very ordinariness of the man or woman that makes the process of sanctification such a blessing. If humankind ever had another easier, even automatic way of achieving perfection, a way inherent in our very existence, it was lost to us at the very beginning, as the story of the Garden of Eden portrays.
It is their ordinary beginning that brings the saints into a meaningful relationship with the average Christian of today; it brings them into our everyday sphere of consciousness as people who lived lives in much the same way as we ourselves live, with struggle, hesitation and doubt. That which made them recognizable as Saints was drawn out of their living lives of faith amid distraction, temptation and the needs of others.
I do not mean to equate sanctification with perfection, though the completion of the process will inevitably take us there. But, within the bounds of this life, we can have no way of fully knowing what it is or of recognizing it, other than in the presence of Jesus Himself. Perfection can be a distinctly unhelpful word to us as we strive to be one of His disciples, following to the best of our ability, picking ourselves up repeatedly when we fall, and walking on in the unflinching knowledge that Jesus has done the complete and irreversible work of redemption for us; there is nothing required of us other than a constant turning towards obedience to His teaching and His will, and learning to see every person, every need and every situation through His eyes.
The persons we call Saints are those regarded as having lived beyond the normal limits of human life, with an achieved level of sanctification surpassing the expectation of those deemed best able to judge such things. But, just as true peace and truth are beyond our normal understanding of those words, so nothing is perfect until true perfection is attained. Whatever their assessed degree of sanctification, and however far they may have progressed, those we regard as Saints are unlikely to have achieved perfection in this life. But we revere them as though they had, and therein lies part of the reason for the wrong understanding of our devotion.
Those outside the Catholic Church believe those within it pervert the means of access to spiritual nourishment by praying to Saints instead of to Christ Himself. This is highlighted by the Catholic’s perceived relationship with the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God.
It is their ordinary beginning that brings the saints into a meaningful relationship with the average Christian of today; it brings them into our everyday sphere of consciousness as people who lived lives in much the same way as we ourselves live, with struggle, hesitation and doubt. That which made them recognizable as Saints was drawn out of their living lives of faith amid distraction, temptation and the needs of others.
I do not mean to equate sanctification with perfection, though the completion of the process will inevitably take us there. But, within the bounds of this life, we can have no way of fully knowing what it is or of recognizing it, other than in the presence of Jesus Himself. Perfection can be a distinctly unhelpful word to us as we strive to be one of His disciples, following to the best of our ability, picking ourselves up repeatedly when we fall, and walking on in the unflinching knowledge that Jesus has done the complete and irreversible work of redemption for us; there is nothing required of us other than a constant turning towards obedience to His teaching and His will, and learning to see every person, every need and every situation through His eyes.
The persons we call Saints are those regarded as having lived beyond the normal limits of human life, with an achieved level of sanctification surpassing the expectation of those deemed best able to judge such things. But, just as true peace and truth are beyond our normal understanding of those words, so nothing is perfect until true perfection is attained. Whatever their assessed degree of sanctification, and however far they may have progressed, those we regard as Saints are unlikely to have achieved perfection in this life. But we revere them as though they had, and therein lies part of the reason for the wrong understanding of our devotion.
Those outside the Catholic Church believe those within it pervert the means of access to spiritual nourishment by praying to Saints instead of to Christ Himself. This is highlighted by the Catholic’s perceived relationship with the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God.
It is as easy for Catholics to blame those outside their church for any failure to understand correctly, as it is for members of protestant and reformed churches (the same but with different emphases on reasons for being separated) to blame the Catholic Church and its individual members for what they see as a form of idolatry. And who are the people most to blame for much of the confusion?
The ordinary, devout but spiritually dilute Catholics who find an ordinariness, a simplicity, a poverty, an injustice or a persecution, in the Saints’ stories that closely parallels their own. But these understandable links of lifestyle and hardship are perverted by the elevation of the Saints to positions of prominence and adoration.
Their real power in our lives is in their having had their feet in the same mud and dust that we now tread, in their ordinary human origins, and in their successful journeying to become the persons God made them to be. It is not in statues, candles, or sanitized and beautified versions seen forever as beyond our world and our reach. They did not feel perfect and beautiful during their lifetime.
In her ‘Guidelines for Mystical Prayer’, Ruth Burrows has written, -
‘Our cowardice and our pride are past-masters at disposing of the saints. We don’t burn them: we put them on a pedestal, which is the same thing as putting them on the shelf. They do not challenge us any more. They are no longer men and women just like ourselves, flesh, blood, nerves; somehow they are quite special, they have been given what we have not. They did not really spring from our common stock. This flower of holiness is not of our soil. Those far above us do not challenge us, it is the one close to us who does what we do not do, becomes what we do not become, this is whom we fear, this is the one we must dispose of. What is more, we find vicarious satisfaction in seeing one of ourselves raised to a superhuman state. We like to think that this is what human nature really is.’
The line between valid appreciation and idolatrous promotion can be very narrow, and even low levels of Christian awareness and devotion make is easy to cross that line unawares. That tendency has been with mankind for a very long time.
‘The people of the Old Testament were tempted to make idols of wood, ivory or silver to hang from their camels’ saddles, while the people of the New Testament carry saints’ medals in their pockets instead of God in their hearts. The motive is more or less the same. We are too idle to make the effort to think of God as being beyond time and space, in His Transcendence and Mystery – it is so much more convenient to give Him a cheap face in order to replace His remoteness with something tangible, something close to us, something above all which will heal us when we are ill, enrich us when we are poor.’ (Love is for Living. Carlo Carretto)
Their real power in our lives is in their having had their feet in the same mud and dust that we now tread, in their ordinary human origins, and in their successful journeying to become the persons God made them to be. It is not in statues, candles, or sanitized and beautified versions seen forever as beyond our world and our reach. They did not feel perfect and beautiful during their lifetime.
In her ‘Guidelines for Mystical Prayer’, Ruth Burrows has written, -
‘Our cowardice and our pride are past-masters at disposing of the saints. We don’t burn them: we put them on a pedestal, which is the same thing as putting them on the shelf. They do not challenge us any more. They are no longer men and women just like ourselves, flesh, blood, nerves; somehow they are quite special, they have been given what we have not. They did not really spring from our common stock. This flower of holiness is not of our soil. Those far above us do not challenge us, it is the one close to us who does what we do not do, becomes what we do not become, this is whom we fear, this is the one we must dispose of. What is more, we find vicarious satisfaction in seeing one of ourselves raised to a superhuman state. We like to think that this is what human nature really is.’
The line between valid appreciation and idolatrous promotion can be very narrow, and even low levels of Christian awareness and devotion make is easy to cross that line unawares. That tendency has been with mankind for a very long time.
‘The people of the Old Testament were tempted to make idols of wood, ivory or silver to hang from their camels’ saddles, while the people of the New Testament carry saints’ medals in their pockets instead of God in their hearts. The motive is more or less the same. We are too idle to make the effort to think of God as being beyond time and space, in His Transcendence and Mystery – it is so much more convenient to give Him a cheap face in order to replace His remoteness with something tangible, something close to us, something above all which will heal us when we are ill, enrich us when we are poor.’ (Love is for Living. Carlo Carretto)
- And this in spite of the fact that God Himself did ‘replace His remoteness with something tangible, something close to us ...’
He gave us Jesus.
Saturday, 24 May 2008
Moments
The potential influence of particular moments on our understanding of ourselves, and of our journey is immense. That potential is roused from the apparently blank canvas of our lives when we first begin to notice these moments and give space to thoughts that they may have meaning for us. The potential is realized when their significance is no longer doubted, and when we begin to look for such moments in everything we do. They are - if we open ourselves to the possibility - one of the ways in which the Holy Spirit leads us towards the complete truth. We begin to live in the power of the Spirit when we are alert to such guidance and when we become capable of an appropriate and unhesitating response.
Such moments are scattered through our whole lives, and our childhood was almost certainly filled with them as part of the ‘first light’ which we had not yet totally lost amid the world’s distractions. The overall memory of wonder and innocence is, in part, the long-lived echo of those days of closer communication with God. Some childhood moments are clearly remembered as having significance; one such is quoted by Michael Paffard in his book, The Unattended Moment. Mary Antin, an American immigrant writing of her experiences as a tiny child in Poland wrote, “In the long black furrows yet unsown a peasant pushed his plough. I watched him go up and down, leaving a new black line on the bank for every turn. Suddenly he began to sing, a rude ploughman’s song. Only the melody reached me, but the meaning sprang up in my heart to fit it – a song of the earth and the hopes of the earth. I sat a long time listening, looking, tense with attention. I felt myself discovering things. Something in me gasped for life, and lay still. I was but a little body, and Life Universal had suddenly burst upon me. For a moment I had my little hand on the Great Pulse, but my fingers slipped, empty. For the space of a wild heartbeat I knew, and then I was again a simple child, looking to my earthly senses for life. But the sky had stretched for me, the earth had expanded; a greater life had dawned in me. We are not born all at once, but by bits. The body first, and the spirit later …”
The background influence present to me during my formative years did not become more than a peaceful presence, though its effect on my life, and on my whole way of thinking and of seeing the world, has probably been far greater than my awareness would suggest. Of the people whose great names have been carved into the monastic and mendicant orders they founded, however, it was not Benedict that became most firmly lodged in my childhood and in my slowly maturing mind.
It was the image of the man with birds on his hands and arms that sat most beautifully in my innocence. Sunshine, trees, flowers, birds and bees, timid animals rarely and fleetingly seen: did we not all long to be at one with everything around us in the way portrayed in that image? St Francis of Assisi was entwined with my childhood in ways that Benedict and other saints were not.
But one thing common to them all was that I actually knew very little about any of them, and that was how it remained for years. When I did open a book on one of them for the first time in my adult life, I was already a changed man. Something momentous had happened to me and faith had burst into the reality of my life; I was no longer a Christian in name only. The process of transformation into the person God wills me to be has slowly continued, but the impact of the early part of the journey was immense. When one’s accustomed state (with hindsight) is one of apparent immobility, any sudden forward movement is unnerving and breathtaking: it destroys all certainty and feelings of stability in the same way that even a small earth-tremor can strip away every thread of a person’s confidence in their strength and physical significance. In both cases - the one physical, the other mental, emotional and spiritual - the undoubted security of standing upon solid ground is pulled from under one’s feet.
I had developed an insatiable appetite for reading spiritual and religious books as well as the Bible, and when I did choose one on the life of a particular person it was not surprising that it should be St Francis, though the unsuspected force with which that choice would speak to me has left me wondering whether I was guided that day to that particular book, on that shelf, in that second-hand bookshop.
Cardinal Newman wrote of his own experience, “Who can account for the impressions which are made on him? For a mere sentence, the words of St Augustine, struck me with a power which I never had felt from any words before. … After a while, I got calm, and at length the vivid impression upon my imagination faded away.” (John Henry Newman. Apologia Pro Vita Sua)
The lasting impression for me has not been the reading of the book, (‘Saint Francis of Assisi’ by Elizabeth Goudge) and it is neither a particular chapter or passage within it, nor any detail of his life story; it is opening the cover for the first time and reading the four simple words printed on an otherwise empty page.
Cardinal Newman wrote of his own experience, “Who can account for the impressions which are made on him? For a mere sentence, the words of St Augustine, struck me with a power which I never had felt from any words before. … After a while, I got calm, and at length the vivid impression upon my imagination faded away.” (John Henry Newman. Apologia Pro Vita Sua)
The lasting impression for me has not been the reading of the book, (‘Saint Francis of Assisi’ by Elizabeth Goudge) and it is neither a particular chapter or passage within it, nor any detail of his life story; it is opening the cover for the first time and reading the four simple words printed on an otherwise empty page.
Part One
Francesco Bernadone
.
I was immediately grasped by something touching me so deeply that I could not move on from that page. I believe it was the first time that truth, the deeper absolute truth, had really registered within me in all its power and utter simplicity. ‘Veritas’, with its Dominican black and white, confronting me in the stark form of ink on otherwise blank paper. No shades of grey, no room for discussion or argument, no compromise, no doubt. Just a brief statement of fact: an absolute truth of such simplicity but of awesome significance to me in that moment; a moment that lasted a long time. I was held captive by those words, and once I could see them again after the cascades of emotion welling up from within had receded, my eyes and mind flitted from one line to the other and back again, ... Part One ... Francesco Bernadone ... Part One ... while tears continued dropping onto the page. I had encountered something that demanded my attention, and the fullness of the demand was more than I could unravel; it was also something that would not release me from its hold, and of which I could not let go. I remained with that page for several minutes, until finally, knowing I could go no further, I closed the book. I stayed with my intensely focussed thoughts for a while longer before leaving it where it lay, and strolling in the garden with this young man Francesco, of whom I had not heard before. The birds seemed more numerous and their singing was nothing if not a song of praise.
I had opened the book to read about St Francis and had been shown an ordinary man.
I had opened the book to read about St Francis and had been shown an ordinary man.
I had been shown that St Francis could not have existed without that apparently ordinary man, that the end of a story is meaningless without the intricacies of the middle years, and, most importantly, there is no story to be told, there is no St Francis without the beginning. That beginning, that Part One, was the young man who had yet to think a single thought of his journey into life as Francis of Assisi: as the person he was meant to be.
The start of the life, the journey and the story was Francesco Bernadone; that same Francesco was the start of all we now know.
Whoever we are, and whatever we may have done or failed to do, we have the potential to become as God would have us be.
Whoever we are, and whatever we may have done or failed to do, we have the potential to become as God would have us be.
‘Meanwhile, let us go forward from the point we have each attained.’
(Philippians 3:16)
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
Deep within
“Peace I bequeath to you,
my own peace I give you,
a peace which the world cannot give, this is my gift to you.”
(John 14:27)
my own peace I give you,
a peace which the world cannot give, this is my gift to you.”
(John 14:27)
Above all else, it is peace that I consciously value. Anything damaging it, disturbing it, or distracting me from it, attempts far more than merely interrupting a peaceful existence: it tears at something deep within me, for that is where peace lies.
An external hush and the absence of conflict, so often mistaken for real peace, are clearly gentle, quiet, and calming: they contribute to unstressed living and a peaceful world, but that in itself is only a good start-point for finding the depths of true peace. It cannot be found in anything the world has to offer because it is not of this world: it is ‘a peace which the world cannot give’.
The Benedictine monks and nuns who have been on the fringes of my life for as long as I can remember, have ‘Pax’, peace, as their motto, and this has become increasingly meaningful to me with the passage of time. We are all particularly susceptible to the influence of whatever has been present during our formative years, and my own increasing awareness of this has revealed that I have been privileged to have such a long-term presence acting as a background guide throughout my life; but I have also become aware that I have had privileged access to only one facet of the truth.
What brought this home to me more than anything else was my first brief but real contact with another order, the Order of Preachers – The Dominicans. Their most frequently quoted motto is ‘Veritas’, Truth, and it was the impact of that word that first made me fully aware of my frighteningly narrow understanding of my faith, my sense of direction, my fellow Christians, and of what Jesus had done for me in living and dying as a man upon this earth. Everything that drags me down, tempts me and halts my hesitant progress towards real fulfilment was experienced and understood by Jesus himself; He has experienced everything that rises and falls, that surges and breaks in pieces in my life: He knows everything of the ebb and flow that goes on within me. This is all part of my own truth, and nobody can really know me without knowing everything about me, good and bad. Jesus does know me, through and through.
An external hush and the absence of conflict, so often mistaken for real peace, are clearly gentle, quiet, and calming: they contribute to unstressed living and a peaceful world, but that in itself is only a good start-point for finding the depths of true peace. It cannot be found in anything the world has to offer because it is not of this world: it is ‘a peace which the world cannot give’.
The Benedictine monks and nuns who have been on the fringes of my life for as long as I can remember, have ‘Pax’, peace, as their motto, and this has become increasingly meaningful to me with the passage of time. We are all particularly susceptible to the influence of whatever has been present during our formative years, and my own increasing awareness of this has revealed that I have been privileged to have such a long-term presence acting as a background guide throughout my life; but I have also become aware that I have had privileged access to only one facet of the truth.
What brought this home to me more than anything else was my first brief but real contact with another order, the Order of Preachers – The Dominicans. Their most frequently quoted motto is ‘Veritas’, Truth, and it was the impact of that word that first made me fully aware of my frighteningly narrow understanding of my faith, my sense of direction, my fellow Christians, and of what Jesus had done for me in living and dying as a man upon this earth. Everything that drags me down, tempts me and halts my hesitant progress towards real fulfilment was experienced and understood by Jesus himself; He has experienced everything that rises and falls, that surges and breaks in pieces in my life: He knows everything of the ebb and flow that goes on within me. This is all part of my own truth, and nobody can really know me without knowing everything about me, good and bad. Jesus does know me, through and through.
The peace that shadowed my childhood at Stanbrook, and formed a hushed background to my teenage years at Douai, drew me further into a quiet contentment with my own company. I began to withdraw too far from the people around me and from the supportive and edifying presence of my fellow Christians, until that word, ‘Veritas’, suddenly thinned my easy comfort by loudly proclaiming that my peace was nothing if not built upon truth. And (as with peace) the truth as the world normally understands it, even when ‘whole’ and ‘nothing but’, is only an outer cover of honesty that enables us to recognize and enter into the deeper reality and significance of truth.
“... when the Spirit of truth comes he will lead you to the complete truth, ...”
(John 16:13)
Both the peace of Christ and the truth of the Holy Spirit must make their home deep within us.
In chapters 13 to 17 of John’s gospel, during the Last Supper, Jesus presents us with a trinity of feeling, of experience, and of expression that parallels The Holy Trinity itself. He commands the apostles, and us, to love one another and pass on the Father’s love to each other just as He has personified it and passed it on to us. “I have loved you just as the Father has loved me.”(15:9)
With the peace of the Son and the truth of the Spirit combining within us and manifesting themselves as the love of the Father towards each one of us, we can become living expressions of the unity which is God Himself. How else shall the Christian Church be returned to the loving harmony for which Jesus created it, and to the clear expression of that togetherness which will lead the world to regard Christianity as synonymous with unity ?
Just as the peaceful example of the Benedictines in my life has played its part in leading me close to Christ, so the deep-rooted truth behind the vocation of the Dominicans will have done the same for those with longer associations with them.
Though written with reference to preachers, the following speaks well of the transforming effect we can all have on others if we allow God to take possession of our innermost being. We will never abandon ourselves to His will if we always linger at the very edge, clinging to some part of ourselves that we believe to be essential to our knowledge of who we are. We must place our whole being in His hands if we are to find the reality of our calling.
‘We religious ... in our corporeality, can make Christ present in our way. The preacher brings the Word to expression, not just in his or her words, but in all that we are. God’s compassion seeks to become flesh and blood in us, in our tenderness, even in our faces.
In the Old Testament, we often find the prayer that God’s face may shine upon us. This prayer was finally answered in the form of a human face, Christ’s face. He looks at the rich young man, loves him and asks him to follow him; he looks at Peter in the courtyard after his betrayal; he looks at Mary Magdalene in the garden and calls her by her name. As preachers, flesh and blood, we can give body to that compassionate look of God. Our bodiliness is not excluded from our vocation.’ (Sing a New Song. Timothy Radcliffe OP)
In chapters 13 to 17 of John’s gospel, during the Last Supper, Jesus presents us with a trinity of feeling, of experience, and of expression that parallels The Holy Trinity itself. He commands the apostles, and us, to love one another and pass on the Father’s love to each other just as He has personified it and passed it on to us. “I have loved you just as the Father has loved me.”(15:9)
With the peace of the Son and the truth of the Spirit combining within us and manifesting themselves as the love of the Father towards each one of us, we can become living expressions of the unity which is God Himself. How else shall the Christian Church be returned to the loving harmony for which Jesus created it, and to the clear expression of that togetherness which will lead the world to regard Christianity as synonymous with unity ?
Just as the peaceful example of the Benedictines in my life has played its part in leading me close to Christ, so the deep-rooted truth behind the vocation of the Dominicans will have done the same for those with longer associations with them.
Though written with reference to preachers, the following speaks well of the transforming effect we can all have on others if we allow God to take possession of our innermost being. We will never abandon ourselves to His will if we always linger at the very edge, clinging to some part of ourselves that we believe to be essential to our knowledge of who we are. We must place our whole being in His hands if we are to find the reality of our calling.
‘We religious ... in our corporeality, can make Christ present in our way. The preacher brings the Word to expression, not just in his or her words, but in all that we are. God’s compassion seeks to become flesh and blood in us, in our tenderness, even in our faces.
In the Old Testament, we often find the prayer that God’s face may shine upon us. This prayer was finally answered in the form of a human face, Christ’s face. He looks at the rich young man, loves him and asks him to follow him; he looks at Peter in the courtyard after his betrayal; he looks at Mary Magdalene in the garden and calls her by her name. As preachers, flesh and blood, we can give body to that compassionate look of God. Our bodiliness is not excluded from our vocation.’ (Sing a New Song. Timothy Radcliffe OP)
.
Friday, 16 May 2008
Rising above
The wide open spaces of truth can only be opened up for us when their existence has been revealed to our previously blank and unseeing gaze. The veil which had so effectively obscured them from our hearts and minds, and thus from our sight, is gently wafted aside by the breath of the Holy Spirit as part of an ongoing process of spiritual awakening. Our increasing awareness draws towards and beyond the obscuring curtain of unbelief that so effectively excludes us from the vastness of possibility lying beyond our mundane routines, repetitious desires, and imagined certainties. Drawn into a world of wonder, new horizons invite us to linger, and to journey into the ever brightening light. We are led into opening up these spaces for ourselves: into seeking and searching, and into a deeper unravelling of our vague recognition and experience in the presence of something we cannot fully comprehend but which we sense to be wrapped in truth. Seemingly random glimpses draw us further into the freedom of that space, whether through the spoken or written word, through the attitudes or actions of others, through flashes of inspiration, or through the limitless ways of God’s revelation in the world and in our lives.
In following the Spirit’s lead beyond the mists of confusion and uncertainty that have caused us to hold back, we rise sufficiently above our cluttered surroundings to see that there is an alternative to being anchored in the harbour of our familiar and comfortable life. We cannot break free of our links with the world, but we catch a glimpse of another way of living that is not confined and permanently moored by those links; we can rise yet further above our worldly selves, to discover the previously implausible possibility of breaking free from the hold of animal instincts and selfishness which form some of the links in our anchor chain.
We can think of Christ as the keystone in a structure that would otherwise collapse in ruins: a tower of solid and weighty stone built in defiance of the force of gravity, with the apex of the arch – the keystone – as the high point from which to survey the world around us, but without Jesus as a real presence in our lives we have merely placed Him aloft as a figurehead pointing into the wind while our boat remains firmly chained to the spot. He will lead the way if we will simply respond to His invitation to follow Him, but what do so many of us do? We confine His image safely within our minds and within our church buildings while disregarding the hand outstretched towards us. He would unchain us and raise us above all forces that hold us down. He would lift us into those wide open spaces where we would have the potential for learning the truth, the truth that enables us to see our daily ground-level days as they really are, and as He would have us see them.
Without a superior force working to strengthen our resistance and to lift our thoughts and desires above the world in which we live, the pressure of living in this world inevitably leads us to comply with our natural tendencies. The curve of a dam holding back the immense pressure of water behind it, in the same way as the keystone ties the whole arch together and turns gravity against itself, demonstrates the very power that would tear down these structures actually strengthening them and holding them together, but the tension is colossal. All the energy is expended on resistance, on remaining immovable; nothing is being achieved, and nobody is going anywhere. This is what we do as individuals, with our own self-selected religious frameworks, and it is what we can so easily do collectively with our unthinking or uninformed adherence to particular denominations, church buildings, selected individuals, or preferred forms of service, worship, or other prayerful expression.
It is time to trust in God’s promises, to let go and let God; time to end the blinkered life whether it be one of resistance or of selfish liaison with the superficial attractions of our physical existence. He will raise us above such struggles, and in so doing will reveal the reality and the truth concealed in the world around us; we shall recognize Him more clearly in the people we meet, and through that recognition shall more truly come to know ourselves.
Let us allow Him to raise us up, that we may have the truth revealed to us, and know ourselves to be among The Lifted.
'Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!
Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
(‘Gitanjali’. Rabindranath Tagore)
In following the Spirit’s lead beyond the mists of confusion and uncertainty that have caused us to hold back, we rise sufficiently above our cluttered surroundings to see that there is an alternative to being anchored in the harbour of our familiar and comfortable life. We cannot break free of our links with the world, but we catch a glimpse of another way of living that is not confined and permanently moored by those links; we can rise yet further above our worldly selves, to discover the previously implausible possibility of breaking free from the hold of animal instincts and selfishness which form some of the links in our anchor chain.
We can think of Christ as the keystone in a structure that would otherwise collapse in ruins: a tower of solid and weighty stone built in defiance of the force of gravity, with the apex of the arch – the keystone – as the high point from which to survey the world around us, but without Jesus as a real presence in our lives we have merely placed Him aloft as a figurehead pointing into the wind while our boat remains firmly chained to the spot. He will lead the way if we will simply respond to His invitation to follow Him, but what do so many of us do? We confine His image safely within our minds and within our church buildings while disregarding the hand outstretched towards us. He would unchain us and raise us above all forces that hold us down. He would lift us into those wide open spaces where we would have the potential for learning the truth, the truth that enables us to see our daily ground-level days as they really are, and as He would have us see them.
Without a superior force working to strengthen our resistance and to lift our thoughts and desires above the world in which we live, the pressure of living in this world inevitably leads us to comply with our natural tendencies. The curve of a dam holding back the immense pressure of water behind it, in the same way as the keystone ties the whole arch together and turns gravity against itself, demonstrates the very power that would tear down these structures actually strengthening them and holding them together, but the tension is colossal. All the energy is expended on resistance, on remaining immovable; nothing is being achieved, and nobody is going anywhere. This is what we do as individuals, with our own self-selected religious frameworks, and it is what we can so easily do collectively with our unthinking or uninformed adherence to particular denominations, church buildings, selected individuals, or preferred forms of service, worship, or other prayerful expression.
It is time to trust in God’s promises, to let go and let God; time to end the blinkered life whether it be one of resistance or of selfish liaison with the superficial attractions of our physical existence. He will raise us above such struggles, and in so doing will reveal the reality and the truth concealed in the world around us; we shall recognize Him more clearly in the people we meet, and through that recognition shall more truly come to know ourselves.
Let us allow Him to raise us up, that we may have the truth revealed to us, and know ourselves to be among The Lifted.
'Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!
Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground
and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.
He is with them in sun and in shower,
and his garment is covered with dust.
Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!
and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.
He is with them in sun and in shower,
and his garment is covered with dust.
Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance?
Where is this deliverance to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;
he is bound with us all for ever.
Where is this deliverance to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;
he is bound with us all for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.'
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.'
(‘Gitanjali’. Rabindranath Tagore)
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
The Catholic in me (3)
Despite nearly eighteen months without direct reference to it, my involvement and affinity with the Catholic Church has not been hidden from view. My lifelong awareness of, and continuing attraction to Stanbrook Abbey and its community of Benedictine nuns has been mentioned more than once, and my use of quotations from scripture known to be excluded from the Protestant Bible (Wisdom and Ecclesiasticus/Sirach) have also pointed to my allegiance.
The Benedictine Order has influenced my life in an unbroken litany of harmonies from my very early years. Stanbrook was the start-point, and now, many years later, it is firmly embedded as an unobtrusive but constant link to both my past and my future. Overlapping with this for some forty years, and taking its place for much of that time, has been the presence and undeniable influence of Benedictine monks from the monasteries at Douai and Downside. Both as parish priests, and, while a pupil at Douai School, as teachers and extraordinary examples of what we boys had the potential to become, they have wandered quietly through my years leaving a trail of unsolicited and, for the most part, unspoken guidance. As my parish priests their value has been appreciated while they were with us, but where my schooldays are concerned it is definitely hindsight that speaks; it is not that I failed to value them at the time, but my realization of their example is very much the product of a mature person’s reflections. Even as I write this I am drawn into an undefined sense of quiet and contentment that has brought a half-smile to my face. I cannot quite unravel it, though that is because I never really try to do so: I know there is no need, nothing to be gained: at a deeper level I am aware that I already understand, and searching for a way to describe and somehow capture it is a futile and wasteful exercise. Knowing that my recognition of such example is only made possible through having matured in a way that enables me to see it, brings to consciousness an inbuilt awareness that the focussing and refining of that enabling was itself conceived in the very example I am now able to acknowledge. It is one of those slowly turning meditations on life that at first appears to be a loop; once recognized as such I relax into a knowing expectation of the curve bringing me round to the point where I can believe I know what comes next, and can settle into the repetition: a new mantra with which to ride the comfort of my days.
How is it that I never seem to learn that I should presume nothing in my journey towards my God, and in my faltering steps towards becoming the person I should be ? It is not a meditative loop; it is a contemplative spiral that takes my feeble grasp of The Holy Spirit’s work in my life on an effortless learning curve, riding a thermal of spiritual warmth that carries me from my low-level and gentle perplexity to a higher level of awesome grace-filled awareness.
No matter how often I see them, I find it difficult not to stop when I see a buzzard wheeling in the skies above me. I watch in admiration of the raptor in my sight, but my mind is always edging back to a pair of Golden Eagles in the Scottish Highlands.
My son and I watched in wonder as they circled not far above us just off the edge of a cliff, wings unmoving in their display of utter mastery of their element. Our presence, far from disturbing them, seemed almost to be their reason for the display, as though God had whispered to them, “Show them what you can do. Let them see what happens when my creation becomes what it was made to be.” And so they did. After a few minutes, and having begun to climb away, one of them angled its wings slightly and at once moved away from above the cliff in the direction of the mountains on the other side of the valley. In no more time than it takes me to speak the words, its speed rapidly increased, and without a single wing-beat, it continued accelerating away, receding to invisibility in an astonishingly short space of time. We remained spellbound, unable to say anything much other than, ‘Awesome!’ For that truly was what it was. Something deep within me still suggests that God made the air because He had already crafted the Golden Eagle.
Just as watching Buzzards reminds me of those Eagles, so remembering the Eagles leads me to dwell on God’s longing to lift us above all that weighs down our spirits: He would carry us on those Eagles’ wings into the unpolluted airs of faith, and hope, and trust, there to point us in the right direction, that we may fly as bidden in answer to our vocation.
We are all called in some way. The Benedictines who have influenced me throughout my years were called to the religious life and to the priesthood, just as others have been called to other monastic orders and to the secular priesthood, but each one of us is called to something.
You and I, thinking of ourselves as ordinary, unexceptional, unqualified, unworthy and incapable of making any real contribution to God’s work in the world, must learn to see ourselves differently. Every one of us has something to offer, something in our makeup put there by God and which is of value to His mission, His people and His Church. The laity are no longer to sit meekly in the pews, accepting and absorbing in their weekly routines without waking, and discovering and carrying their gifts into the light where they can be seen and recognized, and where they can bear fruit. Most people never sit in the pews today, and what possible argument can be found to persuade them to do so? How little of apparent relevance to their own lives is found in anything related to that word ‘Church’, and, in the tangled mass of different and separate groups all professing to be Christian, where on earth is the truth?
In his book, ‘Sing a New Song’, Timothy Radcliffe OP, then Master of the Dominican Order, wrote, ‘Western culture is marked by a profound suspicion of all teaching, since it is equated with indoctrination and bigotry. The only valid truth is that which one has discovered for oneself or which is grounded in one’s feelings: ’If it feels right for me, then it is o.k.’ But teaching should liberate us from the narrow confines of our experience and our prejudices and open up the wide open spaces of a truth which no one can master. ... Doctrine should not indoctrinate but liberate us to continue on the journey.’
That is what I have found in my church life. ‘The wide open spaces of a truth which no one can master’ have been opened up for me, not by the teaching of individuals, and not by the teaching of the Catholic Church; nor have ‘the narrow confines of (my own) experience’ yielded anything truly worthwhile other than a heightened awareness of the gulf between myself and that which I seek. The teaching has been there, but the power and the influence have more surely come through the learning: the awakened receptiveness to that un-masterable truth which has shadowed all who would follow Jesus, from the time when He walked the dusty roads of Palestine to the present day. That learning rests confidently on the Catholic Church’s adherence and united commitment to the teachings of its founder, Jesus Christ: teachings that have been at the centre of its doctrine for two thousand years. I have been blessed with the freedom to walk along my path without a need for anything other than the truth: that truth which liberates us ‘from the narrow confines of our experience’, and from denominational differences. It is the truth which grants access to the meaningful experience beyond restrictive limits and rigid conformity: the experience of Jesus as a living friend, and the subsequently confirmed awareness of the Holy Spirit’s presence in our lives.
The Benedictine Order has influenced my life in an unbroken litany of harmonies from my very early years. Stanbrook was the start-point, and now, many years later, it is firmly embedded as an unobtrusive but constant link to both my past and my future. Overlapping with this for some forty years, and taking its place for much of that time, has been the presence and undeniable influence of Benedictine monks from the monasteries at Douai and Downside. Both as parish priests, and, while a pupil at Douai School, as teachers and extraordinary examples of what we boys had the potential to become, they have wandered quietly through my years leaving a trail of unsolicited and, for the most part, unspoken guidance. As my parish priests their value has been appreciated while they were with us, but where my schooldays are concerned it is definitely hindsight that speaks; it is not that I failed to value them at the time, but my realization of their example is very much the product of a mature person’s reflections. Even as I write this I am drawn into an undefined sense of quiet and contentment that has brought a half-smile to my face. I cannot quite unravel it, though that is because I never really try to do so: I know there is no need, nothing to be gained: at a deeper level I am aware that I already understand, and searching for a way to describe and somehow capture it is a futile and wasteful exercise. Knowing that my recognition of such example is only made possible through having matured in a way that enables me to see it, brings to consciousness an inbuilt awareness that the focussing and refining of that enabling was itself conceived in the very example I am now able to acknowledge. It is one of those slowly turning meditations on life that at first appears to be a loop; once recognized as such I relax into a knowing expectation of the curve bringing me round to the point where I can believe I know what comes next, and can settle into the repetition: a new mantra with which to ride the comfort of my days.
How is it that I never seem to learn that I should presume nothing in my journey towards my God, and in my faltering steps towards becoming the person I should be ? It is not a meditative loop; it is a contemplative spiral that takes my feeble grasp of The Holy Spirit’s work in my life on an effortless learning curve, riding a thermal of spiritual warmth that carries me from my low-level and gentle perplexity to a higher level of awesome grace-filled awareness.
No matter how often I see them, I find it difficult not to stop when I see a buzzard wheeling in the skies above me. I watch in admiration of the raptor in my sight, but my mind is always edging back to a pair of Golden Eagles in the Scottish Highlands.
My son and I watched in wonder as they circled not far above us just off the edge of a cliff, wings unmoving in their display of utter mastery of their element. Our presence, far from disturbing them, seemed almost to be their reason for the display, as though God had whispered to them, “Show them what you can do. Let them see what happens when my creation becomes what it was made to be.” And so they did. After a few minutes, and having begun to climb away, one of them angled its wings slightly and at once moved away from above the cliff in the direction of the mountains on the other side of the valley. In no more time than it takes me to speak the words, its speed rapidly increased, and without a single wing-beat, it continued accelerating away, receding to invisibility in an astonishingly short space of time. We remained spellbound, unable to say anything much other than, ‘Awesome!’ For that truly was what it was. Something deep within me still suggests that God made the air because He had already crafted the Golden Eagle.
Just as watching Buzzards reminds me of those Eagles, so remembering the Eagles leads me to dwell on God’s longing to lift us above all that weighs down our spirits: He would carry us on those Eagles’ wings into the unpolluted airs of faith, and hope, and trust, there to point us in the right direction, that we may fly as bidden in answer to our vocation.
We are all called in some way. The Benedictines who have influenced me throughout my years were called to the religious life and to the priesthood, just as others have been called to other monastic orders and to the secular priesthood, but each one of us is called to something.
You and I, thinking of ourselves as ordinary, unexceptional, unqualified, unworthy and incapable of making any real contribution to God’s work in the world, must learn to see ourselves differently. Every one of us has something to offer, something in our makeup put there by God and which is of value to His mission, His people and His Church. The laity are no longer to sit meekly in the pews, accepting and absorbing in their weekly routines without waking, and discovering and carrying their gifts into the light where they can be seen and recognized, and where they can bear fruit. Most people never sit in the pews today, and what possible argument can be found to persuade them to do so? How little of apparent relevance to their own lives is found in anything related to that word ‘Church’, and, in the tangled mass of different and separate groups all professing to be Christian, where on earth is the truth?
In his book, ‘Sing a New Song’, Timothy Radcliffe OP, then Master of the Dominican Order, wrote, ‘Western culture is marked by a profound suspicion of all teaching, since it is equated with indoctrination and bigotry. The only valid truth is that which one has discovered for oneself or which is grounded in one’s feelings: ’If it feels right for me, then it is o.k.’ But teaching should liberate us from the narrow confines of our experience and our prejudices and open up the wide open spaces of a truth which no one can master. ... Doctrine should not indoctrinate but liberate us to continue on the journey.’
That is what I have found in my church life. ‘The wide open spaces of a truth which no one can master’ have been opened up for me, not by the teaching of individuals, and not by the teaching of the Catholic Church; nor have ‘the narrow confines of (my own) experience’ yielded anything truly worthwhile other than a heightened awareness of the gulf between myself and that which I seek. The teaching has been there, but the power and the influence have more surely come through the learning: the awakened receptiveness to that un-masterable truth which has shadowed all who would follow Jesus, from the time when He walked the dusty roads of Palestine to the present day. That learning rests confidently on the Catholic Church’s adherence and united commitment to the teachings of its founder, Jesus Christ: teachings that have been at the centre of its doctrine for two thousand years. I have been blessed with the freedom to walk along my path without a need for anything other than the truth: that truth which liberates us ‘from the narrow confines of our experience’, and from denominational differences. It is the truth which grants access to the meaningful experience beyond restrictive limits and rigid conformity: the experience of Jesus as a living friend, and the subsequently confirmed awareness of the Holy Spirit’s presence in our lives.
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